CHAPTER SIX

KEN’S SECRET SORROW

It was Saturday, which was the busiest of the whole week in Woodford’s Cañon, for it was house-cleaning day in the old log cabin which was guarded by two spreading pine trees, but this Saturday was especially busy.

“Carol, please do stop frittering,” Dixie called as she turned from the stove which she was polishing with as much care as though it had been a piano. “Don’t you know who is coming to call this very afternoon, and I’d feel just terrible, I certainly would, if Miss Bayley sat on dust, and that’s what she’s likely to do if you skip places at dusting, as you usually do, and I haven’t time to-day to rub them over and see.”

The younger girl, who had been leaning far out the window, supposedly to shake a duster, but who had continued to linger there, watching two squirrels playing tag among the dry pine needles, returned reluctantly to the task she so disliked.

“O dear! it’s just mean-hateful being poor folks the way we are,” she complained, “and having to do our own work with our own hands. I’ve heard my beautiful mother say so time and again. When she was a girl she had two little darkies to wait on her. She never had to pick up anything, if she dropped it. She didn’t have to even lift a finger.”

Dixie straightened up to rest her tired shoulders, for polishing a stove was hard work at best, and almost unconsciously she glanced down at her own fingers that were jet-black just then, and for a bit of a moment she sighed, and was half tempted to think that, maybe after all, it would be nice to have nothing to do but sing and read, or live in the out-of-doors that she so loved. But a second later she was her own optimistic, practical self. “Carol Martin,” she announced, “just for that, now, we’re going to count our blessings. You begin! One?”

“O dear!” the other little maid sighed as she knelt to dust the rungs of an old grandfather’s chair. “I ’spose I ought to be thankful that I’m beautiful, like my mother.”

Dixie laughed as she whirled about, her expressive freckled face at that moment being far more attractive than that of her prettier, younger sister.

“Of course you should,” she declared good-naturedly, “and I’m thankful that I have Jimmy-Boy, and here he comes this minute to ask me to give him some bread and molasses.”

The door burst open and the small boy ran straight to his little mother, but it was not of bread and molasses that he spoke. “Dixie, dear,” he said, and his brown eyes were wide with wonder, “Buddy Ken is in the old barn an’ he won’t speak to me or nuffin’. I fink he is crying.”

“Mercy, no, not that! A big brave boy like Ken never cries.” However, in the heart of the girl who was far too young to be carrying so much burden, there was a sudden anxiety. She had noticed, for several days, that Ken had acted preoccupied, almost troubled. She had not mentioned it, for perhaps he was just figuring how he could sell the apple-crop to the best advantage. Yes, surely that must be all that was the matter. Dixie went on with the polishing. There was just one lid to do and then the task would be finished.

“Run away, Jimmy-Boy,” she said in her singing voice. “Play until Dixie is through, and then you shall have your nice bread and molasses.”

“Don’t want bread; want Buddy Ken to fix my wagon and he won’t speak to me. He’s crying inside of him, Ken is.” At this the small boy burst into tears.

The last rub had been given to the stove, so Dixie washed her hands, and, kneeling, she kissed the small boy as she said: “James Haddington-Allen Martin, I guess it’s time to ask you to count your blessings. Now, sir, begin. Blessing one is—” She paused, but she didn’t have long to wait. The clouded face brightened and throwing his arms about his “little mother,” he cried, “_You!_”

The girl held him in a close embrace. Then she said: “Carol, dear, please give Jimmy-Boy his ten-o’clock bite while I hunt up Ken. I’m afraid he’s worrying about the apples.” Carol was glad of anything that would relieve her from the hateful dusting.

Catching her sunbonnet from its place by the door, Dixie went in search of her brother who was her confidant and dearest friend. If he were keeping something secret from her, it would be the first time. Then she smiled as she thought, “Maybe even Ken needs to count his blessings.” Singing to cheer herself, she went down the path that led to the old log barn.

“K-e-n! K-e-n! Where are you, brother?” There was no response, and since it would be impossible for the lad to be in the barn and not hear the cheery voice that had called, Dixie’s anxiety increased. She entered the wide, front door and glanced about. At first, coming as she did from the dazzling sunshine the girl could not see the boy, who was seated in the farthest, darkest corner. His hands were over his ears, and that was why he had not heard her approach. Truly, he did look the very picture of despair. Instantly Dixie knew that her surmise had been correct. Something had gone wrong about the apples.

Hurrying to his side, she slipped an arm over his shoulder and laid her cheek on his thick, red-brown hair. “Brother, dear,” she said, as she sat beside him on the bench, “here’s Dixie, your partner. Please let me carry my share of whatever it is.”

The boy reached out and grasped the hand of his sister and held it hard. When he looked up, there were tears trickling down the freckled face that was so like her own. “Did you go to town this morning, Ken?” was the question she asked.

The boy nodded. “Yes,” he said, “I went before sun-up. I heard the apple-buyer from Reno would be at the inn to-day, and I wanted to be on hand early. I took along a basket of apples to show, and I thought they were fine, b-but, Dixie, they w-weren’t fine at all. W-when I saw the apples from the Valley Ranch, I knew ours were just a twisty little old cull kind. Tom Piggins was there from the V.R., and he said our apples are the sort they feed to their hogs. I didn’t stay to show them to the buyer, I can tell you. I just lit out for home, b-but now there won’t be any money for you to buy a new stove.”

“I don’t need a new stove,” Dixie said emphatically. “My goodness me, come to think of it, I wouldn’t have a new stove for anything, now that I’ve spent two hours and twenty-five minutes polishing the old one. It looks so fine. I’m sure it will feel heaps more self-respecting, and I shouldn’t wonder if it would bake better, too.” Then her eyes brightened with the light of inspiration. “Ken Martin, we’ll give it a chance to show what it can do right this very minute. You fetch in that basket of apples you had for a sample, and I’ll make an apple pudding, the kind you like so much, and we’ll celebrate.”

“Celebrate? For what?” Ken looked up curiously. Was there no end to the cheerfulness of this sister of his?

Dixie was groping about in her mind for something over which they might rejoice. “Oh, we’ll celebrate because we have a new teacher,” she announced triumphantly, and the next thought made her clap her hands joyfully. “Ken Martin, if it’s what you’d like to do, I wish you’d go right over to the inn and invite Miss Bayley to lunch.”

Their beautiful mother had always called the noon meal lunch, although Pine Tree Martin could never remember, and had always called it dinner.

Ken rubbed his sleeve over his eyes and looked up eagerly. “Then you really aren’t so terribly disappointed about the apples?”

“Disappointed? Goodness, no! I’d feel sort of mean selling that old stove of ours that’s been so faithful all these years just for scrap-iron, and, what’s more, I feel sure all this is a blessing in disguise.” Dixie had risen and was smiling down at her brother, who also rose.

“Say, Dix,” he said, “you’re as good as a square meal when a fellow’s hungry.” Then he laughingly added, “But, if not selling the apples is a blessing, it sure certain is well disguised.”

“Most things are blessings soon or late,” Dixie said. “Now, Ken, you go and tell Miss Bayley we’re sort of celebrating, and we’d feel greatly honored if she would come.”

Then into the house Dixie bounced to share her joyous plan with Carol. “Oh, how I do hope teacher will come,” that little maid said. “Then we’ll be first to have her, and won’t I crow over that horrid Jessica Archer though?”

“You’d ought not to feel that way about anybody, Carol, dear,” the older girl admonished as she sat on the doorstep and began to pare apples. “If folks are horrid-acting, they are to be pitied, because they can’t be happy inside. Now, if you like, you may set the table with the best cloth and china while I make the pudding and put some potatoes in to bake.”

The violet-blue eyes of the younger girl were shining. It was a great treat to her to be allowed to open the big old-fashioned cupboard that held the set of china that had been their mother’s. When Ophelia had first come to the log cabin, there had been only the thickest and most serviceable kind of ware, but when Pine Tree Martin found what a hardship it was for his wife to use it, he had sent to Reno and had ordered the choicest set they could procure. This was kept carefully locked in the great old cupboard, and used only on rare occasions.

Jimmy-Boy had been placed in his crib, which was in the lean-to room, where also was the big four-posted bed in which Ken slept. The two little girls chatted happily as they prepared for the great event.

“What if teacher can’t come?” Carol paused every now and then to say, and dozens of trips she took to the open door to look up the trail toward the cañon road. At last she gave a triumphant squeal.

“Here comes Ken, and teacher is with him. Oh, goodie, goodie, good!” Carol was pirouetting like a top. “Won’t I brag it over Jessica, though!”

Then, as the two drew nearer, the small girl called excitedly, “Dixie Martin, whatever is that thing that Ken’s carrying? It’s wriggling so he can hardly hold it. Whatever can it be?”