CHAPTER NINE

THE “CHARITY BARREL”

It was noon of the day following the luncheon party, and as it was the one Sunday of the month on which the Reverend Jonathan Cressly held a religious meeting at Woodford’s Inn, the little Martins had been attending the Sunday school.

The text had been, “Little children, love ye one another,” but the kindly old man departed in his rather ancient buggy, drawn by a shambling old white horse, with a feeling that his talk had not been entirely successful, for he had heard one little girl, who was very much dressed up, making fun of the Martin girls because they wore dresses that buttoned down the front.

“Those Martin children are certainly a problem in the parish,” Mr. Cressly had told the Home Missionary Society in Genoa, and the women had collected clothing that they thought might fit, and had sent a brimming barrel over to the log cabin in Woodford’s Cañon. That was soon after the father died, but, to their unutterable amazement, the same driver had brought it back on his cart, saying that Miss Dixie Martin wished him to thank the ladies, as she knew they meant it kindly, and that although she and her sister and brothers weren’t needing charity, she was sure there were many families in the mountains that did—the Washoe Indians in the creek-bottom, if no one else.

“Whew-gee!” Lin Crandel, the expressman, had ejaculated. “That red-headed gal stood up like she was the president’s darter, she sure did, but it was the purty curly-headed one that spieled the most about how blue-blooded they were. Didn’t folks know as they were Haddington-Allens of Kentucky? Whew-gee! I kin tell you I felt like apologizin’ for offerin’ ’em that barrel.”

Of course, after that the ladies of the Home Missionary Society did turn their energies in other directions.

The four little Martins were at home again, and Dixie was setting out a cold dinner, for, true to the teaching of his orthodox mother, Pine Tree Martin had insisted upon one thing, which was that Sunday should be kept holy, and that no work that was not absolutely necessary should be done on that day. Since his wife had never worked very much on any day, this had been no hardship for her.

After the simple meal, Ken said that he was going to walk over to the Valley Ranch, and that they all might come along if they wished. Jimmy-Boy was delighted, for if there was one little pig in their home sty, there were a hundred at the Valley Ranch. Carol liked to go, for Susie Piggins, aged fifteen years, went to a boarding-school in Reno, but came home for the week-ends. Dixie usually enjoyed hearing Sue tell of her experiences, but to-day she said that if the others didn’t mind she would like to just stay at home and rest.

Ken’s understanding brown eyes gave one quick glance at his comrade-sister, and noting that she was pale and that she leaned back in the big grandfather’s chair as though she were unusually weary, he decided that it would be doing her a kindness to take the other two children away for the afternoon. Little did he dream that the paleness came from long hours awake in the night.

The three had been gone for some time when Dixie was awakened from a light slumber by some one calling: “Whoa, there! Here we are, Dobbin.”

Leaping to her feet, though still feeling a little dazed from having so suddenly awakened, Dixie opened the door, to see on the path the kindly banker from Genoa. At once there was panic in the heart of the girl. Why was he coming in the middle of the month, or indeed why was he coming at all? For the past year he had sent the money the first of every month by Ira Jenkins, who did his banking over at Genoa, and was glad, in his gruff way, to do a good turn for his little neighbors, the Martins.

Samuel Clayburn climbed out of the buggy and smiled at the girl. She invited him to enter the cabin with a dignified little manner that she had inherited from Pine Tree Martin, who had stood as straight and erect as one of the trees that he so admired.

“Won’t you be seated, Mr. Clayburn?” Dixie asked, wondering why her knees were shaking so that she could hardly stand.

“I can’t stop but two jiffs, little girl, but I thought I’d rather tell you myself than write; seemed like a more humane thing to do, as I am a father myself.”

“Oh, Mr. Clayburn,” the child leaned forward eagerly. “Has something happened to the money? Is it all gone?”

Dixie was sitting on the very edge of a straight-backed chair, and her folded hands were tightly clenched. Mr. Clayburn was plainly at a loss to know how to begin. He had not supposed it would be so hard to tell a small girl that—

“Little Miss Dixie,” he suddenly exclaimed, after having tried in vain to think of some way to lead gradually up to the matter of business upon which he had come, “please don’t take what I am going to say too much to heart.” Then his kind, florid face brightened as an inspiration came to him. “I have a fine plan,” he assured her, “a very fine plan which will make it all right in the end. I am sure of that.”

“In the end, Mr. Clayburn? The end of what?” Poor little Dixie remembered, just then, that that was what had been said when Grandmother Piggins was dying—“It’s near the end now.”

She gave a little dry sob, and the good man took out his big red handkerchief and mopped his brow. Then, coughing to clear his throat, he began on a new tack. “Dixie, my wife has taken a great liking to little Carol. She saw her last month over at the county fair, and she said then that she’d like to adopt her to grow up twins with our little Sylvia. It’s bad for a child to be brought up alone, you know,—makes them selfish,—and we’re afraid our little daughter is beginning to be spoiled, and so we’ve had it in mind for some time to adopt another little girl if we could find a real nice one who needed adopting.”

For a moment the listener sat as one dazed. She could hardly comprehend what the kind man was saying, but, when he paused to mop his brow again, Dixie exclaimed: “Oh, but Mr. Clayburn, I couldn’t give up my little sister, Carol. She surely wouldn’t want to leave Ken and Jimmy-Boy and me”; but even as she spoke, Dixie feared that she was wrong. Carol would be eager to go, probably, and what right had Dixie to keep her pretty younger sister in a log cabin when she might be living in that fine big white-pillared house in Genoa that was surrounded with a wide lawn and beautiful gardens?

Then it was that Dixie thought of something, and a little of her father’s keenness appeared in the thin, freckled face as she said, “Mr. Clayburn, you didn’t come all the way from Genoa on a Sunday just to say that, did you?”

The banker confessed that that had not been his original purpose for making the journey. “You are right, little Dixie,” he said; “I came to tell you that there has been a depreciation; that is, the securities in which your father’s small principal is invested, are not as valuable as they were, and hereafter your monthly income will only be nine dollars instead of twelve, but, don’t you see, dear child,” the kind man leaned forward and took her hand, “if Carol comes to live with us, the nine dollars will go even farther than the twelve did with four of you?”

Dixie nodded miserably. Each member of the little brood was infinitely dear to her, and she was so proud of Carol, who looked just like their beautiful mother.

Looking up with tear-brimmed eyes, she said tremulously, “I oughtn’t to stand in her way if she wants to go, and more than likely she will. She likes pretty dresses and things that I can’t get for her, ’specially now, that there’ll only be nine dollars a month.”

The heart of Mr. Clayburn was deeply touched and he hastened to say, “Little Miss Dixie, don’t you want me to write just once more to your aunt down South?” He arose as he spoke.

There was a flash of pride in the eyes of the small girl. “No,” she said. “Never again. We’re not going to push ourselves in where we’re not wanted.”

“You’re right in one way, Dixie,” the banker agreed, “but it’s my opinion that your aunt doesn’t know that you exist. She has never opened even one of the letters. They have been returned just as they were sent.”

“Then she won’t have the trouble of returning another.” The little girl also had risen, and, as the banker started toward the door, she impulsively held out her hand as she said, “Mr. Clayburn, thank you for being so kind,—I mean about Carol,—and if she wants to go to you, shall I send you word by Mr. Jenkins?”

“Yes, yes,” the portly gentleman said. Then, as he placed a fatherly hand on the red-brown head of the girl, who somehow seemed smaller than he had remembered her, he added cheerfully: “It isn’t as though you won’t be able to see your little sister often. You and Ken and the baby can come and have nice visits at our house, and Carol can come here.”

But even to himself this did not ring true. Mrs. Clayburn, who was known as a social climber, had said that if she took Carol, she wished it distinctly understood that Sylvia need have nothing to do with the others, who were so like that impossible man whom the mountain people had called Pine Tree Martin.

Poor Mr. Clayburn held the trembling hand in a firm clasp as he said warmly: “There now, little girl, don’t be worrying any more than you can help. You’ll be surprised how fine things are going to turn out. Good-by. I’ll come after Carol when you say the word.”

As soon as the banker had driven out of the dooryard, Dixie threw herself down in the big grandfather’s chair and sobbed as though her heart would break, but at last she rose, washed her face, tidied her hair, and began setting the table for supper. The other three would soon be returning, and the little mother of them all would have to be the one to be brave, outwardly at least. But oh, how the heart of her yearned for the father whose strong arms had always been her haven of refuge! But now she, Dixie, must be haven for the other three.

“Here they come,” she told herself. “Now we’ll talk it over, and Carol may make her choice.”