“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.”