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.