Carol wore a faded gingham dress which was buttoned in the front, that she might fasten it herself.
There was a discontented expression in her violet eyes.
“I just hate this ol’ dress,” she began fretfully. “Jessica Archer doesn’t believe we have any blue blood at all, or we’d want to dress like the Southern ladies do in the pictures.”
Dixie sighed, and the younger girl, who thought only of herself, continued, “If my beautiful mother had lived, she wouldn’t have let me wear shabby dresses that button down the front and make everybody laugh at me.”
There was much truth in this. Their beautiful mother would have been quite willing to mortgage the ranch if only she and her children could be dressed in silk and furbelows.
Before Dixie could reply, the cabin-door again opened, and in came a boy who was at least a head taller than Dixie. His frank, freckled face was smiling. He was carrying a pail. “Dix,” he said gleefully, “we’re going to have a real crop of apples this year. I’ve been down to the creek-bottom to see how the trees are doing. Maybe they’ll fetch in money enough so that you can buy that new stove you’ve been needing so long.”
Carolina tossed her curly head as she thought, “Stove, indeed, when I need a new dress.” But she said nothing. The apples weren’t ripe yet, and she could bide her time.
They were soon seated around the table, chattering eagerly about the new teacher who had arrived at Woodford’s the day before, but whom, as yet, they had not seen.
“What you ’spose she’ll be like?” Ken asked as he helped himself to the rich creamy goat’s milk, and then turned to pour more of it into the big bowl for his little brother, who had been hungrily clamoring for porridge.
Carol sniffed. “I don’t like new teachers,” she informed them in a manner much older than her years. “They’re always startin’ somethin’ different.”