“’Tisn’t money,” the girl replied, smiling almost tremulously, “It’s something different.” Then she glanced toward the open door of the cabin and drew her brother farther away, but he paused and looked back. “Is that Carol crying in there? Why don’t you tell me what’s happened? I can’t understand at all.”
As soon as they were out of hearing, the small girl told the story of recent events. “Just after you had gone up to see teacher,” she began, “I was cooking the porridge when Carol called that Mr. Clayburn was driving in, and that that horrid Sylvia was with him. Carol hadn’t finished dressing yet, and so she was up in the loft, looking out the little window.
“I ran to the door, and, sure enough, that was who it was. Mr. Clayburn seemed to be terribly worried about something, and that peaked little girl of his looked as though she’d ’most cried her eyes out.
“When the buggy stopped, he left little Sylvia on the seat, and he came in and said: ‘Dixie Martin, I’ve come to ask you to do me a great favor. I’m in deep trouble, and no one at this hour can help me as much as you can.’ Of course I said, ‘Mr. Clayburn, I’ll do just anything I can’; and he said, ‘I knew you would, Dixie.’ Then he told me that his wife had been taken suddenly and very seriously ill, and that she was in a Reno hospital, and that he would have to stay there for a time to be near her, and that he wanted to leave Sylvia with us. Oh, Ken, I just had to say that of course we would take her, even though I knew how Carol feels about her, and so that’s what happened. It’s Sylvia in there crying, and Carol’s up in the loft. I climbed up to tell her ’bout everything, and she said I needn’t expect her to come down-stairs as long as that horrid snippy Sylvia Clayburn is in the house. She declared she’d stay up there and starve unless I’d take her breakfast up to her. Oh, Ken, what shall we do? You can’t blame Carol, ’cause you know Sylvia was mean and horrid when our little sister was in her home.”
The older brother was indeed puzzled.
He did not blame Carol, for she had been most unkindly treated by the mother and daughter. “I guess we’ll have to just do what we can, Dix,” he said. “Mr. Clayburn’s one of the best friends we’ve got, and for his sake we’ll have to put up with that—that little minx of his.”
Dixie had been looking thoughtfully down into the sunlit valley. She could see a group of white buildings partly hidden by cottonwood trees. In her gold-brown eyes was the far-away expression which often suggested to Miss Bayley that the soul of the girl was beholding a vision. The boy’s gaze followed hers. Then he turned toward his sister as he said gently: “I know what you’re doing. You’re trying to remember if Grandmother Piggins ever said anything that would help us. Aren’t you, Dix?”
The girl nodded; then, her eyes alight, she suddenly exclaimed as she caught his free hand,—the other still held the history: “Ken Martin, I have it! I just knew I’d remember something. Once when Sue came home from boarding-school she said that she just hated her room-mate. She was going to be as mean as she could, hoping that the new pupil would ask to have her room changed. But Grandma Piggins said: ‘Sue, just to please me, will you try my way for one week? If it doesn’t work, then you may try your own.’ Of course Sue would do anything to please her dear old grandmother. Then she asked what she was to do.
“Grandma Piggins said: ‘It’s a game of make-believe. First, pretend, in your own heart, that you like the new pupil, and that you are glad she is your room-mate, and then treat her just as you would if you thought she was the nicest girl you knew, and, by the end of the week, you may find that the pretend has come true.’”
“How did it turn out?” the boy inquired.