That had happened about an hour before the return of Ken, and during that hour there had been a brand-new emotion stirring in the heart of Sylvia Clayburn, which just before bedtime prompted the small girl to perform the first unselfish act of her eight years.
Ken was about to take Topsy and the kittens back to the shed when Sylvia, rising, went to Carol, and, holding out the snow-white kitten, said: “Here’s Downy-Fluff. She wants you to cuddle her good-night.” Then stooping, she picked up the less attractive pussy that was rubbing against her foot. Smiling at the astonished Carol, she said: “I’m going to have this one for my very own kitten. Dixie said I might, and anyway, I think Spotty’s kind of lonesome, ’cause nobody loves her nor wants her, the way they do Downy-Fluff.”
And Ken, listening, knew that his sisters had won the “pretend-game.”
Miss Josephine Bayley was not at all surprised the next morning to see the four little Martins appear above the ridge of the cañon road. Carol and Dixie were trudging side by side, while Ken, with a stick in his hand, was walking beside the mouse-colored burro, on which rode no less a small personage than Sylvia Clayburn, whose thin, sallow face was beaming above the yellow curls of the four-year-old, who sat in front of her.
When the schoolhouse was reached, Ken lingered behind to tie the burro in a grassy spot, and Dixie, taking their guest by the hand, led her into the little log schoolhouse.
“Miss Bayley,” she said to the young teacher, who at once approached them, “this is little Sylvia Clayburn. She thought she’d like to come just as company to-day. She’ll be going back to Genoa in two weeks, so maybe that wouldn’t be time to really start having lessons.”
“We are very glad to have Sylvia with us as a guest or as a pupil, just as she prefers,” Miss Bayley said, as she took the frail, claw-like hand of the child who had never been strong. “Carol, your seat is wide enough for two little girls, isn’t it? I am sure that Sylvia would rather sit with you than be alone, wouldn’t you, dear?”
To the surprise of the younger Martin girl, she found that she was actually pleased when Sylvia somewhat shyly nodded her head and slipped her hand trustingly into that of the other little maid. She no longer had to ask herself the pretend-game question, for she really did like their little guest, and she was even eager to have her for a seat-mate.
As usual the morning session began with singing, and the teacher said: “Now that it is nearly November, I am going to suggest that we begin to learn a Thanksgiving song. I have written the words on the board. I will sing it first, Dixie, that you may get the tune; then we will go over it all together.”
The pupils read the poem aloud, that they might become familiar with the words that told the many simple things which small boys and girls had to be thankful for. Then the teacher sang it, first alone, later with Dixie. There was a lilting little chorus that even Sylvia soon could sing, and the girl-teacher smiled as she glanced down at her. It was plain to note that this new experience—for Sylvia had never before been in a school-room—was greatly interesting the little guest.