"'No,' says Dinah, 'I like better to lay in the b.u.t.tercups and look at pictur's,' says she.

"'Then,' says Love, 'show Mose the pictur's, too, and make him happy.'

"'No,' says Dinah, 'he's too little, an' he bothers me an' tears my book.'

"'Then,' says Love, 'yo'd rather yo' tired daddy took care o' the chile after his hard day's work.'

"'Now yo're talkin',' says Dinah. 'I sh.o.r.ely would. My daddy's strong.'

"The tears came into Love's eyes, she felt so down-hearted. 'Yo' daddy needs comfort, Dinah,' she says, 'an' yo're big enough to give it to him,'

says she; 'an' look at the black smooches on my w'ite gown. They're all because o' you, Dinah, that I've been friends with so faithful. I've got to leave you now, far enough so's my gown'll come w'ite; but if you call me I'll hear, honey, an' I'll come. Good-by,'

"'Good riddance!' says Dinah. 'I'm right down tired o' bein' lectured,'

says she. 'Now I can roll over in the b.u.t.tercups an' sing, an' be happy an'

do jest as I please.'

"So Dinah threw herself down in the long gra.s.s and, bing! she fell right atop of a wasp, and he was so scared at such capers he stung her in the cheek. Whew! You could hear her 'way 'cross the cotton field!

"Her ole gran'mam comforted her, the good soul. 'Never you mind, honey,'

she says, 'I'll swaje it fer you.'

"But every day Dinah got mo' triflin'. She pintedly wouldn't wash the dishes, nor mind little Mose; an' every time the hot fire o' temper ran over her, she could hear a voice in her ear--'Give it to 'em good. That's the way to do it, Dinah!' An' it kep' gittin' easier to be selfish an' to let her temper run away, an' the cabin got to be a mighty pore place jest on account o' Dinah, who'd ought to ha' been its sunshine.

"As for the fairy, Love, Dinah never heerd her voice, an' she never called to her, though there was never a minute when she didn't hate the sound o'

that other voice that had come to be in her ears more 'n half the time.

"One mornin' everything went wrong with Dinah. Her gran'mam was plum mis'able over her shif'less ways, an' she set her to sew a seam befo' she could step outside the do'. The needle was dull, the thread fell in knots.

Dinah's brow was mo' knotted up than the thread. Her head felt hot.

"'Say you won't do it,' hissed the voice.

"'I'll git thrashed if I do. Gran'mam said so.'

"'What do you care!' hissed the voice; and jest as the fairy Slap-back was talkin' like this, up comes little Mose to Dinah, an' laughs an' pulls her work away.

"Then somethin' awful happened. Dinah couldn't 'a' done it two weeks back; but it's the way with them that listens to that mis'able, low-lifed Slap-back. Jest as quick as a wink, that big gal, goin' on nine, slapped baby Mose. He was that took back for a minute that he didn't cry; but the hateful voice laughed an' hissed an' laughed again.

"Good, Dinah, good! Now you'll ketch it!'

"Then over went little Mose's lip, an' he wailed out, an' Dinah clasped her naughty hands an' saw a face close to her--a bad one, with red eyes shinin'. She jumped away from it, for it made her cold to think she'd been havin' sech a playfeller all along.

"'Oh, Love, y' ain't done fergit me, is yer? Come back, Love, _Love_!' she called; then she dropped on her knees side o' Mose an' called him her honey an' her lamb, an' she cried with him, an' pulled him into her lap, an' when the ole gran'mam come in from where she'd been feedin' the hens, they was both asleep."

Franz took a long breath, for the way the apple woman told a story always made him listen hard. "I guess that was the last of old Slap-back with Dinah," he remarked.

The apple woman shook her head. "That's the worst of that fairy," she said.

"Love'll clar out when you tell 'er to, 'case she's quality, an' she's got manners; but Slap-back ain't never had no raisin'. She hangs around, an'

hangs around, an' is allers puttin' in her say jest as she was a few minutes ago with you and Emilie in the road there. There's nothin' in this world tickles her like a chile actin' naughty, 'ceptin' it's two chillen sc.r.a.ppin'. Now pore little Dinah found she had to have all her wits about her to keep Love near, an' make that ornery Slap-back stay away. Love was as willin', as willin' to stay as violets is to open in the springtime; but when Dinah an' Slap-back was both agin her, what could she do? An'

Dinah, she'd got so used to Slap-back, an' that bodacious creetur had sech a way o' gittin' around the chile, sometimes, 'fore Dinah knew it, she'd be listenin' to 'er ag'in; but Dinah'd had one good scare an' she didn't mean to give in. Jest now, too, her daddy fell sick. That good man, that lonely man, he'd had a mighty hard time of it, an' no chile to care or love 'im."

"Wait," interrupted Emilie sternly. "If you are going to let Dinah's father die, I'm going home."

The apple woman showed the whites of her eyes in the astonished stare she gave her.

"Because"--Emilie swallowed and then finished suddenly--"because it wouldn't be nice."

The apple woman looked straight out over her stand. "Well, he didn't, an'

Dinah made him mighty glad he got well, too; for she stopped buryin' her head in pictur' books, an' she did errands for gran'mam without whinin', an' she minded Mose so her daddy had mo' peace when he come home tuckered out; an' when she'd got so she could smile at the boy in the next cabin, 'stead o' runnin' out her tongue at him, the fairy, Love, could stay by without smoochin' her gown, an' Slap-back had to melt away an' sail off to try her capers on some other chile."

"But you needn't pretend you saw her with us," said Franz uneasily.

The apple woman nodded her red bandana wisely. "Folks that lives outdoors the way I do, honey, sees mo' than you-all," she answered.

Emilie ran home ahead of her brother, and softly entered her father's room. He was at his desk, as was usual at this hour. His head leaned on his hand, and he was so deep in his work that he did not notice her quiet entrance. She curled up on the sofa in her usual att.i.tude, but instead of reading she watched little Peter on the floor building his block house. His chubby hands worked carefully until the crooked house grew tall, then in turning to find a last block he b.u.mped his head on the corner of a chair.

Emilie watched him rub the hurt place in silence. Then he got up on his fat legs and went to the desk, where he stood patiently, his round face very red and solemn, while he waited to gain his father's attention.

At last the busy man became conscious of the child's presence, and, turning, looked down into the serious eyes.

"I'm here wid a boomp," said Peter. Then after receiving the consolation of a hug and kiss he returned contentedly to his block house.

Emilie saw her father look after the child with a smile sad and tender. Her heart beat faster as she lay in her corner. Her father was lonely and hard worked, with no one to take pity on him. A veil seemed to drop from her eyes, even while they grew wet.

"I don't believe I'm too old to change, even if I am going on nine,"

thought Emilie. At that minute the block house fell in ruins, and Peter, self-controlled though he was, looked toward the desk and began to whimper.

"Peter--Baby," cried Emilie softly, leaning forward and holding out the picture of a horse in her book.

Her father had turned with an involuntary sigh, and seeing Peter trot toward the sofa and Emilie receive him with open arms, went back to his papers with a relief that his little daughter saw. Her breath came fast and she hugged the baby. Something caught in her throat.

"Oh, papa, you don't know how many, _many_ times I'm going to do it," she said in the silence of her own full heart.

And Emilie kept that unspoken promise.

CHAPTER XI

THE GOLDEN DOG

"I think, after all, the ravine is the nicest place for stories," said Jewel the next day.

The sun had dried the soaked gra.s.s, and not only did the leaves look freshly polished from their bath, but the swollen brook seemed to be turning joyous little somersaults over its stones when Mrs. Evringham, Jewel, and Anna Belle scrambled down to its bank.

"I don't know that we ought to read a story every day," remarked Mrs.

Evringham. "They won't last long at this rate."