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"Hey, Ma," said Tom, coming in the door, "cow's gone. Went out early to milk her . . . she's gone."

"Damn Luke Chen an back!" shrieked Sarah. "He knows we need that cow fer milk!" "Ma, maybe Pa didn't sell her. Somebody coulda stole her."

"He sold her," she said flatly. "Said yesterday he might have ta. Go see iffen ya kin round up that goat."

"Milk, milk, milk!" wailed Our Jane.

I hurried to Our Jane, drawing her into my arms. "Don't cry, darling. Why, in ten minutes flat you'll be drinking the best kind of milk, fresh from a nanny goat."

Our morning meal consisted of hot biscuits made fresh each day, covered with lard gravy. Today we were also having grits. Our Jane wanted her milk more than she wanted anything else. "Where is it, Hey-lee?" she kept asking.

"It's coming," said I, hoping and praying it was.

It took Tom half an hour to come back with a pail of milk. His face was flushed an

d hot-looking, as if he'd run a long, long way. "Here ya are, Our Jane," he said with triumph, pouring milk into her glass, and then into the pitcher so Keith could enjoy the milk as well.

"Where'd ya get it?" asked Ma suspiciously, sniffing the milk. "That goat belongs now t'Skeeter Burl, ya know that . . . an he's mean, real mean."

"What he- don't know won't hurt him," answered Tom, sitting down to dig into his food. "When Our Jane and Keith need milk, I go astealing. An yer right, Ma. Our cow is now pastured in Skeeter Burl's meadow."

Sarah threw me a hard look. "Well, that's t'wager, ain't it? An yer pa lost, like always."

Pa was a gambling man, and when Pa lost we all lost, not only the cow. Each day for the past several weeks, one by one our barnyard fowl had been disappearing. I tried to convince myself that they'd be back once Pa had a winning streak. "I'll collect the eggs," called Sarah, heading for the door while I dressed for school. "Got to before he wagers all our hens! One day we'll wake up to no eggs, no nothin!"

Sarah was given to pessimism, whereas Tom and I were always thinking somehow our lives would turn out fine, even without cows, goats, or chickens and ducks.

.

It seemed to take forever for Our Jane to grow old enough to go with us to Winnerrow and attend first grade. But finally, this fall, she was six, and she was going if Tom and I had to drag her there every day. And that's what we had to do, literally drag her along, holding fast to her small hand so she couldn't escape and dash back to the cabin. Even as I tried to tug her along at a faster pace, she dragged her small feet, resisting in every way she could, as Keith encouraged and assured her, "It's not so bad, not so bad," and that's all he could say in favor of school. The cabin was where Our Jane wanted to stay, with Sarah, with her ragged old doll with the stuffing half fallen out. Right from the beginning she hated school, the hard seats without cushions, sitting still, having to pay attention, though she loved being with other children her age. Our Jane's attendance at school was irregular because of her frail health--and her determination to stay home with her ma.

Our Jane was a dear, darling doll, but she could wear on your nerves with her caterwauling, and all the food she spat up that smelled sickly sour. I turned to scold her, knowing that she was going to make us late, and that again everyone in the school would mock us for not even knowing how to tell time. Our Jane smiled, stretched out her frail, slender arms, and immediately my chastising words froze unspoken on my tongue. I picked her up and lavished on her pretty face all the kisses she had to have. "Feeling better, Our Jane?"

"Yes," she whispered in the smallest voice possible, "but don't like walkin. Makes my legs hurt."

"Give her to me," said Tom, reaching to take her from my arms. Even Toni, loudmouthed, brash, and tough, proud to be all boy, turned sweet and tender with Our Jane. Definitely my smallest sister was gifted in ways of grabbing your heart and never giving it back.

Tom held her in his arms, staring down at her pretty little face, all screwed up to yell if he dared to put her down. "You're just like a tiny, pretty doll," Tom said to her before he turned to me. "You know, Heavenly, even if Pa can't afford to give you or Fanny dolls for Christmas or birthdays, you have something even better, Our Jane."

I could have disagreed with that. Dolls could be put away and forgotten. No one could ever forget Our Jane. Our Jane saw to it that you didn't forget her.

Keith and Our Jane had a special relationship, as if they, too, were "heartfelt twins." Sturdy and strong, Keith ran beside Tom, staring up at his small sister with adoration, just as he ran at home to wait on his little sister who'd immediately smile through her tears when he turned over to her whatever she wanted. And she wanted whatever he had. Keith, kindly, sweetly, gave in to her demands, never complaining even when too many "wants" Of Our Jane would have had Tom openly rebellious.

"Yer a dope, Tom, an ya too, Keith," stated Fanny. "Durn if I would carry no girl who kin walk as good as I kin."

Our Jane began to wail. "Fanny don't like me . . Fanny don't like me . . . Fanny don't like me . . ." And it might have gone on all the way to school if Fanny hadn't reluctantly reached out and taken Our Jane from Tom's arms. "Aw, ya ain't so bad. But why kin't ya learn t' walk, Our Jane, why kin't ya?"

"Don't wanna walk," said Our Jane, hugging her arms tight around Fanny's neck and kissing Fanny's cheek.

"See," said Fanny proudly, "she loves me best . . not ya, Heaven, nor ya, Tom . . . loves me best, don't ya, Our Jane?"

Disconcerted, Our Jane looked down at Keith, at me, at Tom, then screamed: "Put me down! Down! Down!"

Our Jane was dropped into a mud puddle! She screamed, then started to cry, and Tom chased after Fanny to give her a good wallop. I tried to calm Our Jane and dry her off with a rag I had for a

handkerchief. Keith broke into tears. "Don't cry, Keith. She's not hurt . . are you, darling? And see, now you're all dry, and Fanny will say she's sorry . . . but you really should try to walk. It's good for your legs. Now catch hold of Keith's hand, and we'll all sing as we go to school."

Magic words. If Our Jane didn't like walking, she did like to sing as much as we all did, and together she, Keith, and I sang until we caught up with Tom, who had chased Fanny into the schoolyard. Six boys had formed a line for Fanny to hide behind--and Tom was outclassed by boys much older and taller., Fanny laughed, not at all sorry she'd dropped Our Jane and soiled her best school dress so it clung damply to her thin legs.