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Fanny slowly left Pa's lap and backed up to where I was holding Our Jane, and Tom had both his hands on Keith's narrow, frail shoulders.

"Pa," said Fanny, looking pale and concerned for once, "what ya plannin on doin?"

Again Pa smiled in his most winning way. (I thought he looked exceptionally cunning.) "I got t'thinkin about just how willin rich folks are to pay for what they want. Me, I got more kids than I can take care of. Some want kids an can't have any. There's lots of rich folks out there, wantin what I got plenty of-- an so I'm sellin."

"Pa," Tom said stoutly, beginning to tremble, "yer just jokin, ain't ya?"

"Shut up, boy," warned Pa in a low, intense tone. "I'm not joking. Dead serious. Got my mind set on this being the best thing. The only way out. At least one of ya will be saved from starvin."

This was our Christmas present? Selling Keith or Our Jane?

I felt sick. My arms clutched Our Jane tighter to my breasts as I buried my face in her soft curling hair.

Pa moved to the door to let in that couple from the black car.

A fat lady wearing high-heeled pumps entered, followed by a fatter man. Both wore warm, heavy coats with fur collars, and gloves, and big, happy smiles on their faces that soon faded when they saw the hostility on our faces. Then they turned in a slow circle to stare with abject horror at all the poverty.

No Christmas tree here. No gifts, no trimmings, no packages spread around. Nothing at all to indicate this was anything but another day to suffer through.

And here was Pa planning on selling his own.

Beyond belief, those city folks' expressive, shocked eyes said. "Oh, Lester," cried the rather pretty fat woman, getting down on her knees to try and cuddle Keith to her enormous bosom, "did you hear what he said as we came up the steps? We can't let this dear, lovely child starve! Look at his eyes, so huge and pretty. Look at this fine silky hair. And he's clean. Sweet-looking. And that dear little girl the older one is holding--isn't she just a darling, isn't she, Lester?"

Panic was all I could feel. Oh, why had I bathed and shampooed them yesterday? Why didn't they look dirty so she wouldn't want them? I sobbed and held Our Jane tighter as she clung to me with trembling fear. Maybe Our Jane or Keith would be better off-- but would I, would I? They were mine, not hers. She hadn't stayed up with them all night, and walked the floors, or spoon-fed them, taking hours and hours that could have been spent outdoors playing.

Go way, go way, I wanted to scream, but what did I say? This:

"Our Jane is only seven years old." My voice was hoarse as I determined to save Our Jane from this woman

, this man. "Neither she nor Keith has ever been away from home. They can't be separated from each other; they'll cry and scream, be unhappy enough to die."

"Seven," murmured the woman, appearing shocked. "I thought she was younger. I wanted a younger child. Lester, can you believe she's seven-- and how old is the little boy?"

"Eight!" I cried. "Too old to adopt! And Our Jane is sickly," I went on with hope in my heart. "Actually, she's never been what anyone could call healthy. She throws up often, has every disease that rolls around, colds all the time and high fevers . . ." And on and on I would have gone, trying to ruin Our Jane's chances, because I couldn't bear to see her go, for her own good or not--but Pa scowled and ordered me to shut up.

"Then we'll take the little boy," spoke up the fat man called Lester, pulling out his bulging leather wallet. "I always wanted a son, and that boy there is a good-looking young man, and well worth the price you're asking, Mr. Casteel. Five hundred, right?"

Our Jane began to scream.

"NO! NO! NO!" she yelled right in my ear.

She wiggled free from my tight embrace and ran to join Keith, throwing her arms about him, and continued to scream, terrible screams expressing the kind of anguish a child should never know. Keith saw her pain, joined in, and clung to his sister.

More desperate words from me: "Keith is not what you'd want in a son. He's very quiet, uneasy in the dark, scared most of the time--can't bear to be without his sister. You don't want to go, do you, Keith?"

"Don't wanna go!" cried Keith.

"NO, NO, NO!" wailed Our Jane.

"Oh, Lester . . . isn't this heartbreaking, just heartbreaking? We can't separate such two little dears. Lester, why not take both? We can afford both, and then they won't cry or miss their family so much, if they have each other. An you'll have your son, an I'll have my daughter, an we'll all be so happy, our family of four."

Oh, God! In trying to save each of them, I'd lost both!

But there was hope, for Lester was hesitant, however insistent his wife. If only Pa would keep quiet, but he said in a sad, caring way: "Now, that's what I call real quality, a woman with a heart of gold, willing to give to two instead of one," and that's all it took for Lester to make his decision, and then he was pulling out papers and was adding another line or two before he signed, and Pa bent over to painstakingly form his own signature.

As difficult as Pa made writing seem, and as painfully slow as he was, I knew when he was finished there would be a signature as beautiful as any. Like many ignorant people, to Pa appearances meant more than content.

During all of this, I'd backed to the stove and picked up the heavy iron poker. Once I had it in both my hands, I raised it high and had the courage to actually hiss when I yelled at Pa. "Ssstop thisss! I won't let you do thisss! Pa, the authorities will come and put you in jail if you sell your own flesh and blood! Keith and Our Jane are not hogs or chickens for sale, they're your own children!"