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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.
    With Keith waiting patiently, in the school rest room I again dried Our Jane off; then I saw Keith to his classroom, pried him loose from Our Jane, then led Our Jane to the first grade. Seated at the table with five other little girls her age, she was the smallest there. What a shame all the other girls had nicer clothes, though not one had such pretty hair, or such a sweet smile. “See you later, darling,” I called. Her huge scared eyes stared woefully back at me.
    Tom was waiting for me outside Miss Deale’s classroom. Together we entered. Every student in there turned to stare at our clothes and our feet; whether we were clean or dirty, it didn’t matter. They always snickered. Day in and day out, we had to wear the same clothes, and every day they looked us over scornfully. Italways hurt, but we both tried to ignore them as we took our seats near the back of the class.
    Seated in front of our classroom was the most wonderful woman in the entire world—the very kind of beautiful lady I hoped and prayed I would be when I grew up. While all her students turned to mock us, Miss Marianne Deale lifted her head to smile her welcome. Her smile couldn’t have been warmer if we’d come adorned in the best clothes the world had to offer. She knew we had to walk farther