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Third Street South, where we turned left. The adobe house was in the middle of the block. As we got near it, we stopped and stared.

        There was a girl wearing Levi britches, a boy’s shirt, and short cowboy boots washing a window with her back turned toward us. I wouldn’t have known it was a girl, if it hadn’t been for her yellow hair tied in a braid behind her back.

        We continued on and set the basket on the small front porch of the adobe house.

        The girl heard us and turned around. She had a round face burned a deep brown from outdoor living. Her face looked like it had been dunked in a barrel of freckles. She stared at us with unfriendly blue eyes.

        “I’m Tom Fitzgerald, and this is my brother John,” Tom introduced us. “You must be Dotty Blake. Our mother and family welcome you and your father to Adenville and have sent you a few things.”

     
        I thought it was a very neighborly and nice speech myself , but Dotty’s eyes flashed.

        “Us Blakes don’t take charity from nobody,” she said. At least she sounded like a girl when she talked.

    “It isn’t charity,” Tom said. “It is just being neighborly.”

        “Ain’t no difference,” she said. “Take it back. Me and Pa don’t need help from nobody.”

        Tom shrugged as he looked at me. We picked up the bushel basket and carried it back home. We told Mamma what had happened, after setting the basket on the kitchen floor.

        Mamma shook her head sadly. “I guess your father was right,” she said.

        The next morning we went to the Community Church as usual, because there was no Catholic Church in Adenville. A Catholic missionary priest came to town about once a year to baptize Catholic babies, marry Catholics, and hold confessions and Masses for a few days in the Community Church. Papa said going to hear the Reverend Holcomb preach at the Community Church was better than no church at all. Mr. Blake was there dressed in overalls and a blue work shirt, I guess because he didn’t own a suit. And Dotty was there bold as brass in her Levi britches, boy’s shirt, and cowboy boots. Reverend Holcomb didn’t seem to mind and welcomed them to the congregation.

        “I’m going to call on the Blakes,” Mamma said when we returned home.

        “Do you think that’s wise?” Papa asked. “Mr. Blake and his daughter have given every indication all they want is to be left alone.”

        “I have every right to see how they are taking care of our house,” Mamma said. “I’ll use that as an excuse. Then I’ll try to reason with Mr. Blake that being neighborly isn’t charity.”

        This was too exciting to miss, so Tom and I waited in our parlor with Papa and Aunt Bertha until Mamma returned. She sure looked worried and sad as she sat down in her maple rocker.

    “That girl has the house as neat as a pin,” she said.

    “Then what are you worried about?” Papa asked.

        “It isn’t the house,” Mamma said. “It’s that poor girl and her stubborn father. He lets her do the housework and cooking but otherwise treats her like a son and not a daughter. He even boasted to me how he had raised her as if she were a boy, and how she could ride, use a lariat, a rifle, and other things better than a boy. I first tried to reason with him, pointing out that now they were living in town, and he should treat her as a daughter and not as a son. And do you know what he said?”

        Papa waited as Mamma paused and then asked, “How could I know? I wasn’t there.”

        Mamma shook her head. “He said he liked his daughter just the way she was, and it was nobody else’s business how he raised her. Then I pointed out to him that living in town did have some advantages, such as enabling his daughter to get an education. And do you know what he said to that?”

        Papa was getting impatient with Mamma as she paused again. “My dear Tena, how could I