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“This isn’t going to work,” said Vannie Kirkland’s mom for the umpteenth time. “You can’t just drop a child at an old lady’s door and expect her to say fine-and-dandy. Kids are a lot of trouble.”

Vannie’s dad whistled “California, Here I Come” through his teeth. He’d been whistling it ever since they left Cleveland.

“If you aren’t the world’s worst worrier,” he said after a while. “Wait and see. Aunt Bert’s got to be lonely as all get out, living by herself in the country. She’s going to love having Vannie stay with her for a while.”

Every time this argument started up again, Vannie scrunched down a little farther in the backseat of the car. Maybe, she thought hopefully, she could make herself shrink away to nothing. Her dad would say, “Well, here’s our Vannie, Aunt Bert—come to stay with you while we go off to California.” And what do you know; when they looked in the backseat, nobody would be there.

Except Muffy! she reminded herself. Muffy wouldn’t disappear. He might be the tiniest white poodle in the whole United States, but he was also the loudest and the fastest. You always knew where he was. At the moment he was perched on a carton full of bedding that took up most of the backseat, snarling and yipping at a semitrailer truck in the next lane.

“For goodness’ sake!” Vannie’s mom exploded. “Will you please keep that dog quiet! What’s he planning to do, eat that semi?”

Vannie didn’t answer. Nobody could keep Muffy quiet when he felt like barking. Being small didn’t mean a thing to Muffy. That was just one of the reasons Vannie loved him.

She looked out the window and saw that they were in real farm country now. The colors were pretty—green fields, red barns, and silvery silos like towers in a fairy tale.

But where were the people? There was a house every once in a while, with a cluster of farm buildings around it, but she didn’t see any people. Just cows—a million cows—and some pigs and, once, a field full of gray sheep with lighter-colored lambs wobbling after their mothers. No wonder Dad’s aunt Bert was lonely, if all her neighbors had four legs!

“How much farther is it, for goodness’ sake?” Vannie’s mom wanted to know. “We’ve got a long way to go if you expect to make the Mississippi River by dark.” She sounded tired and unhappy. “We should have called ahead. We should have warned your aunt.”

Vannie pulled Muffy off the carton and hugged him, even though he squirmed and squealed.

“It’s just over the next hill,” her dad said, answering the question and ignoring the rest. “Hey there, Vannie, look sharp now. Here’s where you’re going to spend your summer vacation, lucky girl.”

They stopped talking after that. Even Muffy was quiet for a change. The old sedan rattled and rumbled to the top of the hill and started down. Just below them, Vannie saw a little old house set back from the road. Tall trees clustered around it.

Beyond the trees and a shed stood a barn that was at least twice as big as the farmhouse. The roof of the barn had holes in it, but on the side nearest the road there was a huge painting of a gold-colored dog. The dog was leaping over a stream of bright blue water. A row of green hills, all the same size, was lined up behind him, and there were puffy pink clouds overhead.

“What in the world!” Vannie’s mom exclaimed. Her dad just shrugged. Now that the moment was here, now that they were actually turning into Aunt Bert’s front yard, he looked kind of scared.

“Come on, Vannie,” he said, opening the back door of the car. “Get yourself out of there and bring your suitcase.”

“No suitcase,” her mother said quickly. “Not till we talk. Leave Muffy in the car, too.”

She took Vannie’s hand as they walked across the grass to the front porch. Behind them, Muffy yelped and battered the car windows, afraid he was being left out of a good time.

Good time! Vannie thought. Huh! The closer they got, the more the house looked as if it might fall down any minute.

The porch was a wonder. It stretched across the front of the little house, and it was crammed full of things: a long wooden swing hanging from the roof, a rocking chair, a footstool, a shabby old trunk, a box full of magazines, and a three-legged table that would have tipped over if not for the wooden crate propping it up.

“What in the world!” Vannie’s mom said again. “Looks like she must live out here.”

The door swung open. At first Vannie thought it was someone her own age on the other side of the screen, but when the person spoke, it was in a cracked, used-up kind of voice.

Vannie’s dad cleared his throat. “It’s me, Aunt Bert,” he said. “Your nephew Bill. Come to see you on our way to California. How are you? Here’s my wife, Grace, and this is our little girl, Vannie.”

The screen door flapped open, and a tiny, skinny old lady in blue jeans and a baggy shirt came out on the porch. Her skin was burned potato-brown, and her gray hair was chopped short like a man’s. Behind her glasses, her eyes seemed to shoot sparks as she looked at each of the Kirklands in turn.

“Haven’t seen any of the family in a month of Sundays,” she said after a minute. “If you want to sit awhile, I’ll get some lemonade.” She motioned toward the swing and the rocker and marched back into the house. Vannie’s folks looked at each other and then settled in the swing, making room for Vannie between them.

When Aunt Bert came back, she was carrying a tin tray with glasses on it. The glasses were beautiful, Vannie thought—all red and blue and yellow stripes. Aunt Bert gave them their drinks and then perched on the porch rail facing them.

“Now,” she said, “this place is more than fifty miles off the main highway, so I don’t believe you just happened by and decided to visit your old aunty. Must have had a reason. Want to tell me what it is?”

Vannie’s dad grinned, sort of ashamed. “Well, you’re right, Aunt Bert,” he said. “And I’m sorry I haven’t been here for a long time. The truth is, we’ve had a streak of bad luck back home, and we’ve decided it’s time to make a fresh start out West. What we’re wondering is, can Vannie stay here with you, while we get settled? We’ll be sleeping in the car until I get a job and find us a place to live, see. We thought maybe you’d like some company for a while.…”

“So that’s how the wind blows.” Aunt Bert fastened her sparkling eyes on Vannie as if she could see right through her.

“You don’t have to say yes,” Vannie’s mom murmured. “We’ll get by.”

“I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to do,” Aunt Bert retorted. She looked down at her sneakers and then back at Vannie.

“What do you say?” she asked. “You think you’d like stayin’ here?”

Vannie could feel her father wanting her to say yes. She could feel her mother worrying. If she said, “I sure do want to stay,” it would make them both happy. But there was something about Aunt Bert that demanded plain truth.

“Don’t know,” she said softly. “I never lived in the country. I might get lonesome.”

Aunt Bert nodded, as if that was the right answer. She slid down off the porch rail.

“I’ll take her,” she said. “For a while, anyway. But you’d better send us a little money when you get some. I ain’t rich.”

“We will!” Vannie’s father exclaimed. “We’ll surely do that, Aunt Bert. And Vannie’s a good girl. You’ll see.”

“She better be.” The old lady didn’t smile, but she cocked her head at Vannie. “What’s all the ruckus out in your car?”