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This book must not 
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 Library building. 
 
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 Form No. 471 
 
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 Li.ltD 
 
ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
Azalea nml ('ai'iii ami Annie Laurie. 
 
ANNIE LAURIE 
 AND AZALEA 
 
 BY 
 
 ELIA W. PEATTIE 
 
 Illustrations by 
 Joseph Pierre Nuyttens 
 
 The Reilly & Britton Co. 
 Chicago 
 
Copyright, 19 13 
 by 
 
 The Reilly & Britton Co. 
 
 Annie Laurie and Azalea 
 
Annie Laurie and Azalea 
 
 beg to be -presented to 
 
 Lorainey Catherine^ Elizabeth and Bernice 
 
 O 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I Two AND One Make — How 
 
 Many? n 
 
 II Annie Laurie Pace 30 
 
 III Trial Without Jury 47 
 
 IV A Rainy Night 68 
 
 V The Summers 87 
 
 VI Sunday 100 
 
 VII The Signal 119 
 
 VIII The Mystery 128 
 
 IX The Disbrows 147 
 
 X Sam 167 
 
 XI Marching Orders 181 
 
 XII "The Doll Lady" 198 
 
 XIII The Long Red Road 217 
 
 XIV Hi's Houn' Dog 231 
 
 XV The Voice in the Mist 247 
 
 XVI Good for Evil 261 
 
 XVII Azalea's Party 28 1 
 
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 Azalea and Carin and Annie Laurie.... 
 
 Frontispiece 
 
 Carin stood awaiting them, her hands 
 outstretched 64 
 
 Back and forth went her lantern, saying: 
 "All is well! All is well!" 122 
 
 "But you've come back, son, to face the 
 
 n 
 
 music 192 
 
 "Come in," she said in a strange voice 266 
 
ANNIE LAURIE 
 AND AZALEA 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 TWO AND ONE MAKE — HOW MANY? 
 
 The long red clay road, winding down from 
 the cabin where the McBirneys lived on their 
 high shelf of Tennyson mountain, was frosted 
 delicately with white, and by the roadside the 
 curious frost flowers lifted their heads, as airy- 
 fine as fern. From the half-hidden cabins all 
 around the semicircle of mountains that skirted 
 the valley of Lee, shafts of smoke arose, showing 
 that the people were about the business of the 
 day. Straight, gray and shadowy these smoke- 
 shafts lifted through the lilac-tinted air; and 
 below in the little town, other shafts of smoke 
 ascended as if in friendly answer. 
 
 Azalea McBirney, in her dark riding skirt 
 and bright knitted cap and reefer, came running 
 from the cabin with the manner of a girl very 
 much behindhand. 
 
12 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 "Ain't he there yet, Zalie?" a voice called 
 from the cabin. "Ain't Jim brought them ponies 
 around yet?" 
 
 "No, mother," Azalea answered over her 
 shoulder, starting toward the stable. "Maybe 
 the ponies have been naughty again. I'll go 
 see." 
 
 "You just stay where you be," commanded 
 James Stuart McBirney from the stable. 
 "You've got all your work done, ben't you? 
 Well, that's all you have to think about. This 
 here is my job and I mean to do it whatever 
 comes, though these here ponies certainly do 
 act up on a morning like this." 
 
 "Well, I would just as soon get my breath 
 for a moment," Azalea remarked to nobody in 
 particular, seating herself on the bench by the 
 side of the door. "As Hi Kitchell's mother says, 
 *I bin goin' like a streak o' lightnin' since sun- 
 up.' " 
 
 Her cheeks were, indeed, a trifle over-flushed, 
 and forgetting for a moment how time was has- 
 tening along, and that she and Jim ought already 
 to be on the road to school, she leaned her head 
 against the side of the cabin and looked about 
 her contentedly. She loved the scene before her ; 
 
TWO AND ONE 13 
 
 loved the pines with their light coating of hoar- 
 frost; loved the waterfall with its gleaming ici- 
 cles ; loved the scent of the wood-smoke and the 
 sight of "Molly Cottontail" scampering through 
 the bushes. 
 
 Moreover, the kiss of Mary McBirney lay 
 warm on her lips — Mary McBirney who had 
 taken her in when she was a motherless and 
 friendless girl, and whom she found it sweet to 
 call mother. "Mother" was a longer word than 
 Jim — otherwise James Stuart McBirney, the 
 true son of the house — found it convenient to 
 use when he spoke of the woman who was the 
 background of his world. "Ma" was the term 
 he chose, and Mary McBirney would not have 
 cared to have him try any other. 
 
 For Jim was just Jim — her own freckled, shy, 
 plucky fellow. He went down to the district 
 school, riding on the pony the Carsons had given 
 him, while beside him, quite as if she were his 
 own sister, rode Azalea, who trusted him to see 
 her through any danger of the road, who laughed 
 as much as anybody could wish at his "hill billy" 
 jokes, and who never, never forgot how he had 
 welcomed her into his home, to share all he had, 
 
J4 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 though there never had, at any time, been very 
 much to share. 
 
 Yet, though she had been only the "child won- 
 der" of a wandering "show" when she came to 
 the McBirney's — her own poor little mother ly- 
 ing dead in one of the wagons — it was she, and 
 not Jim, the carefully reared boy, who had the 
 grand little ways. Jim was a country boy, with 
 a country boy's straightforward, simple man- 
 ners. But about Azalea there was something — ■ 
 well, something different. So different was she 
 from the McBirneys that she seemed like a car- 
 dinal bird which had been storm-driven into one 
 of the martin gourds that hung in the high cross- 
 trees before the McBirney's door. 
 
 All that was easily understood by the few who 
 knew her story. Her grandfather had been Col- 
 onel Atherton, the richest, the proudest, and the 
 most elegant gentleman in all the countryside. 
 He had owned great plantations in the old slave 
 days, and had built the beautiful manor house 
 which their new, wonderfully kind neighbors, 
 the Carsons, recently had bought. Azalea's 
 mother had exiled herself by a marriage with a 
 man of whom no parent could approve, and as 
 misfortune drove her ever lower and lower, she 
 
TWO AND ONE 15 
 
 came at length to be a performer in the miserable 
 roadside show with which she had come, in her 
 last hour, to the scene of her father's old home. 
 That home had long since passed into other 
 hands, and concerning it Azalea's mother had 
 told her daughter nothing. It had been by an 
 accident that she later learned the truth. 
 
 When Mr. and Mrs. Carson, the friends who 
 had from the first of their acquaintance with her 
 endeavored to add to her happiness, learned her 
 story, they asked her to come into their home 
 to be a sister to their own girl, Carin. And 
 Azalea in her secret heart had longed to go — ■ 
 more than she ever would have told, she longed 
 to be with these accomplished and gracious 
 friends, whose wealth made it possible for them 
 to do almost anything they pleased, and who 
 seemed pleased to do only interesting things. 
 But when she remembered the welcome that had 
 been given her by Mary McBirney, and indeed, 
 by all of the McBirney family, and how she had, 
 in a way, taken the place of their little dead 
 Molly, she was able to put temptation from her; 
 and the hour in which she had made her choice 
 and been gathered in "Ma" McBirney's arms 
 was the happiest she ever had known. 
 
i6 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 So, though she was born Azalea Knox, the 
 granddaughter of Colonel Atherton, she was 
 now known as Azalea McBirney, the waif the 
 McBirneys had taken into their cabin to grow 
 up side by side with their son James Stuart. And 
 all over the Valley of Lee an interest was felt 
 in her; partly because of her being an orphan, 
 and a child of quaint and lovable ways, and 
 partly because of a strange happening. Not 
 long after she had come to live with the good 
 mountain folk, the owner of the show with which 
 she had once traveled had kidnapped her, and 
 the search for her had been long and anxious. 
 
 When she was rescued and brought back to 
 the home where she was so welcomed and loved, 
 all of the neighbors had a protective feeling for 
 her, and rejoiced that the Carsons, who had come 
 down from the North, and who seemed so eager 
 to be of help to everybody, should have taken her 
 in to be taught with their daughter. Never had 
 there been such neighbors as the Carsons in Lee. 
 They made goodness their business, it seemed. 
 Through them the mountain folk were finding 
 a market for their homemade wares — their 
 woven cloth and their counterpanes, their bas- 
 kets and chairs, and comfort had come into many 
 
TWO AND ONE 17 
 
 a home where hitherto there had been cruel 
 poverty. 
 
 But there on the bench by the doorway in the 
 nipping morning air sits Azalea, with her nose 
 and ears growing redder and redder! 
 
 "Jim," she called, awakening from her rev- 
 erie, "we'll be late as sure as anything." 
 
 "Coming right along now, sis," answered the 
 boy as he came running from the stable with the 
 two ponies. "Hop into the saddle, Zalie, and 
 we'll just pelt it down the mountain. Here, I'll 
 hold him. There you are. Hi — they're off." 
 
 They surely were. Pa McBirney, busy in his 
 little smithy, heard the clatter of hoofs and thrust 
 his head from the door. 
 
 "Watch out, you two !" he warned. 
 
 "We will," they called in chorus as they 
 dashed on. 
 
 "My sakes," said pa, coming in from the shop 
 and wiping his hands on his leathern apron, "I 
 trust to luck ma didn't see 'em going off. Them 
 young uns are getting too much spirit in 'em to 
 suit me ; and as for the ponies, I think they ought 
 to be cut down on their feed." 
 
 But neither Azalea nor James Stuart was 
 wanting anyone to cut down on anything. As 
 
i8 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 the firm-footed ponies took the cut-offs, minding 
 neither curve nor steep, the children shouted 
 with delight. 
 
 *'Late?" yelled Jim mockingly. "Who said 
 late? We couldn't be late if we tried." 
 
 They reached the parting of their ways, and 
 Azalea, who was leading, turned in her saddle 
 to wave to Jim. 
 
 "Good-bye, boy," she called. 
 
 "So long, sis," he answered, and turned to fol- 
 low the creek, and then to mount the hill at the 
 top of which stood the district school. But 
 Azalea kept on along the low-winding road till 
 she came to The Shoals, from whose four tall 
 chimneys the smoke mounted into the tinted air. 
 Benjamin, the polite black boy, was at the horse- 
 block to help her dismount and to lead away 
 Paprika, her pony; and Tulula Darthula, the 
 maid, opened the door to welcome her. Azalea 
 spoke a laughing word of greeting and ran on 
 down the corridor to the schoolroom. 
 
 It was a small room, semicircular in shape, 
 opening on the wintry garden. The rounding 
 portion of the wall was all of glass, which in 
 summer time gave way to screens, so that it then 
 seemed an actual part of the garden. Now, the 
 
TWO AND ONE 19 
 
 polished panes reflected the flames leaping in 
 the fireplace, and revealed the frost-fringed 
 hemlocks without. Before the fire sat Miss 
 Parkhurst, the quiet, gray-eyed governess, and 
 with her, Carin, the friend whose approval was 
 more to Azalea than anything else in the world 
 save the love of the new "mother." 
 
 "Oh, here I am, late!" cried Azalea contritely. 
 "Please forgive me, ma'am." 
 
 Helena Parkhurst gave a pardoning smile. 
 
 "I really think we're ahead of time this morn- 
 ing — Carin and I. Take off your things, child, 
 and come up to the fire. We've been trying to 
 have it at its best when you came." 
 
 But Azalea's fingers, stiffened with holding 
 the bridle reins, made sorry work with her but- 
 tons, and Carin flew to her aid. 
 
 "You smell like winter. Azalea," she laughed, 
 snifling; "all cold and clean." 
 
 Azalea laughed happily. Whatever this blue- 
 eyed, golden-haired friend of hers did seemed 
 right to her — nay, better than merely right — 
 complete. It warmed Azalea more than the 
 glow of the room to have Carin snatch her cap 
 from her, and pull her reefer off, and tumble 
 
20 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 her with affectionate roughness into the chair 
 before the blaze. ' 
 
 "Colonial history again this morning," said 
 Miss Parkhurst after a time. "We're to read 
 about the Delaware and the Virginia Colonies, 
 since Carin's ancestors came from the first and 
 Azalea's from the second." 
 
 "Well, they'll be different enough, won't 
 they?" remarked Carin. "They were different 
 sort of folk before they crossed the Atlantic, and 
 their differences grew after they settled here. 
 And yet here Azalea and I are, as alike as can 
 be." 
 
 "But I don't think the differences of the col- 
 onists grew, Carin," said Azalea, "and I'm ter- 
 ribly afraid you and I aren't alike. I couldn't 
 be like you if I tried for ever and ever." She 
 gave a wistful sigh, and Miss Parkhurst, watch- 
 ing her without seeming to do so, saw the light 
 of hero-worship in her eyes. She knew that 
 Azalea was one of those who are born to love 
 hungrily, and to live eagerly; and she was thank- 
 ful that, having so hungry a heart, she was able, 
 when it came to a matter of opinion, to form her 
 own ideas, and to hold to them. Azalea's heart 
 was in leading strings to Carin, but her excellent 
 
TWO AND ONE 21 
 
 little brain went on its independent way, though 
 Carin had traveled and studied, and been all her 
 life with charming and cultivated people, and 
 Azalea had been tended no more than a patch of 
 wayside daisies. 
 
 Miss Parkhurst brought the books they were 
 needing from the library, and Carin taking hers, 
 sighed happily: "Isn't it beautiful to be here 
 by ourselves — just the three of us? No one else 
 would fall into our way of doing. How nice it 
 is of you. Miss Parkhurst, to let us follow up 
 whatever idea w^'re interested in, and to help 
 us learn all we can about that subject, instead of 
 making us dash from one thing to another, till 
 we haven't a notion what we are trying to learn. 
 I'd never get anywhere, studying in the old- 
 fashioned way, jumping from subject to subject, 
 and having to wait for a whole class of stupid 
 creatures to come tagging along." 
 
 "But you might be the stupid one, you know, 
 Carin," smiled Miss Parkhurst. "I'm afraid it 
 doesn't do to go around the world supposing 
 yourself to be the cleverest one." 
 
 Carin shrugged her pretty shoulders. 
 
 "I don't think that," she said. "I always think 
 Azalea the cleverest one. I'm only saying that 
 
22 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 we three understand each other, and that we 
 don't have to spend half our time explaining, 
 and that we're just as contented together as mor- 
 tals can be." 
 
 And just then the door opened and Mrs. Car- 
 son came into the room. Her face had lost some- 
 thing of the look of transparency it had worn 
 when she first came to Lee, when she had been 
 fresh from a terrible sorrow, but it was still pale 
 and strangely tender to Azalea's admiring eyes. 
 
 "I do hope you'll excuse me, Miss Parkhurst," 
 she said in her soft voice, "for breaking into the 
 study hour. But I've something important to 
 talk over, and so I've come while all the mem- 
 bers of the academy are together." 
 
 She shook hands with Azalea as she spoke, 
 and patted Carin caressingly on the shoulder. 
 
 "I've come," she went on, "to talk to you about 
 taking in another girl." 
 
 "Another girl!" cried Carin in dismay. "What 
 girl, please, mamma?" She had sprung to her 
 feet, and stood before her mother with the color 
 sweeping over her face; but Azalea, keeping her 
 thoughts to herself, grew paler, and pinched the 
 edge of the table in her effort to keep the tears 
 
TWO AND ONE 23 
 
 of vexation and disappointment from coming to 
 her eyes. 
 
 Another girl! And this perfect possession of 
 Carin would be taken from her, and there'd be, 
 as Carin put it, need to "explain" all of the time. 
 How could Mrs. Carson spoil such a perfect 
 thing as their association there? Who else would 
 love to study, and to write, and paint and sing 
 the way they did? Who else would make a 
 game out of it all, and long to get to the school- 
 room in the morning and hate to leave at night? 
 
 "It's Annie Laurie Pace," went on Mrs. Car- 
 son, apparently taking no heed of their misery. 
 "Have you met her? Perhaps not, since she 
 goes to the Baptist Meeting House, and you, 
 Azalea, are such a faithful young Methodist, 
 and Carin goes with me to the Episcopal 
 Church. But anyway, I think you must have 
 seen her — a tall girl, with red hair. She's been 
 helping me some at The Mountain Industries 
 rooms, and I've become well acquainted with 
 her. She's ahead of anything she can get at the 
 district school. Of course I don't mean that she 
 couldn't do more mathematics and that sort of 
 thing, but I am convinced that she has a strength 
 and originality of thought which is very un- 
 
24 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 usual. She came here this morning to borrow 
 some books I had offered to lend her, and I 
 have been talking with her for the last hour. 
 I am so convinced that the work here under 
 Miss Parkhurst and with you two shining little 
 stars will give her precisely what she is hunger- 
 ing for, that I have invited her to join you." 
 
 "But, mamma," expostulated Carin, "we'll be 
 wretched with her! She's a nice enough girl, 
 I'm sure, and no doubt she's bright, but she'll 
 never be able to really understand Azalea and 
 me, will she, Azalea?" 
 
 Azalea said nothing. She was dreadfully em- 
 barrassed. She was wondering if Mrs. Carson 
 had some secret reason for forcing another girl 
 in with them? Could it possibly be that she — 
 Azalea — who had been- a wandering child, trav- 
 eling with coarse people in a low circus, was, 
 without knowing it, doing harm to Carin? Per- 
 haps. Carin was so fine, so gay, so sweet, so "like 
 a flower" as the song had it which Mrs. Carson 
 sang, that very likely she seemed no more than 
 a weed beside her. 
 
 "Probably that is all I am — a horrid, stupid 
 weed," said Azalea to herself bitterly as her 
 
TWO AND ONE 25 
 
 thoughts flashed this way and that like troubled 
 birds, seeking for what was wrong. 
 
 "You can see how Azalea hates the idea, mam- 
 ma," said Carin. "And as for me, if that girl 
 comes in here, my education will be ruined." 
 
 She looked a haughty and determined young 
 person as she stood there, her chin lifted and her 
 blue eyes darting cold fires. Mrs. Carson had a 
 twinkle in her eye as she surveyed her. Carin 
 had been a gentle princess in the schoolroom, 
 with Miss Parkhurst for her willing guide and 
 Azalea her adoring servitor. The truth was, the 
 two girls had become so bound up in each other 
 that they saw nothing beyond their own horizon. 
 The dark-eyed girl from the mountain cabin, 
 with her strange, romantic history, and the blue- 
 eyed one from the mansion, loving romance 
 above all imaginable things, had made a com- 
 pact of undying friendship; and unconsciously, 
 they had also determined to exclude the rest of 
 the world. 
 
 "It may seem a little hard for you and Azalea 
 to take Annie Laurie in just at first, Carin," Mrs. 
 Carson went on, with no show of yielding — in- 
 deed, quite as if everything were settled — "but 
 she desperately needs the schooling, and I be- 
 
26 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 lieve that, without realizing it, you need her. 
 What do you think, Miss Parkhurst; am I 
 right?" 
 
 To the increasing dismay of the friends, Hel- 
 ena Parkhurst nodded her nice little head. 
 
 *'One of the chief reasons why a girl should 
 go to school," went on Mrs. Carson, smilingly, 
 "is to learn to get along with other girls. You 
 and Azalea are so wrapped up in each other 
 that you actually don't see other girls as they 
 pass you on the road, and it never seems to occur 
 to you to visit their homes, or to ask them here. 
 It has been borne in upon me for some time that 
 if I don't watch out, you'll become a pair of hor- 
 rid little snobs. Of course you wouldn't know 
 that you were, and equally of course I wouldn't 
 admit it to anybody else. But such would be the 
 case, I feel sure." 
 
 "Oh, mother, we wouldn't, we w^ouldn't!" 
 protested Carin. "Just try us a little longer and 
 
 see." 
 
 But at that moment there came a knock at the 
 door, and Mrs. Carson arose to open it. The 
 girls could see without in the hallway the figure 
 of Annie Laurie Pace, the red-haired, surpris- 
 ingly tall girl whom they had occasionally seen 
 
TWO AND ONE 27 
 
 in town; and now it occurred to each of them 
 that they had not particularly w^ished to know 
 her. 
 
 "Did you say I was to come dow^n here, Mrs. 
 Carson, after I had found that book?" she asked 
 shyly. 
 
 "Why, no," said Mrs. Carson impulsively, "I 
 didn't say that, Annie Laurie, but now that you 
 are here, come in and meet my daughter and her 
 friend." 
 
 She entered with a quiet dignity, and it took 
 but one second for Carin and Azalea to see that 
 here would be no timid imitator of their whims. 
 If "follow-my-leader" was played, it was not at 
 all certain that they would be in the fore. 
 
 "Carin," said Mrs. Carson, recovering herself 
 from a moment's embarrassment, "make your 
 new schoolmate w^elcome. Annie Laurie Pace, 
 Azalea McBirney." 
 
 Carin held out a chilly white hand. 
 
 "How do you do?" she said stiffly. 
 
 Azalea arose and gave her hand to the new 
 girl. She had been a stranger herself — had many 
 a time been among men and women unknown to 
 her, waiting wistfully to see if she would be 
 welcomed — and she understood, as Carin could 
 
28 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 not possibly, what brought the veiled look in the 
 new girl's eyes. Yet she could not venture to 
 offend Carin — her own Carin, whose ways al- 
 ways seemed charming to her. 
 
 "How do you do?" she echoed. "I — I hope 
 you are well, Annie Laurie. This — this is a 
 very — pleasant school." 
 
 The words stuck in her throat, and she was 
 ashamed to find how much she wanted to cry. 
 
 The new girl looked toward Mrs. Carson. 
 
 "Ought I to stay, ma'am?" she asked. "You 
 know I could manage at the other school some 
 way. Wouldn't it be better if — " 
 
 "You will do us a favor if you stay with us," 
 Mrs. Carson said. And: "Yes, stay, my dear," 
 urged Helena Parkhurst, making the girls real- 
 ize for the first time that Annie Laurie had not 
 been presented to Miss Parkhurst, and that the 
 two must have been acquainted before. How 
 long, the girls wondered, had this conspiracy 
 been in the air? Had it really been decided only 
 that morning? 
 
 "Will you take up your studies to-day, then, 
 Annie Laurie?" Miss Parkhurst asked. "Mrs. 
 Carson, do you think her father would object?" 
 
 "I can telephone him," Mrs. Carson replied. 
 
TWO AND ONE 29 
 
 "We already have had some conversation about 
 the matter. He has been thinking of sending 
 Annie Laurie away to school, but to do such a 
 thing, he said, would leave him very, very lonely, 
 since Annie Laurie is his only child." 
 
 "Oh, it could be managed," the girl broke in. 
 "I know it could, but — " 
 
 Mrs. Carson raised a white hand. 
 
 "It will be quite all right," she said with gen- 
 tle firmness. "Miss Parkhurst, you have three 
 pupils." 
 
 She withdrew smilingly; and in spite of the 
 leaping flame in the fireplace, and the sunshine 
 stealing like pale gold in at the window, a chill 
 settled down over the room. It crept into the 
 farthermost corners, and gleamed cold as little 
 bergs from the eyes of the three girls. 
 
 The three girls? 
 
 There were two girls — and one girl. And the 
 sum was not yet three. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 ANNIE LAURIE PACE 
 
 Annie Laurie Pace was making ready for 
 church. 
 
 Her Sunday frock of dark blue serge lay on 
 the bed; her silk petticoat rustled as she stepped 
 briskly about the room; and her heavy coat and 
 gloves, and her hat with the ostrich plumes, 
 were primly awaiting her need. All was durable 
 about her clothing, and orderly within the room. 
 
 A very clean room it was, somewhat bare and 
 bleak, with a ceiling too high for its size. The 
 floor was uncarpeted, the walls white and with- 
 out pictures. No unnecessary thing was in sight 
 — not even a pretty foolish trinket on the dresser. 
 Through the windows with their dark green 
 shades Annie Laurie could look out into the 
 dairy yard with its whitewashed houses. Beyond 
 stretched the pastures in which grazed the fine 
 herd that was the pride of her father, Simeon 
 Pace. 
 
 Usually, Annie Laurie sang as she dressed for 
 
 30 
 
ANNIE LAURIE PACE 31 
 
 church. She had a warm full voice, with notes 
 in it not unlike the whistle of an oriole. But this 
 morning no song came from her lips. She had a 
 set, almost stern look; her chin came out a little 
 farther than was necessary, and there was battle 
 in her eye. 
 
 Her aunts, dressing in the next room, spoke 
 of it. 
 
 "Annie Laurie is not herself," declared Miss 
 Adnah to Miss Zillah. "I can see that she is ter- 
 ribly put about. I do hope and pray that we 
 haven't made a mistake in letting her leave the 
 district school and go in with Carin Carson and 
 that other girl. It looks to me as if Mrs. Carson 
 was the only person that wanted her — except, 
 perhaps, the governess, Miss Parkhurst — and 
 staying where we're not w^anted is not a thing 
 that we could ever put up with, we Paces." 
 
 "Don't worry about Annie Laurie, sister," 
 replied Miss Zillah, setting her queer lid-like 
 hat on her short gray curls. "She made the 
 change of her own free will, remember. She's 
 run up against a stone wall for the first time in 
 her life, and I'll be interested to see v/hether 
 she climbs over or burrows under it. Those two 
 girls she's studying with don't like her — or at 
 
32 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 least they don't like to have her intruding on 
 them. I don't know as I blame them very much. 
 There they were, enjoying each other's society, 
 and in comes a stranger and thrusts them apart, 
 you may say. Annie Laurie is as unlike them as 
 she can be — quite of a different class, indeed." 
 
 Miss Adnah snapped the fasteners of her 
 gloves sharply. 
 
 "What do you mean by a different class, sis- 
 ter?" she said reprovingly. "Is it possible you 
 consider the Paces inferior to anyone in this com- 
 munity?" 
 
 "Now, Adnah dear, I didn't say anything 
 about inferiority. I spoke of a difference. What 
 the Paces know, they've mostly taught them- 
 selves; and what they have, they've honestly 
 earned. They're proud of it. But they're no 
 prouder of being what they are — well-to-do, re- 
 liable, respectable members of the community — 
 than the Carsons are of being highly cultivated, 
 rich, much-traveled gentle-folk, or the McBir- 
 neys of being industrious, independent mountain 
 people. The truth is, Adnah, if there were fewer 
 kinds of pride in this community, and less of 
 each kind, it would be a better thing." 
 
ANNIE LAURIE PACE 33 
 
 "The team is up, aunts," called Annie Laurie 
 in her clear voice. 
 
 "Very well, child; we are ready," came the 
 reply. 
 
 Of course they wxre ready. It was seldom, 
 indeed, that anyone in that house kept anyone 
 else waiting. Simeon Pace, holding his fine 
 large grays in check, knew almost to a second 
 how long before the front door would open and 
 three tall, upright figures emerge. And this 
 morning was no exception. At the right instant 
 his sisters, in their well-preserved cloaks, came 
 out together, followed by his daughter. The 
 door was locked, the key placed in the crotch 
 of the sycamore, the aunts were helped to their 
 places by Annie Laurie's strong arms and then 
 she swung herself into the seat beside her father, 
 and took the reins from his hands. As she did so, 
 she happened to hit her father's left arm, which 
 gave forth a sound like the rattling of an eave 
 trough in the wind. 
 
 And truth to tell, it was made of the same ma- 
 terial, for where Simeon Pace's muscular mem- 
 ber of flesh and blood had once swung, there now 
 was an unjointed tin substitute for it, hollow as 
 a drum. An ill-advised visit to a sawmill five 
 
34 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 years before was responsible for this defect, 
 which indeed, might have been all but concealed 
 had Mr. Pace been willing to buy one of the 
 excellent modern imitations of an arm. His sis- 
 ters and his daughter continually urged him to 
 do this, but Simeon said that his tin arm had 
 helped him when his trouble was new, and that 
 he refused to throw it on the trash heap as a re- 
 ward for faithful service. It was nothing to him 
 that his gestures startled nervous folk. He re- 
 mained loyal to his battered, awkward tin con- 
 venience, and seemed to take an innocent joy in 
 waving it in the air, offering it as a support to 
 old ladies, and sawing it up and down when he 
 became excited. All the Paces were indepen- 
 dent and Simeon was the most independent of 
 them all. 
 
 He led his women folk well up to the front 
 of the church and eyed them with critical 
 kindness as they filed past him into the pew, con- 
 fident that their thoughts would not wander from 
 the preacher's words during the service. So it was 
 good for his fatherly satisfaction that he did not 
 look into his daughter's mind, for barely a sen- 
 tence of the sermon did she hear that day. Her 
 thoughts were slipping back and forth like shut- 
 
ANNIE LAURIE PACE 35 
 
 ties in a loom. The past week in Mrs. Carson's 
 home has been a strange — and in some ways, a 
 distressing — one. True, never had she learned 
 so much in so short a space of time. If she asked 
 a question everyone tried to answer it. Little as 
 the other two girls had seemed to like her, when 
 it came to a question of ideas, they paid instant 
 and warm attention. An idea was an idea with 
 them, and entitled to respect. 
 
 If the combined wit of Miss Parkhurst and 
 her pupils failed to supply a good answer to an 
 inquiry, plenty of books were at hand to consult, 
 and as a last reference, there were Mr. and Mrs. 
 Carson, who seemed to have been almost every- 
 where and to know something about almost 
 everything. As Annie Laurie had heard them 
 talk, speaking with interest about all manners 
 of people, her little local standards began to van- 
 ish like mist before the sun. For the first time 
 it was borne in upon her that Lee, North Caro- 
 lina, was not the center of civilization. All the 
 world, it appeared, was full of interest — full of 
 good neighborly folk. All one had to do was to 
 learn their language to find out how very nice 
 they really were. It was such a new and bril- 
 
36 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 liant idea to Annie Laurie that it almost dazzled 
 her. 
 
 She had been used to thinking herself a bright 
 girl — a girl who could keep at the head of her 
 classes — so it was but natural in those first angry 
 hours when she raged at the cold reception Carin 
 and Azalea had given her, that she should have 
 thought: *'Just wait till we get down to lessons, 
 and then I'll show them." 
 
 But to her surprise, she had not been able to 
 "show them." Carin and Azalea did not attack 
 their studies so fiercely as she did. They seemed 
 to make more of a game of them and less of a 
 task. They laughed over things that puzzled her. 
 But for all that they were clever, and it did not 
 seem strange to them that Annie Laurie should 
 be clever too. Her cleverness, as they knew, was 
 Mrs. Carson's excuse for asking her to join them. 
 After that first chilly day they had been polite 
 enough. But they somehow put her in the 
 wrong. She felt awkward and strange. She 
 fatally said the wrong thing — or the right thing 
 in the wrong place. Even her clothes had seemed 
 stiff and unlovely beside theirs, though they were 
 of good material and honestly and thoroughly 
 made. However, as Annie Laurie had more 
 
ANNIE LAURIE PACE 37 
 
 than once reflected, their clothes were made for 
 them by their mothers, who asked nothing bet- 
 ter than to see them looking their best. That 
 Mary McBirney w^as not really Azalea's mother 
 made no difference — she loved Azalea almost as 
 much, judging from what Azalea said. 
 
 Annie Laurie stole a glance at her two excel- 
 lent aunts — always so really kind and just to 
 her — but rather stern, like her father. The 
 Paces seldom laughed; they almost never kissed 
 each other; they said what they thought — and 
 they quite lacked that pretty foolishness which 
 Mrs. Carson sometimes indulged in with Carin. 
 
 Annie Laurie could remember that her own 
 mother had been something like Mrs. Carson. 
 It was she who had given her the name after the 
 sweet old song. She had laughed and danced 
 and sung, and the aunts had not quite liked it, al- 
 though they mourned her deeply when she died, 
 still in her youth. And they had treasured as 
 keepsakes the things which had been hers. 
 
 But what was the preacher saying all this 
 time? Something about Ananias and the doom 
 which overtook him because of his lies. It was 
 not a subject in which she could feel much in- 
 terest. Sometimes, up at her house they suffered 
 
38 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 from too much truth telling — hard, cold truth 
 telling — but not a soul of them would have been 
 guilty of a lie. 
 
 "Plant a lie in the garden of your soul," said 
 the minister, "and it will flourish worse than any 
 poisonous weed. And do not think that you can 
 uproot it when you will, for it will grow and 
 grow, till it is stronger than you, and not all your 
 prayers and tears can tear it out of your life." 
 
 Annie Laurie wondered why he should be 
 talking like that to those friendly, good neigh- 
 bors, who seemed to be doing the best they could* 
 from morning till night. She wished he would 
 talk about something that would help her 
 through the coming week, for she dreaded going 
 back with those girls who did not like her. Why 
 couldn't preachers know what was going on in 
 the back of one's mind? She looked up wearily 
 and met the gaze of "that Disbrow boy," as her 
 aunts always called Sam Disbrow, the son of the 
 undertaker. For some reason they did not like 
 him. They "had no use for the whole kit and 
 b'ilin' of Disbrows." Yet, someway, Annie 
 Laurie, though she had grown up with this senti- 
 ment ringing in her ears, thought Sam Disbrow 
 rather a nice boy. At this moment he seemed to 
 
ANNIE LAURIE PACE 39 
 
 be as impatient as she was at the way the minister 
 was scolding about liars. Evidently liars failed 
 to interest Sam, also. 
 
 It happened that Annie Laurie and Sam were 
 near together as the people came out of church, 
 and while the rest stood talking in the bright 
 winter sunshine, they talked, too. 
 
 "How are you liking it at your new school, 
 Annie Laurie?" he inquired. 
 
 The girl flushed hotly — it was easy for a per- 
 son with such white skin as Annie Laurie's to 
 blush. Sam knew this and made allowances, but 
 he saw there was something more than ordinary 
 the matter. He looked at her a moment, half 
 closing his eyes, and turning his head a little on 
 one side in a way he had. 
 
 "They've been snubbing you — those girls!" he 
 declared. "I knew they would — knew it as well 
 as anything." 
 
 "I don't see how you could know that," said 
 Annie Laurie with a sudden feeling that she 
 ought not say anything against Carin and Aza- 
 lea. "They're the nicest girls I ever knew; the 
 nicest girls anywhere about here. If I haven't 
 been able to — to make them understand me, it's 
 my own fault, I suppose." 
 
40 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 "Nonsense!" cried Sam. "They're not nice if 
 they've been making you unhappy. How can 
 you let them do it? No fellow could put it over 
 me, now, I tell you. If he didn't treat me fair 
 and square, I'd have it out with him. We'd 
 soon see who was the best man." 
 
 "Girls don't do things that way, Sam." 
 
 "I know they don't. They sit around and 
 mope and sniff and feel mean, instead of mak- 
 ing a good healthy row. I didn't think you were 
 such a hypocrite." 
 
 "Hypocrite?" gasped the girl, too surprised 
 to feel angry. "How am I a hypocrite, Sam?" 
 
 "Because you're pretending to be contented 
 when you aren't. You probably act as if you 
 liked those girls. And you don't — you can't— 
 if they're snubby. I say, stir up a fuss. Have a 
 row. Tell 'em what you think of 'em. That 
 will clear the air." 
 
 "I'm under too many obligations to Mrs. Car- 
 son to do a thing like that, Sam." 
 
 "Obligations!" snorted Sam. "Nobody is un- 
 der obligations to be a doormat." 
 
 All the way home the girl kept thinking of 
 what Sam Disbrow had said to her. She would 
 have liked to talk the whole matter over with 
 
ANNIE LAURIE PACE 41 
 
 her Aunt Zillah, but something held her back 
 from complaining of the girls. Deep down with- 
 in her was the feeling that if only she could 
 manage right, they would yet be friends, true, 
 "forever and forever" friends. If that should 
 prove to be so, it wouldn't do for this one and 
 that one to be remembering that she had criti- 
 cised them. 
 
 And yet, how they had tormented her with 
 their way of seeing and yet not seeing her, and 
 answering and yet not answering. And she was 
 lonely — desperately lonely. She longed to see 
 the gleam come in the girls' eyes when they 
 looked at her, which they turned upon each 
 other. All the long, quiet Sunday afternoon she 
 thought of it, though she tried to read. She 
 knew Azalea and Carin were together, for she 
 had heard them planning a horseback ride, while 
 she was alone, and as she told herself sadly, likely 
 to be alone every Sunday, since she knew no one 
 she really wished to be with — save those two, of 
 course. 
 
 She had an hour of trying to hate them, but 
 she failed miserably. For all they had made her 
 suffer, she could not get as far as hating them. 
 She failed to sleep well that night. Her mind 
 
42 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 whirled like a merry-go-round, always bringing 
 back the same thoughts and persons. Azalea 
 and Carin, Carin and Azalea. The bright and 
 charming faces kept returning, but never once 
 did they seem to bear the smiles of friendship 
 and understanding. 
 
 Naturally she was far from being herself when 
 she went down to breakfast the next morning, 
 and when her Aunt Adnah said, "You see to it, 
 Ann, that you're not put upon there at Mrs. Car- 
 son's," her patience snapped like a wind-filled 
 bag. 
 
 "Oh, please leave me alone. Aunt Adnah," 
 she cried hotly. "I'll take care of myself all 
 right." 
 
 "My dear, my dear," murmured Miss Zillah, 
 "ought you to be speaking like that to your Aunt 
 Adnah?" 
 
 Annie Laurie knew very well that she ought 
 not, and she was morally certain that if Carin 
 and Azalea could have heard her, they would 
 have cried: "There, see! You call her a nice 
 girl?" 
 
 Well, maybe she wasn't a nice girl, but cer- 
 tainly she was an unhappy one. 
 
 She put her head up as high as she could com- 
 
ANNIE LAURIE PACE 43 
 
 " fortably carry it on her very slim neck and 
 marched away to school. It was a wonderful 
 winter morning — the sort that got into the blood 
 of horses and made them prance. Perhaps it 
 was in Annie Laurie's blood, too, as she entered 
 the schoolroom that morning. Miss Parkhurst 
 had not yet come, and Carin and Azalea sat to- 
 gether laughing over some charts of the South 
 Sea Isles. Miss Parkhurst had laid out an in- 
 teresting course for them, all relating to the 
 Archipelago; and • geography, history, biog- 
 raphy, poetry and fiction were to be woven 
 together until the life of the "burning isles" ap- 
 peared before them in a series of vivid mental 
 pictures. 
 
 If Annie Laurie had been aware of the amount 
 of explosive material in her brain and heart that 
 morning, perhaps she would have had the dis- 
 cretion to remain at home. She really was about 
 as dangerous as a keg of gunpowder, and it 
 chanced that Carin's first words were as a match 
 to produce the inevitable explosion. 
 
 "I don't suppose you'd care about reading 
 Stevenson's 'Ebb Tide,' would you, Annie 
 Laurie? Not, I mean, as a part of the South 
 Sea study?" She put the question in that cold, 
 
44 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 detached little voice which she had used from 
 the first to the "new girl." "We couldn't expect 
 a thorough person like yourself to enjoy such an 
 unbusiness-like way of getting at things. I said 
 to Miss Parkhurst that probably Azalea and I 
 had better keep that for reading after hours, and 
 during school we'll study any old Smithsonian 
 Institute reports you and she manage to look 
 
 up." 
 
 There was a little click in Annie Laurie's 
 throat, but no spoken word. Carin, looked up, 
 saw the anger blazing in the girl's eyes, and 
 started to say that she was only joking; but be- 
 fore she could frame the words Annie Laurie 
 found her tongue. 
 
 "Why wouldn't I like to read Stevenson as 
 well as you two?" she demanded. "Why do you 
 make out that I try to do things in the hard and 
 stupid way? You've certainly made them hard 
 and stupid enough for me the past week. You're 
 supposed to have such fine manners, and Azalea 
 is thought 'so sweet.' I haven't seen your fine 
 manner or her sweetness. I imagined it was go- 
 ing to be lovely here with you two — that my life 
 w^ould grow to be interesting when we three were 
 friends. Well, perhaps it would — if we could 
 
ANNIE LAURIE PACE 45 
 
 be friends. But we can't. First, because you 
 won't be — and second because I won't. I'm 
 through. I shouldn't have come. I'm disgusted 
 that I gave you a chance to snub me. I'm going 
 now, and after this when you poke fun at me 
 you'll have to do it behind my back." 
 
 "Why — why — Annie Laurie — " gasped Carin, 
 "I didn't know—" 
 
 But Annie Laurie already had left the room 
 and was stalking down the corridor. Carin sank 
 back in her chair and covered her face with her 
 hands. As for Azalea, her book crashed to the 
 floor. 
 
 "Oh, Carin," she cried, "what have we done?" 
 
 Miss Parkhurst still was absent, but if she had 
 been there, it is doubtful if the girls would have 
 consulted her. The battle which had been threat- 
 ening all week was on, and the victory at pres- 
 ent was, oddly enough, with the fleeing enemy. 
 
 She was already out of the front door by the 
 time Azalea had reached the hall; and once she 
 was in the open, her dignity deserted her and 
 she ran toward the gate as if fleeing from a lava 
 stream. Azalea, who had stopped to snatch her 
 cap and reefer, reached the gate only to see her 
 
46 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 racing along the road as fast as her long legs 
 would carry her. 
 
 Meantime, Hi Kitchell, the boy who had trav- 
 eled with Azalea in those old, half-forgotten 
 days, and who was now happily settled with his 
 mother and "the kids" in the cabin in which the 
 Carsons had placed them, opened his sharp eyes 
 to see two girls racing along the frozen road, 
 stumbling over hard ruts, and then plunging 
 on again. He knew them both — liked Annie 
 Laurie and swore by Azalea. He saw the anger 
 in the first girl's face and the anxiety in Azalea's 
 every gesture. He couldn't for the life of him 
 see why, if Annie Laurie felt like that, she didn't 
 turn around and "baste" Azalea. But if she did 
 he'd be on Azalea's side all right enough. 
 
 Goodness, how they were running! He simply 
 couldn't stand not knowing what it all was about. 
 He knew it was none of his business, but for all 
 of that, a second later he was pelting down the 
 road after them. He could run like a rabbit and 
 it was not long before he overtook them. 
 
 But that was just at the moment when Annie 
 Laurie reached her home and, dashing in, 
 slammed the door behind her; and Azalea, pant- 
 ing on the doorstep, furiously rang the bell. 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 TRIAL WITHOUT JURY 
 
 Miss Adnah was washing dishes in her spot- 
 less kitchen when the inner door burst open and 
 a wild-eyed Annie Laurie stood before her. 
 
 "Child!" gasped Miss Adnah. 
 
 Annie Laurie stood panting breathlessly, her 
 hands on her sides, her eyes blazing. 
 
 "Well, you said I wasn't to let myself be put 
 upon," she managed to say at length. "So I 
 didn't. I had my say. I'm through I" 
 
 "What have you done?" 
 
 "I'm through," she went on shrilly. "To-mor- 
 row I'll go back to the district school. The other 
 thing wasn't for me." 
 
 The anger in her eyes began to give way In 
 misery. Miss Adnah stared at her, trying for 
 once to get at the girl's point of view. Then 
 came the frantic ringing at the bell. 
 
 "Mercy on us," cried Miss Adnah, "what can 
 that mean?" 
 
 "Don't go, aunt. Don't you go. It's Azalea 
 McBirney. She followed me. You mustn't — '* 
 
 47 
 
48 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 "Stand out of my way, Ann. How can you put 
 yourself between me and the door? When the 
 bell rings, it is to be answered. I do not approve 
 of your actions, allow me to say." 
 
 But just then the breathless voice of Azalea 
 was heard in the hall. Miss Zillah had got to 
 the door before them, and had admitted her. 
 
 "Don't try to talk, my dear," they heard Miss 
 Zillah saying. "Whatever it is, it can wait till 
 you get your breath. Come in, please, and sit 
 down." 
 
 In the kitchen, Annie Laurie was declaring 
 that whatever came she would not go into the 
 parlor. 
 
 "I won't talk the matter over, that's all," she 
 said. "It's no use for you to try to make me go 
 in there." 
 
 Miss Adnah moved back from her niece with 
 a look of displeasure. 
 
 "You'd better quiet down, Ann," she said 
 severely. "I can't imagine what you've done or 
 what's been done to you, but I do feel certain 
 that you are making a mountain out of a mole- 
 hill." 
 
 At that moment something bobbed up at the 
 window and then bobbed down again. 
 
TRIAL WITHOUT JURY 49 
 
 "Mercy, what's that?" cried Miss Adnah. 
 
 "A head," said Annie Laurie disgustedly. 
 
 "Ahead! Whose?" 
 
 "Hi Kitchen's. He must have seen us run- 
 ning and followed." 
 
 "The inquisitive little imp! A pretty sight 
 the three of you must have made. Never have I 
 heard such goings on in the house of Simeon 
 Pace. Let me pass, Ann. I must look into this 
 matter." 
 
 Annie Laurie never yet had disobeyed when 
 her aunt spoke in that manner, and she stood 
 aside, lifting her eyebrows with annoyance at 
 the "Ann" which was the sign of Miss Adnah's 
 displeasure. She began to grow a little calmer, 
 but at the same time the feeling of heaviness at 
 her heart increased. It actually seemed as if it 
 had turned into a stone and was dragging her 
 down. And worse still, there was a hand of 
 iron at her throat. That sharp despair of the 
 young was upon her — that foolish despair, which 
 sees no way out of hard circumstance. 
 
 Meantime Miss Adnah had gone on into the 
 hall. She had meant to make her way at once 
 into that grim parlor upon which her best efforts 
 at cleanliness were so rigorously expended, but 
 
50 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 the sound of voices made her pause. She heard 
 a girl's excited voice broken by tears. 
 
 "Oh, you're Annie Laurie's aunt, aren't you?" 
 said the voice. "Which aunt, please? Her aunt 
 Zillah? Oh, yes. She has told me about you. 
 Oh, Miss Pace, it's so dreadful! We've broken 
 Annie Laurie's heart, that's what we've done. 
 We didn't intend it, you know. It came about 
 because — may I tell you everything?" 
 
 "Yes, tell me everything," answered Miss Zil- 
 lah. 
 
 "Of course Zillah will be soft with her," 
 thought Miss Adnah. "She's soft with every- 
 body. I'd like to go in and shake her — upsetting 
 Annie Laurie like that." 
 
 There were long panes of glass running down 
 beside the front hall door, and at this moment 
 the ferret face of Hi Kitchell, seamed with anx- 
 iety, peered in one of them. This was really 
 too much for Miss Adnah. She rushed to the 
 door and threw it open, sending Hi off backward 
 into the althea bush. It was no trick at all for 
 Miss Adnah to stoop and pick him up as if he 
 were a slug. 
 
 "What do you mean, you unmannerly, prying 
 
TRIAL WITHOUT JURY 51 
 
 boy?" she demanded. "Peeking in folk's win- 
 dows, like you were a wild Indian!" 
 
 "Tell me what you're doing to Azalea," 
 squealed Hi defiantly. "Azalea's all right, 
 ma'am. I don't want anything done to her." 
 
 "Well, she wasn't invited here any more than 
 you," snapped Miss Adnah, dropping him on the 
 brick walk. "You run home and leave us to con- 
 duct our own affairs. Hear?" 
 
 "Oh, aunt!" Annie Laurie whispered agoniz- 
 ingly, "Azalea will hear you." 
 
 "Why didn't you stay in the kitchen, miss? 
 You seemed very anxious not to leave it a few 
 minutes ago. I won't have boys looking in my 
 windows." 
 
 "But it's only Hi. He's crazy about Azalea — 
 like her little brother, you know. Azalea will 
 think we're dreadful." 
 
 "Dreadful? We may be a terror to evil doers 
 — well, hear that telephone, will you? Ringing 
 like mad. Never did I know such a morning. 
 No, I'll answer it, Ann. Hello! Hello! Yes. 
 The Pace residence. Who? Carin Carson. Very 
 well, what is it? Yes, Ann is home. All right? 
 Of course she's all right. Why shouldn't she be? 
 You want to speak to her? She's busy just now.'* 
 
52 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 "Oh, oh, don't speak like that, aunt," implored 
 Annie Laurie. "Not in that tone of voice. Let 
 me have the telephone, Aunt Adnah, please — 
 please. I was bad, honestly, aunt — not at all the 
 way I ought to have been. Carin's sorry, I 
 reckon." 
 
 But Miss Adnah had hung up the receiver, 
 and she turned toward Annie Laurie with a 
 stormy look in her eye. 
 
 "I reckon I did you an injustice, Ann. It 
 must have been something pretty bad they did to 
 you. You can back down as much as you please, 
 but for my part I mean to teach them that if 
 they think they can fool with the Paces, they are 
 making a mistake." 
 
 "But my child," the clear tones of Miss Zillah 
 could be heard saying from the drawing room 
 meantime, "why didn't you like Annie Laurie? 
 She seems the nicest sort of a girl to me. I've 
 taken care of her — I and my sister, that is — 
 since she was a little one, and she's all that a 
 daughter should be to us. Of course I realize 
 that we may not have succeeded in taking her 
 mother's place to her. That was hardly to have 
 been expected. But we have done the best we 
 could for her, and when we saw her coming on 
 
TRIAL WITHOUT JURY 53 
 
 in school so splendidly, and realized that she 
 was likely to do something fine, we were very 
 proud indeed. I can't tell you how grateful we 
 were to Mrs. Carson for giving her a chance for 
 special instruction, and for being in with girls 
 like you and Miss Carin. But we saw from the 
 first that something was going wrong. The child 
 seemed too excited to eat. Once or twice I've 
 heard her cry out in the night — she sleeps next 
 me, and after she's asleep I open the door be- 
 tween our rooms so as to hear if anything goes 
 wrong." 
 
 "And a very silly habit it is," muttered Miss 
 Adnah from the hall. 
 
 "Oh, don't say any more, Miss Pace," Azalea 
 broke in with a sob in her voice. "If anybody 
 in this world ought to have been good to Annie 
 Laurie it is myself, for I haven't any mother, 
 either, you know, though of course Mrs. Mc- 
 Birney is as good to me as any mother could be. 
 I can't explain the way we've acted. It all came 
 about from Carin and myself having some lovely 
 secrets together, and games we liked to play that 
 we didn't want to share with any one. And we 
 were writing poems, and Carin was painting me. 
 We were happy in each other all the time. Then 
 
54 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 Annie Laurie came and — and we didn't know 
 her. It wouldn't have made any difference who 
 the girl was that broke in on us, we wouldn't 
 have liked it. Mrs. Carson said we were getting 
 selfish and snobbish, and I suppose we were. 
 And Annie Laurie was proud, too — and — and 
 well, a little — " 
 
 "Say it, my dear. I am not laboring under the 
 delusion that Annie Laurie is wearing a halo on 
 her head." 
 
 "Well, sulky. So she didn't give us a chance 
 to see the — the nice side which she simply must 
 have since you love her so. And we wouldn't 
 show ours to her. We were all stupid, I think. 
 But of course we didn't have an idea how she 
 really felt until this morning when she got so 
 angry. And then I was — was just paralysed." 
 
 "You talk very well, my child, for a person 
 suffering with paralysis. I can see very well 
 how it came about, however. Now may I ask 
 why you came here?" 
 
 "To say how sorry we were — and to beg Annie 
 Laurie to come back with us." 
 
 "But have you the right to do this? Did Mrs. 
 Carson tell you to come?" 
 
 Azalea, who had been sitting on the very edge 
 
TRIAL WITHOUT JURY 55 
 
 of Miss Zillah's horsechair sofa, now got to her 
 feet, her face flaming till it was almost as red as 
 her knitted reefer. 
 
 "No," she said frankly. "She— she didn't tell 
 me to come, Miss Pace. I just ran after Annie 
 Laurie as hard as I could." 
 
 "And very sweet it was of you, my dear. It 
 shows you have a generous heart, and that you 
 couldn't imagine Mrs. Carson or her daughter 
 would feel any differently from you. But you 
 can see for yourself that I must wait till I hear 
 from them." 
 
 "We have heard from them," cried Annie 
 Laurie eagerly from the hall. "Carin tele- 
 phoned, Aunt Zillah; but Aunt Adnah wouldn't 
 let her talk." 
 
 "I should think not, indeed," came the voice 
 of Aunt Adnah. 
 
 "Oh, come in, Annie Laurie, please," cried 
 Azalea, running toward the hall door. 
 
 Annie Laurie made a motion as if for flight, 
 then brought herself up sharply, and faced Aza- 
 lea. Miss Zillah had arisen and stood smiling 
 and trembling a trifle, too, like a rose bush softly 
 shaken by the wind. Her lips moved slightly, 
 and Annie Laurie, flashing a glance at her as 
 
56 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 she came into the room, understood that Aunt 
 Zillah was putting up one of her gentle supplica- 
 tions for peace. 
 
 "Oh, Annie Laurie," Azalea burst forth, "I've 
 come to ask you to forgive me. You really, 
 really must. I had no idea how you were feel- 
 ing. I'm terribly unhappy about it. Don't you 
 think you can forgive me?" 
 
 "What is there for me to forgive?" asked An- 
 nie Laurie. "You didn't want me — you and 
 Carin — and you showed it. That's all there is 
 to it. I shan't bother you any more." 
 
 "Well, I want you now," declared Azalea. 
 "You can see yourself that it would be impossible 
 for Carin and me to be happy with you leaving 
 that way, all hurt and angry. I don't blame you 
 a bit, really. Except, of course, I think you shut 
 up like a clam when you saw that we didn't like 
 a third person in the classes. It wasn't that we 
 objected to you in particular. We were selfish, 
 that's all, and fond of our own good times; but 
 it won't be like that again, honestly it won't. 
 Your aunt says I mustn't speak for Carin and 
 Mrs. Carson, and I see that I mustn't, but I know 
 so well that I am saying just what they would 
 want me to say, that I can't keep still." She 
 
TRIAL WITHOUT JURY 57 
 
 turned toward Miss Zillah, and caught the worn 
 hand of the woman in hers. "Truly," she said, 
 "they'd be saying just what I am, if they were 
 here." 
 
 "That boy again I" exploded Miss Adnah from 
 the hall. "He's looking in the hall window 
 again." 
 
 "It's only poor Hi," explained Azalea. "You 
 see, he's always afraid something is going to 
 happen to me." 
 
 "Well, if I had my way, it would," snapped 
 Miss Adnah. 
 
 "Oh, sister, sister," murmured Miss Zillah. 
 
 And just then the eyes of Azalea and Annie 
 Laurie met. There was a flash between them 
 and then something exploded — exploded in help- 
 less laughter. Miss Zillah, unable to believe her 
 senses, called faintly, "Adnah! Adnah!" And 
 Adnah, on the point of making another sortie 
 into the yard for the prying Hi, answered her 
 appeal, and came to the parlor. There she saw 
 the two girls in convulsions of laughter, and Zil- 
 lah stiff and incredulous on the piano stool. Miss 
 Adnah surveyed the scene for a moment in 
 wrath. 
 
58 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 *'Come, Zillah," she commanded, and dragged 
 her sister from the room. 
 
 The girls heard the kitchen door slam behind 
 the two, and rocked again with painful mirth. 
 
 *'Oh, oh," half-sobbed Annie Laurie at length, 
 "how ridiculous we've been!" 
 
 ''Dreadful," agreed Azalea. "I'm just as 
 ashamed of myself as I can be. Can't I go and 
 apologize to your aunts?" 
 
 "Not on any account," said Annie Laurie 
 firmly. "They'll never understand. Never! 
 You couldn't expect them to." 
 
 "Will you come back with me, Annie Laurie? 
 We're bound to like each other now after we've 
 laughed together like that." 
 
 Annie Laurie gave a final gurgle, 
 
 "I know," she said. "Let's go out and tell Hi." 
 
 "No, just let's walk out together, arm in arm. 
 That will make it all right. Let's never, never 
 tell anyone what happened." 
 
 "Very well, then. And you think I ought to 
 go back?" 
 
 "I know it. You must go on Carin's account 
 and on mine — just prove we're not so horrid as 
 you thought us." 
 
 The telephone rang again. They could hear 
 
TRIAL WITHOUT JURY 59 
 
 Miss Zillah begging to be allowed to answer it 
 and Miss Adnah refusing. So Annie Laurie 
 took down the receiver. 
 
 "Yes, Mrs. Carson," Azalea heard her say. 
 "Yes, it's Annie Laurie. Yes, Azalea is here. 
 Forgive Carin? Yes, Mrs. Carson. I reckon 
 it was my fault, too. Oh, I'm sure it wasn't yout- 
 fault, whosever it was, ma'am. We've been bad, 
 that's all. Everybody is bad sometimes, I sup- 
 pose. I never was so horrid before, though, hon- 
 estly. You say Carin never was, either. Well, 
 I'm coming back now. Azalea and I were just 
 starting. What is it? Oh, yes, we'll not talk of 
 it. Very well, Mrs. Carson. Good-bye." 
 
 She turned to Azalea. 
 
 "Come," she said, "if we go right along we'll 
 be able to finish our South Sea Island study 
 hour." 
 
 She put her head in the kitchen door. 
 
 "Good-bye, aunts," she said. "Try to forget 
 about it all. I'm going back." 
 
 "Annie Laurie," came the austere voice of her 
 Aunt Adnah, "how can you?" 
 
 Annie Laurie ran in and threw her arms 
 around her aunt's neck. 
 
6o ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 "Because I have to, auntie," she said, "to be 
 happy and — " 
 
 "And good," broke in Aunt Zillah. She fol- 
 lowed them out into the hall. Her pale face 
 was shining, and her short curls bobbed about 
 on her trembling head. She knew that her prayer 
 for peace had been answered. It did not matter 
 to her that it had come in gusts of laughter. Miss 
 Zillah was not one to quarrel with ways and 
 means. 
 
 As for the girls, they set out on the road with 
 vigor. The air was full of life, the mountains 
 were brown beneath their purple bloom, and the 
 roadway was beginning to fill with folk driving 
 in to market. Azalea and Annie Laurie knew 
 almost every one — knew Mr. Disbrow, the un- 
 dertaker, driving his black horses — which now 
 were hitched to a somewhat rickety buggy — they 
 knew "Haystack" Thompson, who was eating up 
 the road with his great strides, his fiddle under 
 his arm; they knew Elder Mills, twisted and 
 tormented with rheumatism, who was about to 
 "accept a call" in Florida, thus leaving vacant 
 the pulpit of the Methodist church; they were 
 well acquainted with the grocer, and the miller, 
 and the postmaster, and the sheriff. From each 
 
TRIAL WITHOUT JURY 6i 
 
 they received a salutation, and from most of them 
 an inquiry as to why they were not in school. 
 Annie Laurie, used to the "yea and nay" of the 
 Pace household, wondered what they ought to 
 answer, and she was astonished that Azalea had 
 no difficulty at all in finding a fit reply. 
 
 "Oh, we've been to school this morning," she 
 said smilingly. "And we've learned a hard les- 
 son, too. Now we're on our way back again." 
 
 But they had got no more than half the way 
 to The Shoals when the familiar surrey of the 
 Carsons appeared, with Mrs. Carson sitting 
 in it. 
 
 "Goodness," cried Annie Laurie, "she's com- 
 ing for me! What trouble I have put every- 
 body to." 
 
 But Mrs. Carson didn't seem to think that any- 
 body was making her trouble. She wore that 
 pleasant, dreamy smile of hers — her "moon- 
 light" smile, as Carin called it, and her voice was 
 as even and low as ever as she bade Benjamin 
 turn the horses, and invited the girls to get in 
 beside her. 
 
 "I thought I'd come to meet you," she said 
 blandly, and quite as if nothing had happened. 
 They rode along together in silence for a while, 
 
62 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 almost wondering if anything unpleasant really 
 had occurred, Mrs. Carson seemed so uncon- 
 scious of it. But when they got out of the car- 
 riage at the house door she said: 
 
 "I'm so glad you've talked everything out. 
 You'll find it much better always, I believe — to 
 talk things out. By the way, Carin is up in her 
 studio. Lessons are to be up there this morning, 
 for a change. Azalea, will you kindly show An- 
 nie Laurie the way? Your luncheon will be 
 served there too. We thought we'd celebrate the 
 formation of the Triple Alliance. 
 
 "What, ma'am?" said Azalea. 
 
 "The Three Girls' Alliance," smiled Mrs. 
 Carson. "Drive back to town, please Ben. I 
 must do my marketing." 
 
 As she rode off, Annie Laurie looked at Aza- 
 lea in a puzzled way. 
 
 "How quiet she is," she said. "I can't make 
 her out. Nothing seems to matter to her, yet 
 she's always doing good. I never heard of any- 
 one who did so much good. Can you under- 
 stand her?" 
 
 Azalea shook her head. 
 
 "No — and yet a great sorrow, such as hers — 
 it makes you still, I reckon. My mother — I call 
 
TRIAL WITHOUT JURY 63 
 
 Mrs. McBirney my mother, you know — is still. 
 Yet she has lost only one child, and little Molly 
 died right in her arms. But Mrs. Carson lost 
 her three sons in a theatre fire in Chicago, and 
 it did something to her, I suppose. The heart 
 went out of her, though not the goodness." 
 
 "Oh, dear no," agreed Annie Laurie, "not the 
 goodness." 
 
 They left their outer wraps in the vacant 
 schoolroom, and then made their way up the 
 wide mahogany stairs, with the gleaming white 
 banisters and mahogany rail. Curious old prints 
 lined the side of the wall, and Annie Laurie 
 wanted to pause and look at them, but Azalea 
 urged her on. 
 
 "If you stopped to look at every interesting 
 thing in this house," she said, "you'd never get 
 anywhere." 
 
 They went on past the floor where the bed- 
 rooms were, and then up a narrower flight of 
 stairs to the third story. 
 
 "Half of this story is Carin's," explained Aza- 
 lea. "The servants sleep in the other half." 
 
 A tall, curious door, much paneled, with a 
 shining brass knob, stood before them. There 
 
64 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 was also a knocker of brass, shaped like a lyre. 
 Azalea rapped with it. 
 
 "Come in," said the voice of Carin, and Aza- 
 lea threw wide the door and motioned Annie 
 Laurie to enter. 
 
 What she saw then she was never to forget. 
 It was as bright to her, as different from any- 
 thing she ever had seen, as the green Azores are 
 to one who has ridden long upon the gray At- 
 lantic. The room was paneled high in white, 
 and above it, decorations of tropical flowers and 
 parokeets made the wall gay. Muslin curtains 
 hung at the dormer windows, beneath draperies 
 of delicate green. Near the north window was 
 Carin's easel, with the unfinished portrait of 
 Azalea upon it. Chairs of green wicker stood 
 about; a huge divan was piled with dainty pil- 
 lows; in the white wooden fireplace, with its 
 tiles of parrots, palms and pagodas, a bright fire 
 burned. Japanese rugs of gray and white lay 
 on the floor, and in jars of pale green, or gray, 
 were beautiful blossoming plants. 
 
 But exquisite as the room was, and deeply as 
 it satisfied Annie Laurie's beauty-starved heart, 
 it was as nothing to the girl who was the center 
 of it. In her crimson school frock, soft and 
 
\ v 
 
 L 4^ 
 
 :^^ 
 
 Carin stood awaiting them, her hands outstretched. 
 
TRIAL WITHOUT JURY 65 
 
 graceful, her golden hair shining on her shapely 
 head, her eyes full of tears of repentance, Carin 
 stood awaiting them, her hands outstretched. It 
 all seemed so different from what Annie Laurie 
 knew of her, that at first she hesitated to go for- 
 ward, but Carin came on, still with that look of 
 solicitude in her face. 
 
 *'Oh, Annie Laurie," she said, "I see every- 
 thing now. I see how I acted and how I made 
 you feel. You'll have to forgive me. I never 
 was like that before. It was as if imps got in- 
 side me, and the worst of it was that I seemed to 
 want to hang on to them. I knew I was wicked, 
 but I liked to be that way. I just wouldn't give 
 up, though I was unhappy all the time. I told 
 mother all about it, and she said that was the way 
 it was when you got perverse. You liked it. 
 Perversity seemed sweeter than anything. She 
 said it was like being a drunkard. You enjoyed 
 the thing that ruined you. I can see just what 
 she meant. I'll tell you now, Annie Laurie, that 
 after the first day or two I found myself liking 
 you, and I hated to admit it. I tried not to as 
 hard as I could. I didn't like mamma's putting 
 a girl in with us without talking it over, do you 
 see? But I do like you — I had to. The whole 
 
66 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 trouble was that I couldn't bear to give up. But 
 you've made me, and now I'm well again. For 
 it's just like a spell of sickness, having a horrid, 
 wicked idea like mine and holding on to it. Do 
 you understand?" 
 
 Annie Laurie's face had flushed softly; her 
 eyes were misty, her handsome, large mouth 
 slightly tremulous. She withdrew her hands 
 from Carin's, and put her arms close about her. 
 
 "When I say I forgive," she said, "I do." 
 
 "And do you say it?" 
 
 Annie Laurie laughed deep in her throat — and 
 again her voice reminded one of an oriole's. 
 
 "I do say it," she said. "Your mother called 
 it the Triple Alliance — the Three Girls' Alli- 
 ance." 
 
 "We must swear fealty!" cried Azalea. She 
 ran to the table and brought back Howard Pyle's 
 "Robin Hood," in which the story of the forester 
 and his faithful crew is told in equally beautiful 
 words and pictures. 
 
 "Swear!" she commanded. Carin, laughing 
 somewhat uncertainly, dropped her slender 
 white hand on it. Annie Laurie laid her firm 
 brown one over it; Azalea placed on top her 
 
TRIAL WITHOUT JURY 67 
 
 sensitive, odd hand, which always quivered when 
 she cared about anything. 
 
 "We swear," they said in chorus. 
 
 The door opened and Miss Parkhurst entered, 
 her arms full of books. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 A RAINY NIGHT 
 
 After thatj the short days of winter passed as 
 happily for the three girls as days can be ex- 
 pected to pass in a world which some discour- 
 aged person called "a vale of tears." Alert as 
 their minds were, each was decidedly different 
 from the other, and they had the effect of spur- 
 ring each other on. Carin was, of course, really 
 more interested in her drawing and painting than 
 in anything else, although she was a good stu- 
 dent, too. Annie Laurie simply devoured books, 
 and her happiest diversion was music. A good 
 teacher came weekly from Rutherford, a town 
 near by, to give her instruction. But Azalea took 
 neither drawing nor singing lessons. She had 
 much housework to do before and after school, 
 and her long ride down the mountain each morn- 
 ing and back again at night, with the fatigue it 
 entailed, had to be taken into account. Then 
 she helped with the sewing and with the weav- 
 ing, and so had neither time nor strength for 
 
 68 
 
A RAINY NIGHT 69 
 
 anything else. Once Mrs. Carson said to her 
 husband: 
 
 "Perhaps we were wrong not to insist on hav- 
 ing Azalea live with us. It is true that few chil- 
 dren have so much love and care given them as 
 she has there with the dear McBirneys. But she 
 has to share their poverty too, and their hard 
 work. Do you think she will be worn out, 
 Charles? Children seem so precious to me. I 
 can't bear to see their strength wasted." 
 
 "My dear, she is being made into a very capa- 
 ble girl," Mr. Carson answered reassuringly. 
 "She is having the sort of training our pioneer 
 ancestors had, and they grew stronger for their 
 tasks and hardships. You and I are not going to 
 live forever, you know, and our Carin will never 
 want to take up the work we're doing here among 
 the mountain people. She'll be ofi to Paris or 
 Rome, I suppose, picture seeing and making. 
 But here's Azalea, in the most practical arts and 
 crafts school possible. She sees the mountain 
 handicrafts made every day right before her eyes, 
 and when she's grown she'll be able to teach 
 others. She'll come in here and take ud the 
 work where we leave off." 
 
 "Charles Carson," cried his wife indignantly. 
 
70 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 shocked for once out of her sweet placidity, 
 "what do you mean by speaking of us as if we 
 were old? Why, we're hardly middle-aged." 
 
 "Aren't we?" said Mr. Carson rather wearily, 
 yet smiling too. "I didn't know, Lucy. Some- 
 times it seems to me as if I had lived a long 
 time." 
 
 His wife was silent. She knew what he meant. 
 Who could know better? The day of blight»that 
 took from them their three fine sons had left 
 them disinclined to go on playing the game of 
 life. They had tried many things, and at length 
 had come into this quiet valley, where there was 
 so much uncomplaining poverty, where the peo- 
 ple had latent talents that only needed encour- 
 agement to make them bread-winning forces, 
 and they had endeavored to make themselves 
 necessary 
 
 They had bought the beautiful old home that 
 long years before had belonged to Azalea's 
 grandfather, Colonel Atherton, and they had 
 showered their favors right and left and tried to 
 make their influence felt in all parts of the 
 county. Their love of doing something, of build- 
 ing up, was as a fresh wind blowing in a sultry 
 plain. For a lassitude had hung over the beauti- 
 
A RAINY NIGHT 71 
 
 ful valley of Lee — a lassitude born of long years 
 of loneliness, lack of opportunity and monotony. 
 Too little had happened; there had been too few 
 ways of earning money; too few strangers had 
 come that way. One day was so like another that 
 a spell lay upon the people, and they moved as in 
 a long dream. But it was different now. There 
 was some use in making the strong, hand-woven 
 cloth, the durable, quaint chairs and the curious 
 baskets, for Mr. Carson saw that they were 
 profitably marketed. 
 
 Mr. Carson had induced the mother of Hi 
 Kitchell, a little worn woman with three chil- 
 dren to support, to come down from the moun- 
 tains and oversee his industries for him. He had 
 given her a little home on the level spot known 
 as the Field of Arrows, an ancient Indian camp- 
 ing ground, and here the young women came to 
 learn the weaving of baskets and of cloth. The 
 front room was the shop, where the people came 
 to buy these interesting wares. 
 
 Here, too, the three girls came sometimes after 
 school for a cup of tea and some homemade cake 
 — for Mrs. Kitchell served these comforts to all 
 who wished them — and sitting around her fire, 
 they listened to her stories and told tales of their 
 
72 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 own adventures. Sometimes there would be a 
 dozen or more in the tea room, whiling away 
 the tedium of a winter afternoon. Hi and the 
 other children helped with the servingj and now 
 and then "for the fun of it" Jim McBirney or 
 Sam Disbrow took a hand. There always was 
 plenty to do at the Mountain Industries, it 
 seemed, however slack work might be elsewhere. 
 
 One day of cold rain, Azalea and Annie 
 Laurie had stopped in at Mrs. Kitchell's for a 
 cup of tea before they made their way to their 
 distant homes. There was no one there that after- 
 noon, save the sharp-eyed, busy Mrs. Kitchell, 
 and she, having served them, went back to the 
 loom-room and left them to themselves. The 
 girls were excellent friends now. They trusted 
 and admired each other — counted on each other, 
 as true friends should. 
 
 "Azalea," said Annie Laurie, "I never under- 
 stood rightly about your 'cousin Barbara.' I've 
 heard you speak of her, but I'm not quite clear 
 as to who she is." 
 
 Azalea laughed lightly. 
 
 *'She isn't really my cousin at all," she said. 
 "I have no kin, Annie Laurie. But I have told 
 you, have I not, how my poor mamma and I 
 
A RAINY NIGHT 73 
 
 were traveling with a dreadful show when she 
 died; and how we had got as far as the McBir- 
 ney's cottage, and Ma McBirney — as Jim calls 
 her — had my dear mamma buried right there 
 near the house, where her own little Molly's 
 grave is? Then she asked the show people to 
 let her take me, and they wouldn't. And so the 
 dear, brave thing took me anyway, and ran away 
 up into the mountains with me and hid with me 
 in a cave. And Pa McBirney and some of his 
 friends stayed down at the house, with shotguns, 
 and scared the show folk away. Well, Sisson, Hi 
 Kitchen's uncle, who was at the head of the show, 
 was terribly angry, and he made up his mind he 
 would have me back again. So one time, when 
 we all went ofif to a 'Singing,' he managed to get 
 me, and to carry me away, and for weeks I was 
 taken f romx one place to another in the mountains, 
 away off the beaten tracks, always hiding. Oh, 
 it was such a time, Annie!" 
 
 "I know," said the other sympathetically. *'0f 
 course I heard about that. We were all so ex- 
 cited, wondering if you'd be found, and I just 
 cried when I heard that you were, and that 
 good old Haystack Thompson was bringing you 
 home. I didn't know you — and I couldn't even 
 
74 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 remember having seen you — but I felt interested 
 in you from that moment." 
 
 "Well, perhaps you heard that I managed to 
 run away from the people who were hiding me, 
 and I went down the mountain in the night, and 
 came to the little town at the foot of it, and crept 
 into a house there, and into a sleeping-porch 
 with a bed in it. Oh, I was so tired — so tired it 
 was almost like dying. I don't really remember 
 getting in that bed; but I was found there in 
 the morning by Mr. Summers, who is a Metho- 
 dist minister, you know. His wife is Barbara 
 Summers. And they have the dearest baby you 
 ever saw or heard of — Jonathan Summers, he is, 
 bless him. Well, Mrs. Summers is just a little 
 dear thing with brown eyes — she's no bigger 
 than I am. And from the minute we saw each 
 other, we loved each other and felt at home. So 
 we decided that we'd be kin. I write to her one 
 week, and she writes to me the next. She sends 
 me pictures of Jonathan that she takes with her 
 little camera, and I send her presents when I 
 can — little woven table-covers or baskets. You've 
 no idea how sweet she is, Annie Laurie." 
 
 "You seem to make friends whenever you 
 please, Azalea. It's so easy for you! The Paces 
 
A RAINY NIGHT 75 
 
 aren't like that. It's hard for them to let them- 
 selves go and say the thing that comes into their 
 minds. We're stiff, someway. But when we 
 do make friends, we keep them." 
 
 "Be sure to keep mc, Annie Laurie. I 
 nearly lost you through my own carelessness, and 
 I mean to hang on to you now. Well, come, let's 
 start for home." 
 
 But as it turned out, it was raining most dis- 
 mally. A dark cloud had tumbled off the moun- 
 tain and settled down over the valley, and though 
 it was not late, it seemed almost like night. 
 
 "Goodness me," said Annie Laurie, "I don't 
 like to think of you riding away up on the moun- 
 tain a night like this. Why, you'd be drenched." 
 
 "I ought to have accepted Carin's invitation 
 and stayed all night with her," said Azalea. 
 "Mother doesn't expect me on bad nights. She's 
 not to worry about me if I don't come when it 
 rains or snows." 
 
 "Oh, stay with me, Azalea I It's just the 
 chance I've been wanting. You've never been 
 in my home except on that funny day when we 
 all had conniption fits — especially Aunt Adnah. 
 But, honestly, Aunt Adnah is a brick if you 
 know her." 
 
76 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 Azalea giggled. "Yes, she did seem to have 
 some of the properties of a brick — hardness, for 
 example. She hit me between the eyes." 
 
 "Well, she'll make it up to you now, if you'll 
 give her a chance. Of course she wouldn't say 
 that she wants to make up, but she does." 
 
 "I'd just love to stay all night with you," Aza- 
 lea said. "I'll take the pony back to the Car- 
 sons' stable, and then we'll walk over to your 
 house." 
 
 "Very well. I'll go with you to the stable." 
 They put the pony in the stall, and then, 
 wrapped in their raincoats, tramped along over 
 the red pine needles to Annie Laurie's home. 
 
 "Don't feel at all backward, will you. Aza- 
 lea?" the other girl said as they stood on the 
 doorstep. "You just have a little pluck and 
 everything will come out all right." 
 
 Azalea laughed. 
 
 "You don't half understand me yet, Annie 
 Laurie," she said. "You're so much more seri- 
 ous than I am. I can't help enjoying things even 
 when they are serious. I know I oughtn't to 
 feel that way, but I think it will be awfully 
 funny to see your Aunt Adnah's face when she 
 finds I've had the impudence to come again." 
 
A RAINY NIGHT ^^ 
 
 Annie Laurie frowned a trifle. She was not 
 quite sure she liked to have her aunt regarded 
 as amusing. However, they went in together. 
 The door of the grim little parlor was closed, 
 but the living-room door stood open and Annie 
 Laurie led the way in. There was an 
 ugly brussels carpet on the floor, and a center 
 table covered with a chenille cloth; on it 
 was the reading lamp, and ranged about it 
 were comfortable chairs. A black marble clock 
 ticked noisily on the mantel shelf, and a low fire 
 smouldered among the ashes. The scrim cur- 
 tains had many colored figures in them, and 
 helped to keep out the light of the declining 
 day. Azalea could not help contrasting it with 
 the exquisite rooms at The Shoals, and with the 
 quaint, charming rooms in the McBirney cabin. 
 She could understand some of the bitter things 
 that Annie Laurie had said to her — could see 
 that, somehow, life had been commonplace for 
 this girl from the first, and that, though she did 
 not altogether realize it, it was this common- 
 placeness which made her dissatisfied. 
 
 "Wherever can the aunts be?" said Annie 
 Laurie. "The fire is out in the kitchen, and 
 there are no signs of supper. LTsually at this 
 
78 ANJNflE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 hour, things are humming like a bee hive. Take 
 off your things, Azalea. I'll hang them up 
 where they'll dry. You sit right down before 
 the fire, and I'll bring in some wood." 
 
 **But let me help, Annie Laurie." 
 
 *'No, no. You're company. I don't often 
 have company." She went away with Azalea's 
 things and then came back and stood looking at 
 her guest with her glowing eyes. "Azalea," she 
 said intensely, *'I never have company 1" 
 
 'Why not?" 
 
 "I don't know why not. I'm not supposed to 
 want it. I'm to study and work, and mend and 
 practice my music, and be doing something from 
 early till late. It isn't that they're not kind to 
 me — my aunts and my father — but they're so 
 dreadfully serious and conscientious." 
 
 "It does throw a damper over everything, be- 
 ing conscientious like that," mused Azalea. 
 
 Annie Laurie looked startled to hear her own 
 secret idea put in words. 
 
 "For goodness sake," she cried, "don't let the 
 aunts hear you say that!" 
 
 Azalea laughed teasingly. 
 
 "I'd really like to try that on Aunt Adnah," 
 she said. 
 
A RAINY NIGHT 79 
 
 Annie Laurie was getting used to her friend, 
 and she made no reply. She ran upstairs for a 
 moment, and came down clothed in a warm 
 brown wrapper, and carrying another one of 
 equally uninviting color on her arm. 
 
 "Slip into this, Azalea," she commanded, "and 
 let me hang your dress out in the hall near the 
 heater. There now, lie down on the sofa — so. 
 I'll lie down too with my head the other way, 
 and we'll wrap ourselves in my grandfather's 
 old army blankets. I'm dead tired, aren't you? 
 I don't see where the aunts are." 
 
 She yawned wearily, and Azalea caught the 
 contagion and stretched her pretty mouth in 
 imitation. 
 
 "Oh, it's cosy, isn't it?" Azalea murmured. 
 Neither spoke again. Their eyes w^ere fixed on 
 the smouldering coals, which seemed to hypno- 
 tize them, and presently they both slept. 
 
 Just how long they lay there, comfortably rest- 
 ing. Azalea could not tell, but when she opened 
 her eyes the twilight had deepened. Annie 
 Laurie was still deep in sleep. The fire had 
 quickened, and by its glow Azalea could see 
 that some one had entered the room. For a 
 moment she was startled, but then she saw that 
 
8o ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 it was Annie Laurie s father, Simeon Pace; so 
 she lay still, not liking to speak, since she was 
 not sure he would know her. He did not see 
 the two girls on the sofa, and it was quite evi- 
 dent that he thought himself alone. Azalea 
 watched him sleepily, and saw him take off his 
 coat and throw it on the chair. Then he began 
 twisting his arm in a most inhuman manner, and 
 Azalea's blood was frozen as she saw him loosen 
 it at the elbow and lay it beside the coat, until 
 she chanced to remember about its being mere- 
 ly a tin substitute for an arm. His next act was 
 to take a long pocketbook or wallet from the 
 mantel, draw something from it, stuff it into his 
 hollow arm and deftly strap the arm into place 
 again. 
 
 "How funny," thought Azalea. "How Jim 
 will laugh when I tell him about it!" 
 
 Then she remembered that she had been un- 
 intentionally spying, and that it would not be at 
 all fair to tell what she had seen. She knew Ma 
 McBirney would not like her to mention any- 
 thing she had seen under such circumstances. 
 So she lay as still as a lizard, hardly breathing, 
 and finally Mr. Pace left the room. A moment 
 later she heard the two aunts bustling about in 
 
A RAINY NIGHT 8i 
 
 the kitchen. There was a poking at the stove, 
 a lighting of lamps, a rattling of dishes, and 
 it was evident that the household was being set 
 in motion again. 
 
 "Where are you, Annie Laurie, child?" called 
 the voice of Miss Zillah. "We've been out to 
 the sewing circle, and it was so late before the re- 
 freshments were served that we couldn't hold 
 our business meeting till after five. Then on the 
 way home we heard Mrs. Disbrow was worse 
 and Hannah laid up with a cold and we dropped 
 in to see them, though I must say they're a shift- 
 less lot. We thought you and your father 
 wouldn't mind if supper was a little late. What 
 you lying there for, child? And mercy me, 
 how big you look! Why, no wonder, there's 
 two of you. It's you. Azalea? How do you 
 do?" 
 
 "I'm very well, ma'am," said Azalea rather 
 shyly. "I hope you didn't mind my coming. It 
 was so rainy and horrid, Annie Laurie asked 
 me to spend the night." 
 
 "Why, you're as welcome as sunrise, of course. 
 Sister Adnah, here is Azalea McBirney. She's 
 come to spend the night with us." 
 
 Azalea wondered what was going to happen 
 
82 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 then. Miss Adnah had been quite vicious on 
 the occasion of her former visit; but the mis- 
 chievous spirit in the girl made her rather enjoy 
 the uncertainty. Miss Adnah, she decided, 
 could do no more than eat her up. But Miss 
 Adnah was over her bad temper. She came in 
 holding out her hand gravely. 
 
 "It was a wise thing for you to stay in the val- 
 ley to-night," she said primly. "I'm sure Mrs. 
 McBirney wouldn't want you to climb the 
 mountain in such a drizzle." 
 
 She avoided committing herself to a mere 
 piece of flattery. She didn't say she was glad 
 Azalea was there, but for some reason, the girl 
 did not feel chilled. She knew Annie Laurie 
 wanted her, and it seemed to her that as the 
 daughter of the house, Annie Laurie ought to 
 enjoy some privileges. However, a few minutes 
 later, when she was in Annie Laurie's sober, tidy 
 room, putting on her dress and freshening her 
 hair, she overheard Miss Zillah saying softly 
 to Annie Laurie in the next room: 
 
 "Sister Adnah thinks you should not invite 
 anyone to the house without first asking permis- 
 sion, my dear. As for myself, I'm glad to see 
 
A RAINY NIGHT 83 
 
 you have friends and feel free to ask. them, but 
 it would be well to make certain preparations." 
 
 "Not at all, Aunt Zillah," answered Annie 
 Laurie hotly. "I've never had a girl to stay all 
 night — never. I asked Azalea because it was 
 raining. I couldn't tell it was going to rain, or 
 that I was going to ask her. I'm old enough now 
 to use some sense, I hope, and I want it so that 
 I can act without first having a period of fast- 
 ing and prayer. You and Aunt Adnah were late 
 to-night — " 
 
 "My dear, it is the first time we have been late 
 to our duties, so far as I can remember, since 
 we assumed them." 
 
 "Oh, you don't understand at all. I'm glad 
 you were late. Why shouldn't you be, if you 
 wished? And your duties — why do you speak 
 of what you do in the house like that? It's not 
 a duty to live and work and eat and sleep and all. 
 It's a pleasure. At least, that's the way Carin 
 and Azalea look at it. What I wanted to say 
 was that for once you acted on impulse. You 
 stayed till meeting was out, and you stopped in 
 to see some sick neighbors. Well, I think that's 
 fine. Now, I asked my friend to stay all night. 
 No preparation is needed. The cellar is burst- 
 
84 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 ing with food, the pantry is plumb full of it; 
 there's milk and cream to float a town and butter 
 enough to grease all the engines in the world — " 
 
 "Annie Laurie!" 
 
 "Well, Aunt Adnah wears my patience out. 
 I'm going to ask my friends here when it seems 
 best." 
 
 "My dear, you know we only ask you to use 
 judgment." 
 
 "Judgment? I don't know what that means. 
 I'll use hospitality, if you like, and courtesy — " 
 
 "To your aunts, among others, I hope." 
 
 "Bless your heart!" Azalea heard Annie 
 Laurie cry softly. "You're a dear, Aunt Zillah. 
 Was I ever rude to you?" 
 
 "Not directly, my dear child. But you some- 
 times speak of my sister in a manner which I 
 cannot regard as really respectful." 
 
 "Forgive me. Aunt Zillah. I've too much 
 mustard and pepper in my disposition. But 
 there's the supper bell. Azalea! Azalea, are 
 you ready?" 
 
 They sat down at a bountiful table, and Sim- 
 eon Pace folded his hand of flesh and his hand 
 of tin together and prayed long and loud — some- 
 thing about the "sundering of joints and mar- 
 
A RAINY NIGHT 85 
 
 row." Azalea, who was very hungry, hardly 
 seemed to get the drift of these words. But she 
 was startled from her dazed reverie by a sharp 
 inquiry from Mr. Pace. 
 
 "So you two girls were asleep there before 
 the fire, were you? Did you see me when I 
 came in?" He turned his large eyes — so like and 
 yet so unlike Annie Laurie's — upon first one 
 girl and then the other. 
 
 "I didn't," said his daughter. 
 
 "And you. Miss Azalea?" 
 
 *'I awoke while you were in the room," she 
 said, feeling somewhat like Jack when he talked 
 with the Giant Eater. 
 
 "So?" he looked at her sharply. "Why didn't 
 you speak?" 
 
 "I — I wasn't sure you'd know me, sir." She 
 paused a moment and sat steady under the look 
 he kept upon her. "Anyway, I was just as good 
 as asleep — half dreaming." 
 
 "And you never tell your dreams, I hope? 
 It's a bad habit." 
 
 Azalea smiled at him. 
 
 "I never, never tell them, sir," she said. 
 
 "Good," cried Simeon Pace. "A sensible girl 
 
86 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 wouldn't, of course. Let me serve you some 
 meat, Miss Azalea." 
 
 And she understood clearly that she had given 
 a tacit promise that she would not tell what she 
 had seen; and Simeon Pace felt the reliable 
 character of her, beneath her soft, girlish aspect, 
 and trusted her. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 THE SUMMERS 
 
 While they were at supper a strong cold wind 
 sprung up, so that Mr. Pace had to heap wood 
 on the fire. And afterward, when the two girls 
 ran to the door, they could see that the sky had 
 cleared and the stars were out, looking, it 
 seemed, unusually large and bright and sociable. 
 
 "Why not go to prayer meeting?" said Aza- 
 lea. 
 
 "At your church or mine?" 
 
 *'0h, if you don't mind, Annie Laurie, at 
 mine this time. Dear old Elder Mills is leav- 
 ing, you know. You've heard how sick he is 
 with the rheumatism, haven't you? He's going 
 down to Florida where the climate will be bet- 
 ter for him. They say he's wonderful these last 
 few weeks. He's trying to say everything he 
 can think of that will help the people he's known 
 so long. I love to hear people talk when they 
 are really, really in earnest, don't you?" 
 
 87 
 
88 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 Annie Laurie looked at her friend under- 
 standingly. 
 
 "You are just like me, Azalea; you always 
 want mountains to be higher than they really 
 are, and stars brighter, and sermons deeper, and 
 friends more loving. Nothing is ever quite big 
 enough to suit me — nor quite hard enough." 
 
 "Not intense enough, Carin would say." 
 
 "That's it. Yes, let's go to prayer meeting. 
 I'll ask father if I may." 
 
 They presently were on their way, walking 
 briskly because they were late. The little 
 Methodist church was full of the old friends 
 of Elder Mills, who as he stood before them, his 
 white hair hanging around his shoulders, his face 
 haggard with pain, yet had a look in his eyes of 
 exaltation and joy which seemed to make a light 
 thing of his physical distress. 
 
 "Oh, I want you to love one another," he said 
 during the evening. "I want you to forgive one 
 another. Be honest, be brave in saying what 
 you think, live truly, avoid lies. Above every- 
 thing, avoid lies — in word and in act." 
 
 "For goodness sake," thought Annie Laurie, 
 "Can't preachers find anything else to talk about 
 but lies? Whether I go to my own church or 
 
THE SUMMERS 89 
 
 another, that seems to be the theme." She re- 
 membered how she had caught Sam Disbrow's 
 eye that day at the Baptist church when the min- 
 ister had been talking about lies, and how queer 
 it had been to realize that she was reading Sam's 
 mind, and could tell that he, like herself, was 
 wondering why the preacher kept harping on 
 that. Annie Laurie's mind drifted off to Sam's 
 home — to his mother who never was well, to 
 their untidy little house, and to his cross-eyed sis- 
 ter, who never would make friends with any- 
 body. Sam seemed so different from the rest 
 of the family, with his hearty downright ways, 
 his energy, his determination to make some- 
 thing of himself. 
 
 Was meeting over? She aroused herself as 
 from a dream. 
 
 "There's to be a business meeting," Azalea 
 said to her as the people arose. "They're to talk 
 about who is to be our new minister. Since it is 
 not conference time, we are to ask for some one 
 we want, and then if the bishop thinks best we 
 can have him." 
 
 "I see," said Annie Laurie vaguely. Though 
 she did not really see. 
 
 The two girls started out together, crowding 
 
90 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 softly by their elders who were gathered about 
 in the aisles talking over the trial that had come 
 to the church in losing Elder Mills, and in being 
 obliged to bring a new minister in at the middle 
 of the session. And then, suddenly, a beautiful 
 idea came to Azalea. Why couldn't they ask 
 the Rev. Absalom Summers? He was in that 
 tiny backwoods village where there were so few 
 to hear or enjoy him ; and he was such a wonder- 
 ful man, all wrapped up in his religion, and 
 talking about it as if it must be the business of 
 everyone. And if he came, her "pretend cousin" 
 Barbara, his wife, would come also, and that 
 blessed baby, Jonathan. To think was to act 
 with Azalea, now as always. She broke from 
 Annie Laurie and ran up to her old friend and 
 protector, Haystack Thompson. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Thompson, dear," she whispered, 
 "if only you could manage to put in a word for 
 Mr. Summers! You know what he is — how he 
 talks and sings and laughs and keeps everybody 
 stirred up. He'd put life into any church, 
 wouldn't he? He's just wasted down in that 
 little valley where he lives. Hardly anybody 
 comes to church, and those who do, don't like 
 
THE SUMMERS 91 
 
 him. They think he's too new-fashioned. But 
 here he'd be appreciated." 
 
 "Well, now," drawled Mr. Thompson, run- 
 ning his hand through his wild head of hair — 
 the hair that gave him his nickname of "Hay- 
 stack" — "I don't know but there might be some- 
 thing in that. He sure has got a lot of ginger in 
 him, 'the power of the Lord,' he calls it, and I 
 reckon maybe that's what it is. Anyway, as you 
 insinuate, Zalie, the Seven Sleepers would have 
 had a hard time of it trying to keep up their 
 slumbers anywhere around his neighborhood." 
 
 "And then Mrs. Summers," went on Azalea 
 breathlessly; "think what she would mean to the 
 church 1 She's so lively, you know, and so inter- 
 ested in everyone — sorry for them when she 
 ought to be, and happy with them all other 
 times." 
 
 "Sharin' their sorrows an' their joys with 'em, 
 I reckon you mean, daughter." 
 
 "Yes ; and the baby — " 
 
 "Of course, the baby! He'd be a drawin' card 
 to any congregation." 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Thompson, if I could have that 
 baby around I'd — " 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
92 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 "I'd — I'd be good all the rest of my days." 
 "Be a practicin' Christian, eh? Well, as you 
 say, Summers is a mighty fetching man — don't 
 know of any with more — well, more radiation. 
 I reckon I'd better mention him to the breth- 
 erin. Perhaps the bishop would hear to 
 his being moved up this a-way — particularly if 
 I told him you was wantin' to play with the 
 baby." 
 
 Azalea never cared how much fun her kind 
 old Haystack made of her. He had followed 
 her over mountains and through valleys, in sun 
 and rain, in a certain terrible episode of her life, 
 when she had been stolen away from Mrs. Mc- 
 Birney and all but forced back into her hateful 
 life with a traveling show, and she let him joke 
 and fleer all he pleased, knowing him, as she 
 did, for one of her staunchest friends. 
 
 "Yes, please do," she urged. "They're just 
 going into meeting now. Just tell them how he 
 laughs and talks and cuts up!" 
 
 "Fine recommendations for a pastor!" 
 "Well, they are," insisted Azalea. "Of course 
 they are. He wants everyone to be as good and 
 happy as he is, and if they aren't, he'll find out 
 why." 
 
THE SUMMERS 93 
 
 Haystack Thompson brought his huge brows 
 together and regarded Azalea with his sharp 
 eyes. Neither spoke for a moment. Then : "Yes- 
 sum," he said, and moved toward the front to 
 join the representative members of the congre- 
 gation. 
 
 So it came about that a month later Azalea 
 had the great happiness of knowing that her 
 friends, the Reverend Absalom Summers and 
 his wife and baby were coming to Lee as the re- 
 sult of her suggestion. It was rather a joke 
 among those who knew of it. "Azalea's choice" 
 they called the new minister. But it was no joke 
 to Azalea. It meant more to her than she ever 
 could explain. 
 
 "You see," she said to Carin, "it's ideas that 
 count — right ideas. Now, I'm a person of no 
 importance whatever. But because I happened 
 to have the right idea, those men listened to me 
 and did what I wanted them to do." 
 
 "And the point of it all is," laughed Carin, 
 "that if you have enough right ideas and can 
 find enough persons to listen to them, you'll be 
 important, see?" 
 
 "Don't laugh," said Azalea. "If you knew 
 
94 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 what it meant for me to have the Summerses 
 come — " 
 
 "I know well enough — know too well. After 
 they come, what chance will I have of getting 
 your attention?" 
 
 "Carin, how can you? No one can take your 
 place. My friends are all separate. I can't 
 spare one, and not one can take the place of an- 
 other." 
 
 They were in Carin's pony cart as they held 
 this conversation, on their way down to the sta- 
 tion, and it seemed as they drove along the one 
 macadamized road in the county, that everyone 
 they knew was bent in the same direction. 
 
 True, it was nighttime, but the lanterns and 
 lamps revealed the identity of the travelers. 
 Amusements were not many at Lee, and the com- 
 ing of the new Methodist minister and his fam- 
 ily was an event worthy of notice. Moreover, 
 the fame of the Reverend Absalom Summers 
 had gone abroad. His strong bright gifts, his 
 hearty, brotherly nature, his way of finding noth- 
 ing too small for his interest or too great for his 
 inquisitiveness, had won him friends. So they 
 gathered — these friendly, waiting neighbors — 
 
THE SUMMERS 95 
 
 in the draughty little waiting room of the sta- 
 tion and waited for the nine o'clock train. 
 
 The peculiarities of this nine o'clock train 
 were well known. It had acquired a habit of 
 arriving at about a quarter of ten, and it was 
 not until the hands of the clock and of the fre- 
 quently consulted watches of the male members 
 approached that hour, that anyone thought of 
 going out to look up the track. But there it was, 
 sure enough, faithful to the time it had chosen 
 for itself. Its flaring headlight could be seen 
 away up the mountains. The air was nipping, 
 and the company of watchers shivered together, 
 but they would none of them go back into the 
 station now that the headlight really was in 
 sight. 
 
 Moreover, though they would not say so, they 
 loved to be out among the mountains — those 
 mountains that were as the very soul of their 
 lives, that held them together, that gave mean- 
 ing to their secret motives, to their religion, to 
 their daily work. They loomed now, darkest 
 purple against the starry sky. The wind swept 
 down from them, fresh with an indescribable 
 freshness. An owl called — was silent — then 
 called again. Lights shone out from the houses 
 in the. village, and from the scattered cabins 
 
96 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 along the mountain sides. Now and then there 
 was a movable light high on the mountain, as 
 some hill farmer made his way to his house from 
 a neighbor's, or from his visit to town, or from 
 looking after his stock. 
 
 The headlight disappeared as the train swept 
 around the horseshoe bend. Then it burst upon 
 them like a menacing star. It rushed towards 
 them. There was a shriek as of a giant taken 
 prisoner. The train was there! The conductor 
 got down and exchanged greetings, and an enor- 
 mously tall and thin man appeared, carrying 
 many bundles. 
 
 "There he is! It's the Elder. There's Mr. 
 Summers," cried the people. They surged for- 
 ward, pulled the man from the steps, seized 
 his bundles, and waited while he assisted a little 
 lady to alight. 
 
 "Why, she isn't as large as we are. Azalea," 
 whispered Carin. 
 
 "I know," Azalea whispered back, quivering 
 as she hugged her companion's arm. "I told 
 you — " 
 
 But Carin was not to know what Azalea had 
 told her, for at that moment the voice of the 
 little lady was heard saying: 
 
THE SUMMERS 97 
 
 "And Where's Azalea?" 
 
 It was, for Azalea, a thrilling moment. Af- 
 terward, thinking it all over, she could not tell 
 why her heart so leaped at that first word. Was 
 it because she had no kin, really, that this voice 
 of loving friendship was so sweet to her? Was 
 it that she was proud — she who had been a 
 wanderer and a beggar — to be asked for before 
 all the people? Was it just abounding love for 
 Barbara Summers, her "pretend cousin"? 
 
 It made no difference, really. There was Bar- 
 bara, her dark eyes shining; there was her babe 
 in her arms, fresh and wonderful from sleep; 
 and there was his mother offering him to Aza- 
 lea. 
 
 The two kissed above the baby. 
 
 "Honey bunch !" murmured Azalea, and gath- 
 ered him into her arms. 
 
 She saw nothing of how the people came for- 
 ward to make Mr. Summers and his wife wel- 
 come; heard nothing of what Pa McBirney said 
 to them, urging them into his comfortable old 
 mountain wagon. Even the voice of Carin was 
 vague in her ears, though she knew she was 
 murmuring her appreciation of golden curls 
 and blue eyes, of tiny teeth, of dimples, or chub- 
 
98 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 by little hands. But nothing that anybody could 
 say would be too much, Azalea thought. Her 
 hungry heart, never yet satisfied, with all the 
 love that had come to her, wrapped a thousand 
 quivering tendrils about this little laughing 
 child. 
 
 "You riding with Miss Carin, Zalie?" asked 
 Pa McBirney. 
 
 "Yes, thank you, father. We'll drive right up 
 to the parsonage, won't we, Carin?" 
 
 "As fast as Mustard can take us," replied 
 Carin, "The baby won't mind leaving you a 
 moment, will he, Mrs. Summers?" 
 
 Barbara Summers shook her head. She was 
 not given to passing Jonathan over to the care 
 of others, but there was something in the satis- 
 fied expression of Azalea's face that forbade her 
 to take him away. 
 
 Carin turned the head of the little yellow 
 pony toward the Methodist parsonage. They 
 had a hill to climb and a dark, curving little 
 road to traverse. But five or six vehicles were 
 ahead of them, and Mustard, who felt like a 
 mere boy in the horse world, and who always 
 was pleased if he could get in a grown-up affair 
 of any kind, trotted along importantly. Lights 
 
THE SUMMERS 99 
 
 shone out from among the armored pines. Aza- 
 lea got out and carried Jonathan through the 
 freshly decorated rooms, with their newly pol- 
 ished furniture and snowy curtains, to the bed- 
 room where the little iron cot awaited Jonathan. 
 "Shut the door, Carin dear," she whispered 
 happily. "Let's undress him. His mother said 
 we'd find his nightie in that bag." 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 SUNDAY 
 
 *'Once there was a bear, 
 
 And he made his pasture there; 
 
 And he crept, and he crept, and he crept, 
 
 'Till he got away up there!" 
 
 "Gurgle — gurgle — gurgle !" 
 
 "And once there was a bear — " 
 
 This conversation took place betwen Azalea 
 McBirney and Jonathan Summers one Sunday 
 morning while Jonathan's mother was at church. 
 Azalea had been to Sunday-school, and had run 
 over to ask her "Cousin" Barbara if she wouldn't 
 like to attend service to hear her husband 
 preach. Barbara would — Oh, most undeniably 
 she would. It was her firm conviction that if 
 all men could hear her husband, and would give 
 heed to what he said, they would be able to re- 
 sist all temptations and would live in peace with 
 the world. So she kissed Azalea and permitted 
 her to button her into her pretty golden-brown 
 frock, and then, clapping her large hat over her 
 
 100 
 
SUNDAY loi 
 
 wayward hair and putting on her gloves as she 
 hastened down the street, she was off, her heart 
 beating high with loving pride of the man whose 
 life was united with her own, and who had al- 
 ready found warm friends in his new parish. 
 
 Jonathan had been asleep when his mother 
 left him, but it was not long before he opened 
 his eyes and looked about him to see whom he 
 could get to serve him. For Jonathan was, in 
 his own opinion, the Prince of the World, and 
 everyone in it was to do his bidding. He pre- 
 ferred, of course, his chief slave — the one called 
 "Mamma" — and not seeing her, he opened his 
 mouth and let out a more or less cheerful roar, 
 not so much showing rage, as a healthful imita- 
 tion of it. 
 
 Azalea was delighted. She picked him up, 
 fed him his bottle, arranged him among the sofa 
 pillows, and then, taking a dimpled hand in her 
 own, she pointed delicately to the rosy palm. 
 
 "Once there was a bear, 
 
 And he made his pasture there." 
 
 It must have been a particularly small bear to 
 have pastured in such a tiny pink palm, but Jon- 
 athan saw nothing inconsistent in it, and re- 
 marked enthusiastically: 
 
I02 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 "Gurgle — gurgle — gurgle." 
 
 The bear began creeping slyly up Jonathan's 
 arm. It snuggled for a moment at his elbow, 
 went on — and Jonathan shivered happily — up 
 to his shoulder, and then settled right down in 
 his neck, and seemed to think it a good place 
 to stay. At least, Jonathan laughed delightedly. 
 
 Azalea looked at him with her soul in her 
 eyes. 
 
 "Mercy me," she sighed. "How well I under- 
 stand kidnappers!" 
 
 Then she remembered that she had once been 
 kidnapped herself, and that she had not liked 
 it at all. 
 
 "Oh, Jonathan," she cried, looking at him 
 critically, "it seems impossible that anything 
 as soft and lovely as you are can grow up to be 
 just a hard, common, big man! If only I could 
 put you in some kind of a preserve jar and keep 
 you the way you are, I'd just give anything. 
 Tired of sitting still? Well, come to Azalea, 
 and we'll go exploring. It's a pretty house, isn't 
 it? But my goodness, you ought to have seen it 
 a little while ago! It was as dull as Monday 
 washday. 
 
 "Then, when it was decided that your papa 
 
SUNDAY 103 
 
 and mamma were coming here to live, we all 
 turned in and worked like sixty to make it look 
 nice. Haystack Thompson — that's the man that 
 throws you up so high, you know — prepared it 
 with his own hands. But you make up your 
 mind we didn't let him pick out the paper. 
 Haystack is a dear, but he couldn't be trusted 
 to pick out wall paper. No, sir, my friends 
 Carin and Annie Laurie and I did that. Brown 
 for the sitting room, and green for the dining 
 room, and pink and pale blue for the bedrooms. 
 "And we got these pretty print hangings and 
 covers — at least, Mrs. Carson paid for them and 
 we picked them out. And Ma McBirney wove 
 these rugs — brown for the sitting room and 
 green for the dining room. Aren't they beau- 
 ties? And Mr. Carson had the furniture done 
 at his shop — the very best he could make. And 
 Sam Disbrow, he brought this fern, and some- 
 body else sent the palm, and Carin gave the pic- 
 tures, and Annie Laurie made the table cover, 
 and I don't know what all. You see, some of 
 these people don't belong to your church at all, 
 Jonathan. They just gave these things because 
 you were so sweet that they couldn't bear to have 
 you come into any but a pretty house. Dear me. 
 
104 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 boy, stop pulling my hair! You treat me just 
 as if I were a step-child. And I'm not. I'm 
 your pretend cousin — which is ever and ever 
 so much nicer than being a real cousin, because 
 you do your own picking out." 
 
 Jonathan replied after his own manner, and 
 the morning wore on pleasantly. Azalea put 
 the potatoes and the stew over to cook, and made 
 some apple sauce. Then she set the table; and 
 "toted" Jonathan some more. For once she for- 
 got to think. The sad little thoughts that would 
 mope around in the back of her mind, because 
 she was, after all, a child without a father or a 
 mother, kept entirely out of sight that morning. 
 She was so busy that she could waste no time 
 whatever on merely thinking; and the first thing 
 she knew she saw the people pouring along the 
 street from church. 
 
 Annie Laurie drove by with her aunts and 
 her father, and waved to Azalea. Sam Dis- 
 brow walked by with his father, and Azalea 
 thought what a dull time Sam had of it, with 
 that heavy looking father with his hanging head 
 and big, rolling eyes, both going home to a 
 mother who was always sick, and to that queer 
 sister of Sam's, who had too much work to do, 
 
SUNDAY los 
 
 and who never seemed to want to talk with any- 
 body. And then the Carson carriage rushed by 
 with black Ben driving, and Mr. Carson, so 
 handsome and straight, beside him, and Carin 
 and Mrs. Carson on the back seat in their beauti- 
 ful furs, smiling and bowing to everybody. 
 
 Then the McBirney wagon came, with Mr. 
 and Mrs. Summers in with Pa and Ma McBir- 
 ney and Jim. And Azalea was thanked and 
 kissed, and had the pain of seeing Jonathan tear 
 himself away from her to rush to his mother's 
 embrace, and then Azalea went out and got in 
 with her foster parents, and Pa McBirney hissed 
 to his horses in an odd way he had, and they 
 started for their long drive up the mountain. 
 
 "It sure is a mighty curious thing how that 
 man goes on, Mary," said Mr. McBirney to his 
 wife as they were driving by the prosperous 
 dairy farm of Simeon Pace. "He's jest rolling 
 up money, but no one can tell what he does with 
 it. Heller, the banker, he says nary a cent of it 
 comes his way. Pace don't believe in banks — 
 got stung some time I reckon, and lost his nest 
 egg by the busting of a bank. Anyhow, he hangs 
 on to what he gets nowadays. It beats all to 
 see anyone so old-fashioned. Heller says he sup- 
 
io6 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 poses he hides it away in his old stocking or 
 buries it in the yard. I suppose I'm something 
 of a mossback myself, but anyway I know 
 enough to bank my money when I get it — which 
 ain't any too often." 
 
 *'He don't look like such an old-fashioned 
 man, Simeon Pace don't," mused Mrs. McBir- 
 ney. "He certainly does keep his place up right 
 smart. Them cattle o' his'n is the best to be 
 seen in the country, and everything around the 
 place is right up in G." 
 
 "Well, old-fashioned he is, but he's far-seeing 
 too. About five years ago he bought the Caruth 
 Valley and all the uplying land beyond it. I 
 couldn't see what his idea was, but now I hear 
 that he's selling it out to Mr. Carson for five 
 times what he paid for it. Mr. Carson wants it 
 for the water power on it. He's adding to his 
 factory, you see." 
 
 "That will mean work for a good many more 
 of us mountain folks," observed Mrs. McBirney. 
 "The way Mr. Carson has opened up things 
 for us is just stirring to think about. I don't 
 know as his efforts are appreciated, but I, for 
 one, know who I have to thank when I see the 
 new things in the house and the good new clothes 
 
SUNDAY 107 
 
 we've been able to get for the children. Why, 
 only this morning I was calling Jim's attention 
 to it. 'Look at you,' I said, 'in your store clothes 
 and brown shoes and new overcoat and all. You 
 look like a rich man's son,' says I. And I de- 
 clare to goodness when I got out this here new 
 cloak 0' mine, and this bonnet Mrs. Carson made 
 for me out of silk velvet and a real ostrich tip, 
 I could hardly believe it was me. I'm so used 
 to wearing rusty black that I don't know as I 
 feel quite at home in good deep black like this 
 a-here." 
 
 Jim McBirney, who was sitting on the back 
 seat with Azalea, not caring to listen longer to 
 the conversation of his elders and knowing it 
 was bad manners to disturb them, began whis- 
 pering. 
 
 "I went to Sam Disbrow's house last evening, 
 sis." When Jim said "evening" he meant after- 
 noon. 
 
 "Did you, Jim? What was it like?" 
 
 "Shades all down — rooms all hot — Mrs. 
 Disbrow lying on the settle — Hannah sitting by 
 her, knitting and knitting, and her eyes so crossed 
 you couldn't think how she could do anything 
 but cross stitch." 
 
io8 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 iiji. 
 
 'I'm sorry for Hannah. That's a dreadful 
 life to lead — being shut up all the time with a 
 sick person. I've a good mind to give her a 
 party if mother will let me." 
 
 ''Give Hannah Disbrow a party? Why, she'd 
 run like a hare if she saw anybody coming, and 
 she'd drop her ice cream and go home crying. 
 I know Hannah." 
 
 He spoke as if he had made girls and their 
 outlandish ways his particular study. 
 
 "Well, anyway, I'm going to see her. And 
 I'll get the other girls to go." 
 
 "Oh, yes, th' other girls! Why, Zalie, you 
 can't move around by your lone no more; you're 
 just hitched on to them friends of yours. Ain't 
 you ever going to have any separate thoughts 
 again?" 
 
 Azalea laughed lightly, and at the chime of 
 her merriment Mary JMcBirney turned around 
 to look at the occupants of the rear seat. It was 
 at such times that Azalea loved her most — when 
 the light of love flooded her face with its high 
 brow and soft eyes. It always made Azalea feel 
 as if there must be a lamp burning there behind 
 the kind face. She gave a pleasant, inarticulate 
 murmur that served better than words to let the 
 
SUNDAY 109 
 
 children know that her love was round about 
 them. Then she turned back to resume her con- 
 versation with her husband, and the horses — 
 nimble mountain-climbers — pulled on up the 
 road steadily, stopping now and again to 
 breathe, and then sweeping around another 
 curve of the ever winding road. 
 
 Azalea amused herself by noticing the little 
 plateaus or "benches" along the mountain side. 
 She played a little game with herself, building 
 imaginary houses in this cove or on that bench 
 among the maples. There was one place in 
 particular, where three lofty tulip trees guarded 
 a spring of cold water, and where there was a 
 little almost level cove from which one could 
 look ofif for miles and miles along the purple 
 valley, where she put first one sort of a house 
 and then another. 
 
 When she began thinking of it, she built — in 
 her mind of course — a little house of cedar logs, 
 with an open chamber between, like the one she 
 now called home; but as time went on she 
 changed her plans. Barbara Summers had 
 tried to persuade her that a rambling bungalow 
 of pine, with high chimneys and wide porches 
 would be the thing; and Carin had been in favor 
 
no ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 of a cement bungalow with a pergola with 
 trumpet vines growing over it. Annie Laurie 
 thought it would be better to have a tent 
 pitched there, and to eat off wooden plates and 
 use paper napkins. 
 
 ''Then you could heave everything into the 
 fire," said this practical young woman, "and 
 there'd be no dishes to wash." 
 
 As they passed the place this Sunday Azalea 
 asked Jim what kind of a house he thought it 
 would be best to put up there, but Jim was not 
 fond of playing at air castles. 
 
 "We-all don't own the land," he said, "and 
 we ain't got the money for the house, so what's 
 the use of talking?" 
 
 Azalea felt just a trifle out of patience. 
 
 "The use of talking," she said rather sharply, 
 "is that it interests you." 
 
 "Keeping still interests me all right." 
 
 "Keep still, then, if you want to. I'm sure 
 I've plenty to think about." 
 
 It was then that Mary McBirney began sing- 
 ing softly: 
 
 " 'Sweet are the hillsides, pleasant are the val- 
 leys, ^ 
 Bright is the sky o'er the home of my heart.' " 
 
SUNDAY III 
 
 Both Azalea and Jim knew very well why 
 she was singing. She never could bear to re- 
 prove them; and she had a little theory that 
 music could drive out any evil spirit. Such 
 music as she made ought to, certainly, the chil- 
 dren thought, sitting for a moment in silence, 
 ashamed of their stupid quarrel. Neither one 
 was of the sort to sulk. Jim gave a little twist 
 on his seat, and joined in the fourth line: 
 
 " 'And my home, gentle friend, is wherever 
 thou art.' " 
 
 Azalea loved the quaint old song. It was one 
 of many such which Mary McBirney knew. 
 
 "I'd love to see the words and music of the 
 songs you sing, mother," Azalea had said to her 
 once. "Where can I find them? Are they in 
 any of the books you have?" 
 
 But Mary McBirney had shaken her head 
 with a smile. 
 
 "The mountain folks have many a song that 
 never yet has been writ down, child," she said. 
 "In the lonely nights in the little cabins away 
 back on the mountains, all still and peaceful, 
 the folks weave the songs out of their hearts. 
 Grandmothers and mothers and daughters have 
 sung them, and not one of them all had the 
 
112 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 knowledge to write them down. They make 
 me think of wild roses. They grow beside the 
 roadway_, and they are the sweetest of them all." 
 
 " 'Early in the morning I can hear the thrushes 
 singing,' " Mary McBirney sang on, and Azalea, 
 joining in, put all her love for the sweet woman 
 into the words : 
 
 " 'Dear as the voice that I love best of all.' " 
 
 They stopped at the waterfall for the horses 
 to drink. The cataract leaped down delicately 
 and gayly from the height above, paused at the 
 roadway, rippling along among the pebbles at 
 the edges and rushing between the great boul- 
 ders in the center of the ford, and then with a 
 wild laugh plunged oflf over the edge and 
 foamed down the mountain side. The sky was 
 rather overcast on this particular day, and the 
 trees wore a patient look; even the waterfall 
 seemed subdued, and its rush of sound was more 
 liquid and less like music than on brighter days. 
 A heaviness and quietude lay over everything. 
 But the McBirneys loved the mountain in all 
 its moods, and little by little they set themselves 
 to fit in with its whims, so that by the time they 
 reached their home they were quiet, too. 
 
 But they were happy — Oh, most distinctly, 
 
SUNDAY 113 
 
 they were that. They loved every inch of the 
 old place. The cabin of logs, divided in the 
 center with an open air chamber, the little loft 
 where Azalea slept, looking up the mountain 
 side, the Pride of India tree beneath which lay 
 the graves of little Molly McBirney and of 
 Azalea's poor mother, the tulip trees at the out- 
 look, the little smithy, the stable, the barn, the 
 smoke house, the corn crib, the chicken house 
 and the bee hives, the pigeon coops and the 
 swinging gourds where the martins nested, all 
 were dear to them. Vines, flowers, and bushes 
 grew all about them. The farm slanted down the 
 hillside at a dangerous angle, bat contrived to 
 soak into its produce the sweet Southern sun, 
 and it gave of its rich bounty in return for 
 Thomas McBirney's hard toil. 
 
 Human care and enthusiasm showed in every 
 foot of it. Even the most casual passer-by could 
 see at a glance that here was a home in which 
 people lived who loved life and each other. 
 
 "Happy and good folk live here," it seemed 
 to say. 
 
 And there were, first and last, a good many 
 to read its message, for it was on the highway 
 and whoever came over Tennyson Mountain 
 
114 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 down to Lee must pass almost through the door- 
 way. 
 
 This gray, pleasant Sunday, Mrs. McBirney 
 and Azalea jumped from the wagon at the house 
 door, and Jim and his father went on to the 
 stable to look after the horses. The cow was 
 munching contentedly in her stall, but the chick- 
 ens seemed a little depressed and in need of their 
 midday drink of hot water and their feeding of 
 hot meal. The pigeons cooed chillily from their 
 cote. As for the horses, they knew almost as 
 much about unhitching as their betters, and if 
 either Jim or Mr. McBirney had done anything 
 they ought not to have done they would have 
 turned their critical eyes upon them. The real 
 pride of Jim's heart, however, was the two ponies 
 which he and Azalea rode to school. They had 
 been the gift of Mr. Carson to them, and they 
 were the brothers of Carin's pony. Mustard, and 
 bore the exciting names of Pepper and Paprika. 
 
 Jim lingered for a moment or two, loath to 
 leave them. He loved the velvet noses of them 
 the friendly eyes and the warm heaving sides. 
 They muzzled him, and he put their noses in 
 his neck and gave them to understand that their 
 afifection was returned. The cool, damp air 
 
SUNDAY 115 
 
 billowing in at the door was delicious, and he 
 almost hated to go in the house. 
 
 "What's the use in living in houses?" he 
 thought. He had known a young fellow who 
 traveled over the mountains all the time with 
 two ponies. One he rode, the other carried his 
 pack which consisted of a hammock, a frying 
 pan, some blankets and a square of canvas, out 
 of which he could, at need, fashion a sort of 
 tent. He never had slept under a roof since he 
 was a baby. Jim thought of this boy as a very 
 fortunate fellow. He chose not to remember 
 the desperate ill health that had driven the lad 
 into the life. However, he must go in the house, 
 he must! Ma had got the fire going in the kit- 
 chen, judging from the smoke that rolled from 
 the chimney. Well, he was glad he didn't have 
 to build it. He didn't feel like doing anything 
 just then — except, perhaps, sitting by the door 
 and looking off at the valley. Usually when he 
 wanted to do this, some one straightway thought 
 of some chore for him. So he slid softly onto 
 the bench, sitting where he could be seen neither 
 from the door nor the window, and fell into a 
 comfortable though somewhat hungry day 
 dream. 
 
ii6 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 Meantime, odors of frying chicken were 
 wafted to him, along with the smell of slightly 
 burned corn cake and very good coffee. The 
 odors grew stronger and pleasanter and after 
 a time Jim decided that he wasn't doing right 
 to stay outside while everyone was working in 
 the house. It really was his duty to go in. So 
 in he went. The fire was leaping, the table was 
 set, his mother was bustling around in her calico 
 dress, Azalea was putting the chairs to the table, 
 and his father looked ready primed for a long 
 Sunday grace. 
 
 It proved to be even longer than Jim had 
 feared. Thomas McBirney was one of those 
 who count it a fault if they neglect to mention 
 every event of their lives to the Almighty. He 
 thanked the Lord for their united family, for 
 food and fire, for roof and friends, for the privi- 
 lege of attending divine service, and for the 
 love of God which warmed their hearts. Mean- 
 time his son's eyes wandered restlessly from the 
 heaped plate of chicken to the bowl of gravy 
 and "fixin's." He wondered if he would have 
 no more than a "drumstick" and why there 
 should be such intimate relations between boys 
 and drumsticks. The world over, fathers 
 
SUNDAY 117 
 
 seemed to think they should go to their sons. 
 No doubt Chinese fathers held just the same 
 opinion. 
 
 Imagine then, his surprise — his unbelieving 
 surprise — when his father, having first served 
 his mother and Azalea, took the "wish-bone," 
 beautifully burdened with tender white meat 
 and laid it on Jim's plate. 
 
 "For a good boy," he said, as he heaped on the 
 potatoes and gravy, and passed the corn bread. 
 "Once in a while, Jim, we men folks have to 
 set ourselves against these here women, eh? 
 Them with their wishbones! Who said they 
 was to eternally have the wishbones? No king 
 that ever I hearn tell of. I say, let's head a 
 revolution and declare that they ken have only 
 every other wishbone. That's fair, ain't it?" 
 
 A nice, warm feeling gathered in Jim's heart. 
 It was splendid to have a dad like that — a dad 
 who could tell what was going on in a fellow's 
 mind. And his mother and Azalea seemed to 
 be glad he had the wishbone, too. They were 
 looking at him just the way a fellow likes to 
 have his family look at him. My, what a nice 
 day Sunday was! And wasn't he glad he had 
 helped haul those hickory logs! And wasn't 
 
ii8 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 the room nice, with the settle there next the fire, 
 and the old clock tickin', tickin' away, and strik- 
 ing now and then with a voice like Haystack 
 Thompson's when he led in prayer. And there 
 was a white table cloth on for Sunday, and Ma 
 was smiling almost the way she used before 
 Molly died. And the cat was stretching herself, 
 and outside, Peter, the hound, was sniffling to 
 let them know he was there and hadn't had his 
 dinner yet. 
 
 "Goodness gracious," sighed Jim, "ain't it 
 lucky we're all alive!" 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 THE SIGNAL 
 
 Night came down sweetly over the mountain 
 that quiet day. It wrapped the village in soft 
 gray folds ; the stars came out hazily and shone 
 with a misty golden light; the wind merely 
 whispered in the pines and the hemlocks, and 
 the sound of the falling water was lonely and 
 sad in the ears of Azalea. 
 
 Yet she had to be out in the night because — 
 well, that's a secret. At least it was a secret from 
 Jim. Because he would have laughed. She 
 was to signal the other two girls. It had been 
 agreed upon. 
 
 "You see, I nearly die, Sundays," Annie 
 Laurie had said. "Our house — really I can't 
 describe our house on Sunday. I feel as if my 
 heart were turning into old red sandstone." 
 
 To have the strong-beating heart of Annie 
 Laurie turn into structural rock was something 
 the friends could not permit. Anyway it would 
 
 be an excellent thing for Azalea in the moun- 
 
 119 
 
120 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 tain to know that her friends in the valley were 
 doing well. She could tell if they were doing 
 well, if the lantern was waved sideways; if any- 
 thing was wrong it was to be swung up and 
 down. 
 
 "But I reckon you-all had better not swing 
 it up and down," she had said, "for though I'll 
 know by that that something is wrong, of course 
 I won't know what it is. And the waiting to 
 find out would be dreadful." 
 
 "It will have to be a pretty dreadful 'some- 
 thing' to make us give the bad signal, won't it, 
 Annie Laurie?" Carin had remarked. 
 
 So it was with a light heart and a mysterious 
 manner that Azalea, who was supposed to leave 
 the kitchen-l'iving room to go to her own little 
 loft, stole out the back way, took the lantern 
 from its nail, lighted it, and crept to the out- 
 look. She had five minutes to wait before the 
 time appointed, and these moments proved to 
 be a "perfect caution" for slowness. She counted 
 the seconds to make sure — and yet was not sure, 
 for she managed to get in about two counts and 
 a half to each second. However, at last she felt 
 justified in bringing out her light from behind 
 the tree bole where she had hidden it, and wav- 
 
THE SIGNAL 121 
 
 ing it back and forth in enthusiastic announce- 
 ment that all was right. She couldn't help 
 thinking with a throb of the heart how very, 
 very right it all was! How sweet the day had 
 been ; how filled with comfort for body and soul ; 
 how beautiful to be loved as she was loved in 
 that little home I Of course she might have 
 repined that she had not been made Carin's 
 adopted sister and surrounded with all manner 
 of luxuries, but the love she felt for Mrs. Mc- 
 Birney was too deep, too sincere, to permit such 
 a thought to have a place in her heart for very 
 long. 
 
 Yes, her home was a log cabin, and her family 
 simple mountain people. But she could not 
 feel cheated. The taste of the Things That 
 Were was sweet on her palate, and her hope for 
 the future bubbled in her heart as the spring, 
 whose whispering she could hear, bubbled from 
 the ground. 
 
 So back and forth in the gray air went her 
 lantern, saying: 
 
 *'A11 is well! All is well!" 
 
 Azalea actually laughed aloud to think of 
 Carin, all in her Sunday best, stealing out of 
 that stately drawing-room and creeping up the 
 
122^ ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 stairs to the huge cupola and standing there on 
 the roof in the wind and night, waving her lan- 
 tern. What fun it was to know a girl like that — 
 a girl who wasn't afraid to do things, if she ivas 
 rich and beautiful. There was some "go" in 
 Carin, no doubt about it, though she did look so 
 delicate and alabasterish. Azalea loved to invent 
 words, and she invented "alabasterish" on the 
 moment. 
 
 But what di^ that mean? Annie Laurie's lan- 
 tern, full and strong and like a star, had shone 
 through the light mist and was being waved 
 frantically up and down. Mercy! how it waved. 
 
 "All is wrong! All is wrong!" it protested. 
 
 What could that mean? Carin, of course, 
 would know in a few minutes. She would tele- 
 phone. But Azalea had no telephone and she 
 would not be allowed to ride to the valley at 
 night. 
 
 "All is wrong — oh, very, very, wrong!" the 
 lantern kept on saying. 
 
 What could she do to let Annie Laurie know 
 that she understood? Poor Annie Laurie, who 
 was brave about everything! It was a real 
 trouble, Azalea felt sure. Had one of the aunts 
 fallen and broken a bone? Could Mr. Pace be 
 
Back and forth went her lantern, saying : 
 "All is well! All is well!" 
 
THE SIGNAL 123 
 
 ill? Were the cattle poisoned? Azalea took 
 her lantern and twisted it around and around 
 until it must have looked to Annie Laurie like 
 a snare of fireflies. Then Carin, understanding, 
 did the same thing. After that it was dark on 
 Carin's roof; then Annie Laurie's lantern dis- 
 appeared too. They had gone to the telephone, 
 Azalea inferred. 
 
 She stamped back through the dew, hot with 
 impatience. "I shan't sleep a wink to-night," 
 she declared. 
 
 She undressed in anguish of soul, sank on her 
 knees and sent up a fervent prayer for her 
 friend, and then throwing herself on what she 
 expected and desired to be a sleepless bed, fell 
 fast asleep. ^ 
 
 Yet in her sleep she had many dreams, and in 
 each of them Annie Laurie appeared, always in 
 some horrid plight. Now wolves were chasing 
 her; now she had fallen over the cataract; now 
 the horses were running away with her; now 
 she was speeding down the road again, away 
 from the scorn of her schoolmates, and little 
 drops of blood were falling on the road from 
 her shattered heart. 
 
 But none of these things were anywhere near 
 
124 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 the truth, though nothing could be more 
 terrible to Annie Laurie than what actually had 
 happened. 
 
 It had come about after church. Dinner was 
 over; the house had been tidied, and the two 
 aunts and Mr. Pace and Annie Laurie sat in the 
 sitting room before a fine fire. The aunts had 
 taken out their pious books and were reading 
 them. Mr. Pace was engaged in plodding sleep- 
 ily through somebody's account of the "Thirty 
 Year's War." As for Annie, she was supposed 
 to be writing to a friend, but as a matter of fact 
 she was scribbling some verses which she meant 
 to show to the girls the next day. Nibbling the 
 end of one's pen is more or less of a necessity 
 when one is writing verses, and Annie Laurie, 
 having got as far as that — and not much farther 
 — was sampling the fine inky flavor of hers, and 
 so chanced to look up and to let her glance fall 
 on her father. 
 
 At first she was only conscious that his expres- 
 sion was not quite familiar to her. Then — well, 
 then suddenly and terribly, she saw that he was 
 indeed changed — that something frightful had 
 happened to him. She sprang toward him, call- 
 ing his name. 
 
THE SIGNAL i^i, 
 
 "Father— father!" 
 
 But no answer came. 
 
 The aunts came running, terror in their faces. 
 
 "Paralysis," said Miss Adnah. "Zillah, call 
 the doctor. Azalea, help me lay him down — 
 yes, on the floor. Open the window. Go get 
 his bed ready, Zillah, after you've got the doctor. 
 We and the doctor between us must get him in 
 bed." 
 
 Annie Laurie did all she was told. She 
 couldn't realize what had happened. Something 
 seemed to be whirling around and around in 
 her brain, and all it said was: 
 
 "Isn't Aunt Adnah wonderful? Isn't Aunt 
 Adnah wonderful?" 
 
 She was indeed a general in times of trouble. 
 Why, once when she was young — but there isn't 
 time to tell Aunt Adnah's story now. 
 
 There was time for nothing, it seemed. It had 
 come like a lightning-flash. Even the doctor 
 was unable to aid. Simeon Pace lay in his bed, 
 looking at them with tortured eyes. It seemed 
 to Annie Laurie that he was trying to make her 
 understand something — with all his vanishing 
 power he was trying to give her some important 
 piece of information. She put her ear to his 
 
126 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 lips; she listened with the very ears of her soul; 
 but the thing he wished her to know went into 
 silence with him. A dread convulsion brought 
 the end. 
 
 Annie Laurie, standing aghast, knew she was 
 fatherless as well as motherless. Yet it couldn't 
 be! Why, only a little while before everything 
 had been well. Had been well I That reminded 
 her of the signal they were to send — the signal 
 that was to remind each member of the Girl's 
 Triple Alliance that they had not forgotten each 
 other. And they had agreed not to send the 
 "bad" message unless something very terrible 
 happened. They had laughed about it! And 
 now the terrible thing really had happened. Or 
 had it? Was it, perhaps, only a frightful dream? 
 But no, it was true — and her heart ached so! If 
 only the girls knew! Well, she would tell them. 
 She sat near the clock, watching it. Perhaps 
 when she let the girls know, her throat wouldn't 
 ache so with that new, strange, crushing pain. 
 Perhaps her eyeballs would cease burning. 
 How busy it seemed around the house! People 
 were coming and going. They stopped to speak 
 to her, and she found herself saying mechanic- 
 ally: 
 
THE SIGNAL 127 
 
 "Yes, I know. You are very kind. To-mor- 
 row I'll understand better. Thank you — to-mor- 
 row." 
 
 Out of sheer compassion they left her alone. 
 
 Seven o'clock. It was time for the signal. 
 She found the lantern and made her way, un- 
 seen, to the roof. Azalea's light shone at her 
 from the gray air, far, far up the ridge. Carin's 
 light flashed from the roof of the mansion. All 
 was well with them. They were laughing — 
 Annie Laurie knew they were laughing. And 
 she — she waved her lantern up and down and 
 up and down with a kind of passion. She must 
 make them know how deep was the sorrow that 
 had befallen her. And they seemed to know. 
 It was as if she could feel the streams of their 
 sympathy rolling toward her. Yes, they under- 
 stood. That queer fluttering of their lanterns 
 assured her of it. Annie Laurie left her roof 
 and descending into the attic, sank on an old set- 
 tle there. She dragged a horse blanket over her 
 and at last the storm of her anguish broke, and 
 she wept and wept. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THE MYSTERY 
 
 Was it a long time — weary hours and hours 
 — before Annie Laurie found her way down 
 the stairs? She never could be sure. A man, 
 whom she did not at first recognize, was leaving 
 her father's room. For a second she felt like 
 rushing at him to tell him that he, a stranger, 
 should not be in there — in that sacred chamber 
 where her father lay dead and defenseless. Then 
 she saw that it was Mr. Disbrow, the under- 
 taker, and realized what his task had been. He 
 had been making her father ready for his last 
 resting place. 
 
 But surely the man was not ashamed of his 
 task! He shot one glance at Annie Laurie, and 
 then without speaking, hastened down the stairs 
 and out of the front door. Was he sorry for her 
 and at a loss to say how sorry, and so had run 
 away? Annie Laurie could understand that. 
 She would have felt much the same way herself. 
 
 Yet it was, she decided, an odd way for a man to 
 
 128 
 
THE MYSTERY 129 
 
 feel who was so often in the house of mourning 
 as an undertaker naturally would be. How- 
 ever, it mattered little. She was glad he hadn't 
 spoken to her. And yet, when she thought of 
 him as Sam's father, it was curious that he hadn't. 
 Of course it might be that he knew nothing of 
 the good friendship which existed between Sam 
 and herself, and he might not approve of it any- 
 way. The Disbrows were great for keeping to 
 themselves. So were the Paces, but the Paces 
 were busy folk; they liked their neighbors even 
 if they didn't see much of them. But one always 
 had the feeling that the Disbrows shut them- 
 selves away from society because they had some- 
 thing against it — nobody quite knew what. Only 
 Sam — Sam was different. He was made to live 
 in the world and to enjoy it. 
 
 A vision of him, wide-shouldered, brown- 
 haired — his hair would have curled a trifle if he 
 had not continually discouraged it — brown-eyed, 
 smiling, frank, energetic, arose before Annie 
 Laurie. He had a ringing laugh, and the neigh- 
 bors said he dared to laugh even in that silent 
 shut-up house where his mother lay on her sofa, 
 with mouse-like, cross-eyed Hannah watching 
 beside her. It came over Annie Laurie that 
 
I30 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 she had disliked them for things that were none 
 of their fault. Mrs. Disbrow couldn't help be- 
 ing ill; Hannah couldn't help being cross-eyed; 
 and it was beautiful of her to be always beside 
 her mother. 
 
 Yet, as she paced the floor of her bedroom 
 thinking about her father, with her tortured 
 thoughts leaping this way and that as if 
 they were struggling to escape from sorrow, a 
 conviction came over her that sickness often was 
 the fault of the person who suffered from it. 
 She knew that an atmosphere of gloom hung 
 over Sam's house; that if he opened up the win- 
 dows Hannah was told to close them; if he 
 brought in flowers they had to be thrown out 
 because they gave his mother a cold; if he built 
 a fire in the fireplace for cheerfulness, it was 
 considered unsafe, owing to a defect in the chim- 
 ney. The stove was sufficient — and indeed more 
 than sufficient, since the temperature of the room 
 was at least eighty the winter through. Poor 
 Sam! Annie Laurie knew that he had suggested 
 that the chimney be mended so that they might 
 sometimes sit by the open fire, letting the raging 
 stove subside; he had urged Hannah to have 
 an operation that would set her eyes straight, 
 
THE MYSTERY 131 
 
 but the family had been too fearful of the re- 
 sults. So they sat in gloom and hideousness 
 within their power to remedy. At least that 
 was how it looked to Sam's impatient, energetic 
 nature, and Annie Laurie took the same view. 
 
 Miss Zillah came in after a time, with arms 
 and words of comfort for her girl. 
 
 "Carin called up about seven o'clock," she 
 said, after a time when Annie Laurie had wept 
 out her grief on her good aunt's shoulder. "She 
 seemed to know you were in trouble, though I 
 don't understand how she could have found out." 
 
 Annie Laurie told her of the signalling. 
 
 "Well, she wanted to come right over to you, 
 but I told her to wait until to-morrow. Was I 
 right?" 
 
 Annie Laurie nodded. 
 
 "Get undressed now, poor one," soothed Aunt 
 Zillah. "See, I'll open your bed and warm it 
 for you. Put on this flannel nightgown, that's 
 a dear. And I'll bring you a glass of milk — 
 unless you want something heartier." 
 
 It was wonderful, being petted like this. She 
 had led a chilly life, had Annie Laurie. She 
 had known kindness, but not, it must be con- 
 fessed, warm love. Yet now Aunt Zillah's com- 
 
132 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 passion and affection wrapped her about like a 
 cloak. How did the old song run? 
 
 "Come under my plaidie, the night's gaun to 
 
 fa'; 
 Come in frae the cauld blast, the drift and the 
 
 snaw; 
 Come under my plaidie and sit down beside me, 
 There's room in't, dear lassie, believe me, for 
 twa." 
 
 Yes, she would get in under Aunt Zil- 
 lah's plaidie and she would let the dear old lady 
 know that she was grateful to her for having 
 asked her. So, when she had drunk the warm 
 fresh milk and been tucked in her bed, she put 
 her arms around Aunt Zillah's wrinkled neck 
 and gave her a long, long hug. 
 
 "We'll never, never go back on each other, 
 will we?" she whispered tremulously. 
 
 "Never, lass, never," responded the old lady, 
 the tears dripping from her eyes on Annie 
 Laurie's upturned face. So, sweetened by a sor- 
 row, which was after all but a natural and right 
 sorrow such as must come to all, Annie Laurie 
 sank into the dead sleep of grief. 
 
 The next few days were blurred and strange. 
 Friends came to the house. Flowers arrived in 
 
THE MYSTERY 133 
 
 boxes. There were many telephone messages. 
 The aunts were called up from the telegraph 
 office. There was business to do at the cemetery ; 
 arrangements to make at the church. Through 
 it all, Annie Laurie strove to do her part. There 
 would be time enough for grieving afterward, 
 she decided. The thing now was not to let too 
 heavy a burden fall on her aunts, who were, as 
 Annie Laurie seemed to discover for the first 
 time, really getting to be old ladies. 
 
 But at last it all was over. The house was 
 quiet and peaceful. And the help on the farm 
 came to Miss Adnah for instructions. 
 
 It must have been three days after the funeral 
 that Mr. Carson called one afternoon and asked 
 to see Annie Laurie and her aunts. It was like 
 him, in his thoughtfullness to include her, Annie 
 Laurie thought. She did not know that Charles 
 Carson, who liked almost everybody and who 
 had the best will in the world toward all man- 
 kind, nevertheless, knowing as much of human 
 nature as he did, thought it best to take her at 
 once into council concerning matters that would 
 affect her future life. 
 
 He was received in the stifif little parlor, the 
 two sisters sitting opposite him in prim dignity, 
 
134 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 and Annie Laurie instinctively putting her chair 
 near his. 
 
 "I am sure you will pardon me for speaking 
 to you concerning your affairs," he said in his 
 hearty way. "I would not venture to do so un- 
 invited, were it not a matter that in a way con- 
 cerns me also." 
 
 "Yes, sir," said Miss Adnah and Miss Zillah 
 in unison. Annie Laurie fixed her reddish- 
 brown eyes upon him with devotion, and said 
 nothing. 
 
 "The day before Mr. Pace died," he went on, 
 "I paid him twenty thousand dollars in cash," 
 
 Annie Laurie stared; the sisters started. 
 
 "It seemed to me foolish enough to pass such 
 a sum of money over in simple currency, but as 
 you probably know, your brother" — he was now 
 addressing himself to the elder ladies — "had a 
 prejudice against banks. I wished to give him 
 my check. He said he had no use for checks. 
 He wanted money. It was a curious idiosyn- 
 crasy of his, but since he wished it that way I 
 humored him. He put the roll of bills into his 
 pocket — I paid the money to him at Mr. Heller's 
 bank — and drove away with it. That was Sat- 
 urday afternoon. He died Sunday. I have 
 
THE MYSTERY 135 
 
 come to inquire — with only neighborly motives, 
 I beg you to believe — whether or not you have 
 seen anything of that roll of bills." 
 
 There was a slight pause. Then: 
 
 "I have seen nothing of it, sir," said Miss 
 Adnah. 
 
 "Nor I, sir," added Miss Zillah. 
 
 ''Oh, and there must have been more money," 
 broke in Annie Laurie, "much, much more! I 
 know papa always had a lot, Mr. Carson, but I 
 haven't an idea where he kept it. None of us 
 had. If we ever asked him for money he would 
 go away for a time and presently come back with 
 the bills he meant to give us. He had some 
 place where he hid it, and I used to think he 
 ought to tell some one of us where it was." 
 
 "I should think so, indeed," said Mr. Carson 
 rather heatedly. "Then you haven't any of you 
 a notion where he kept his funds?" 
 
 "Not an earthly ideal" cried Annie Laurie. 
 
 "We haven't the faintest notion, sir," said Miss 
 Adnah. "I will confess now that sister and I 
 got up in the night — last night it was — and 
 looked everywhere in his room. We even lifted 
 the edges of the carpet and took the back ofif the 
 steel engravings. We looked, of course, in the 
 
136 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 bureau, and the chest and the closet. We found 
 nothing. It was our intention to begin to-night 
 searching in the other rooms of the house." 
 
 "But why in the night, ladies?" 
 
 Miss Adnah looked rather offended, as if Mr. 
 Carson had gone a little too far in asking such 
 questions. But Miss Zillah broke out with: 
 
 "Oh, you see, sir, it seemed so silly and ab- 
 surd for us to have to do a thing like that. My 
 opinion is that brother Simeon should have kept 
 up with the times and used a bank like other 
 men. I hate to have the neighbors know what 
 trouble and embarrassment he has put us to." 
 
 Miss Adnah looked at her sister in amaze- 
 ment. She, who was so gentle of judgment 
 and of speech, was actually criticising a Pace — 
 and her own dead brother at that! But Mr. 
 Carson turned a look of appreciation on the 
 flushed little face of the old lady. 
 
 "The Paces are not all cranks, anyway," was 
 his thought. "This Miss Zillah seems a very 
 sensible sort of a woman — quite fit to be related 
 to Annie Laurie." 
 
 The reflection would have surprised Miss 
 Adnah very much had she known of it, for she 
 regarded herself as a person of singular good 
 
THE MYSTERY 137 
 
 sense. Indeed, she secretly thought that she 
 had, so far as the Paces were concerned, rather 
 a monopoly of it. Zillah she regarded as some- 
 thing of a dreamer, too sentimental, or "soft," 
 as she put it, by half; and she felt very disap- 
 proving when she heard her pass uncompliment- 
 ary judgment upon one of the family. That was 
 a privilege which Miss Adnah reserved for her- 
 self. 
 
 "You see, sir," Miss Zillah went on, blurting 
 out a family secret which Miss Adnah would 
 have starved rather than let anyone know, "we 
 haven't a cent in the world. The small amount 
 which my sister and I had in our purses has 
 been used up during the last few days. We owe 
 for all the expenses of our brother's funeral. 
 Really, I may say that we don't know which 
 way to turn." 
 
 "My dear Miss Zillah," responded Mr. Car- 
 son, "I will place a sum of money at your dis- 
 posal immediately." 
 
 Why, Miss Adnah wondered, did he turn to 
 Zillah instead of to her? It seemed to her that 
 it ought to be evident to anyone that she was 
 now the head of the house. 
 
 "Moreover," Mr. Carson went on, "I will de- 
 
138 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 posit the sum in the bank and send you the bank 
 book. I know this will be more in accord with 
 your ideas." 
 
 There was a little twinkle in his eye as he 
 said this, but Miss Zillah did not catch it. She 
 was really much flattered that he should think 
 her a person capable of conducting things in a 
 businesslike way, and she would not have shown 
 by the flutter of an eyelash how frightened she 
 really was at the suggestion. 
 
 "Then," continued Mr. Carson, "our next 
 business will be to find that money. I propose 
 that you call in one or two trusty neighbors, not 
 given to gossiping, and that they assist you in 
 looking over the premises. The money must 
 be here somewhere. It merely devolves on us 
 to find it." 
 
 Miss Adnah made a gesture of distress. 
 
 "I don't believe, sir," she said, "that you can 
 have any notion of how intensely distressing it 
 is to us to do such a thing. And I may say that 
 we have no neighbors who wouldn't gossip. If 
 you have any such, please show them to me." 
 
 Annie Laurie, who knew her Aunt Adnah's 
 tempestuous nature, saw that a storm was ris- 
 ing, and she cast about for a way of diverting it. 
 
THE MYSTERY 139 
 
 ''Aunt Adnah," she broke in, "let Azalea 
 and Carin help us hunt. You know if it's a 
 secret they'll never, never, tell it. We've pledged 
 ourselves to keep each other's secrets, you see. 
 And no one can look as hard as we girls can. 
 We're like ferrets." 
 
 "An excellent idea, Miss Pace," said Mr. Car- 
 son, nodding at Aunt Adnah. "Let the mem- 
 bers of the Triple Alliance have a hand at it. 
 It will seem natural enough for Annie Laurie's 
 friends to be here with her in her trouble; the 
 girls will tell nothing; and their keen young 
 wits are the best ones imaginable to set at this 
 task." 
 
 Upon consultation it struck the sisters that this 
 would be the case. Bad as it would be to have 
 three "young-ones" ranging over their orderly 
 house, tearing up this and that, they would at 
 least take the thing only as a sort of game. They 
 wouldn't be ill-natured and sneering about it 
 as their elders might be. 
 
 So it was agreed that they would accept Mr. 
 Carson's offer of a generous loan of money, and 
 that on Saturday the three girls were to start in 
 under the direction of the Misses Pace, and 
 make a search of both house and yard. 
 
I40 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 "Their eyes certainly are sharper than ours, 
 Adnah," Miss Zillah said. 
 
 "Yes," snapped Miss Adnah, worn and weary 
 with the difficulties of life, "they're sharp 
 enough. Oh, Zillah, Zillah, why should we 
 Paces be humiliated like this?" 
 
 "No humiliation about it, sister," Miss Zillah 
 replied. "Take things a little easier, Adnah; let 
 some one help us out. We're very much shaken 
 — very much shaken, indeed. We're getting old, 
 and we've had a great sorrow. If folks want to 
 help, why let 'em." 
 
 There was no doubt about it, they were shaken. 
 The excitement and courage that had borne 
 them up at first, failed them as the week went on. 
 Miss Adnah, who had felt herself so able to at- 
 tend to the business of the farm, not only found 
 it beyond her power to give an order, but she 
 found it impossible to fix her mind on the book- 
 keeping, which was a necessary part of the busi- 
 ness. Annie Laurie had been obliged to consult 
 with the help after her school hours, and to 
 straighten out the accounts as best she could dur- 
 ing the evening. They felt the need of a strong, 
 quiet man of afifairs — a good, reliable overseer 
 — but the men who were helping them were not 
 
THE MYSTERY 141 
 
 of that sort, and they knew of no one in the coun- 
 try who seemed to meet their need. 
 
 Saturday morning by nine o'clock, according 
 to Annie Laurie's invitation, Azalea and Carin 
 arrived on their ponies. These being given to 
 the stable men, the two girls, in no little awe at 
 entering a house of sorrow, came in to pay their 
 respects to Miss Zillah and her sister. The two 
 sat shivering before the fire, tearful and nervous, 
 and even Miss Adnah was now willing to give 
 over the search for their lost fortune into the 
 hands of these respectful and sympathetic girls. 
 
 "At first, my dear girls," said Aunt Zillah 
 brokenly, "it seemed as if we couldn't let anyone 
 in to help us and it's hard enough now, but we'd 
 rather it would be you than anyone." 
 
 "Oh, Miss Zillah," cried Azalea in her im- 
 pulsive way, "we understand just how you feel. 
 But Annie Laurie's fortune just must be found, 
 mustn't it? Why, it's a quest, you know. A 
 sacred quest — like you read about." 
 
 That glow which was Azalea's greatest 
 charm, lit up her dark face and Miss Zillah felt 
 that here was a girl who was one of them. She 
 need fear nothing from her. As for that sweet- 
 faced Carson girl, with her golden hair and her 
 
142 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 lovely voice, how could anyone do anything but 
 trust her? Yes, it was all as it should be. They 
 were old women and must give their cares into 
 the hands of others. 
 
 So the three girls began their never-to-be-for- 
 gotten search for Annie Laurie's lost fortune. 
 
 Although the aunts had gone over the dead 
 man's room, they thought best to begin there. 
 So thorough was their search that they even 
 ripped open the lining of his coats; they looked 
 in his shoes; they investigated his hat linings. 
 Nothing was found. 
 
 Then they searched the hallways, the pantries 
 and cupboards. They looked throughout the 
 parlor, through the living room, through the 
 kitchen. They had one of the men in to pull up 
 the window sills. They took the bricks from 
 the hearth. Nightfall found them wearily 
 searching the dusty debris in the old attic. 
 
 Sunday was a day of rest for all of these peo- 
 ple, but it was very, very hard for them to sit in 
 idleness while their imaginations were rioting 
 through the Pace property, searching out every 
 corner and cubbyhole for the lost money. Nat- 
 urally enough, Monday found the girls in no 
 condition to settle down to their studies, and as 
 
THE MYSTERY 143 
 
 Mrs. Carson said, it was so much more impor- 
 tant that the money should be found than that 
 they should learn a lesson or two, that they were 
 excused from school and permitted to resume 
 their search. 
 
 The yard was their point of attack this morn- 
 ing. They looked over every inch of it, but 
 nowhere did they see anything save the hard, 
 frozen surface. No hollow tree offered a place 
 for hiding. The solid substructure of the house 
 forbade them to hope for anything there. Next 
 they went to the barns, the stables and out- 
 houses, but here the prospect was discouraging 
 indeed. 
 
 "Besides," said Annie Laurie, "when papa 
 wanted to get money for any purpose he always 
 went to his own room and locked the door. It 
 seemed as if he must have kept it with him." 
 
 "But how can that be," argued Carin, drop- 
 ping white and worn into her chair — they were 
 in Annie Laurie's room, — "when nothing has 
 been found anywhere about his clothes? Why, 
 the only pocketbook he appeared to have was 
 that little one for silver. Didn't you ever see 
 him with a large leather pocketbook, Annie?" 
 
 "Never," said Annie Laurie. "Never." 
 
144 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 "But now, when papa paid him that twenty 
 thousand dollars," Carin insisted. "Do you sup- 
 pose he brought that home in his hand the way 
 a child would a penny, or rolled it up in his 
 pocket where it could fall out any minute? It 
 doesn't seem reasonable; honestly it doesn't." 
 
 And then, suddenly. Azalea had a vision. She 
 saw a man come into a dark room — a room 
 lighted only by a flickering fire. She saw him 
 lay aside his coat, unscrew his tin arm, take 
 something from the mantel shelf, place it within, 
 then replace the arm and the coat. She remem- 
 bered how he had asked her if she ever dreamed, 
 and how she had said she never told her dreams, 
 and he had said that was right. And she had 
 remembered the look that had gone from him 
 to her and back again — a look which was a prom- 
 ise on her part not to tell what she had seen and 
 a message from him of confidence in her. She 
 sat rigid, going over the scene again before she 
 spoke. When she did the girls hardly recog- 
 nized her voice. 
 
 "I know!" she said — not very loud. 
 
 "You know?" The others cried it together. 
 
 "He kept his money in his tin arm." 
 
 "No!" 
 
THE MYSTERY 145 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "How do you know?" 
 
 *T saw him put some there once." 
 
 "When?" 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 "The night Annie Laurie and I fell asleep on 
 the sofa." 
 
 "Tell me more, 'Zalie." 
 
 "Yes, yes, I will. I'll tell you everything. 
 Oh, Annie Laurie, was the tin arm buried with 
 him?" 
 
 "No — no, I'm sure it wasn't. It was hanging 
 on a nail in his bedroom the day after he was 
 buried, but the aunts couldn't bear to see it there 
 and they carried it to the attic." 
 
 "Then the money couldn't have been in it after 
 all." 
 
 "Oh, it might still be there. Let's go see." 
 
 Up to the attic they went, trembling with 
 eagerness. There, sure enough, from a beam 
 hung the tin arm. Annie Laurie could not quite 
 bring herself to touch it. It seemed almost like 
 a part of her father. But Azalea took it down, 
 convinced that she was right. She looked into 
 it; carried it to one of the windows and looked 
 
146 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 again. She ran her fingers into the hand of it. 
 
 She turned her disappointed face toward her 
 friends. There was nothing there. 
 
 "All the same," she said with earnestness, "it 
 was there." 
 
 "But then some one has taken it out." 
 
 "That's it," said Carin. "Some one has taken 
 it out." 
 
 "Not the aunts!" cried Annie Laurie, fiercely. 
 
 "Oh, mercy no," agreed Azalea, "not the 
 aunts." 
 
 "But who else handled the arm?" asked 
 Carin. 
 
 Annie Laurie stood thinking. Then a deep 
 flush spread over her face. 
 
 "I — I don't — who else could have?" she stam- 
 mered. She couldn't bear to place anyone under 
 suspicion. 
 
 But Azalea was more impulsive. 
 
 "Why Mr. Disbrow, the undertaker, of 
 course," she said. "He must have taken it ofif. 
 He must have — " she stopped and the three 
 stared at each other. 
 
 And then Annie Laurie remembered how he 
 had crowded by her in the hall, not speaking, 
 and looking the other way. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 THE DISBROWS 
 
 The three girls made up their minds to tell 
 no one of their suspicions concerning the dis- 
 appearance of Simeon Pace's money. But Aza- 
 lea could not but talk it over with Pa McBirney, 
 and Thomas McBirney could not resist cogitat- 
 ing about the matter with Haystack Thompson, 
 and he, in turn, was impelled to go with it to 
 his trusted pastor, Absalom Summers. And 
 Absalom whispered it to his Barbara, and Bar- 
 bara — but perhaps she told no one. In look- 
 ing the matter over afterward, she was almost 
 sure that she had told no one. At least she 
 hadn't told of it right out. And Carin spoke 
 of it only to her father; and he mentioned it 
 merely to the banker Heller, and he only spoke 
 of it to his fellow officers in the bank, and they 
 told no one but their intimate friends. 
 
 As for Annie Laurie, she refrained with a 
 mighty effort from confiding her suspicions to 
 her aunts, and she warned her friends not to tell 
 
 147 
 
148 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 them. Had they mulled that matter over and 
 over during the long, lonely winter evenings, 
 the poor girl would have felt as if she were losing 
 her reason as well as her fortune. Indeed, the 
 winter had settled down heavily over the Pace 
 household. The dairy met with reverses. Two 
 of the best cows died. The accounts would 
 not balance. And worst of all, the helpers 
 were hard to manage and would not take orders 
 willingly from Miss Adnah. The strong will 
 and hand of Simeon Pace were sorely missed. 
 And along with all this distress was the sense 
 that Annie Laurie and her aunts had of burn- 
 ing injustice. Somewhere in the world was 
 money in abundance, belonging to them. Just 
 how much it was they could not even guess. Of 
 Mr. Carson's purchase money of twenty thou- 
 sand dollars they felt sure. He had Simeon 
 Pace's receipt to show for that. But there was 
 other money beyond question — the savings of 
 years. The old aunts, waking in the night, would 
 arise and fumble in the places in which they had 
 looked so often; and Annie Laurie, strong and 
 sensible as she was, found that it required all 
 of her will to keep from following their ex- 
 ample. 
 
THE DISBROWS 149 
 
 This girl, so straightforward, so energetic and 
 hopeful by nature, found it almost intolerable to 
 sit around, patient under injustice. She pro- 
 posed to Mr. Carson that he should go to Hector 
 Disbrow and accuse him of the theft of the 
 money — tell him the whole thing was known, 
 and that he must refund it or be arrested. But 
 Mr. Carson shook his head. 
 
 "As a matter of fact, my dear," he said, "the 
 thing isn't known at all. It is only surmised. 
 Azalea, in semi-darkness, thought she saw your 
 father put something in his arm. She may have 
 been mistaken. Or even if she were not mistaken 
 about his doing so on that particular occasion, it 
 doesn't in the least follow that your father car- 
 ried the money in question there. Above all, it 
 does not follow that it was in the arm the day of 
 his death; or that, even if it was there, that the 
 undertaker stole it. The tin arm must have 
 hung in the room for days. Many persons visited 
 that room. Any one of them might be guilty." 
 
 "Then is there nothing at all that can be done, 
 sir?" 
 
 "Nothing at present. I am watching Disbrow 
 — indeed, I may say the whole community has 
 
I50 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 him under suspicion. If he is guilty be sure 
 that sooner or later it will come out." 
 
 "But here we are, getting deeper and deeper 
 in debt to you!" 
 
 *'Annie Laurie, I am convinced that every 
 cent I have advanced you will be paid back to 
 me in time. You are a brave girl. I trust you 
 completely. I feel that you are going to make a 
 success of life. Meantime, you are living on 
 borrowed capital. B/ut so are thousands of 
 others. Back of it all, you must remember, is 
 the fine farm as security. It is a perfectly clear 
 business proposition. Have no fears, child." 
 
 She strengthened under the tone he used in 
 speaking to her. If he had pitied her, she would 
 have broken down, but he merely put it to her 
 that she was playing her part in the world, and 
 she braced herself to play that part well and not 
 disappoint him or any of her other friends. 
 
 She tried to avoid Sam Disbrow, yet it seemed 
 to be her luck to meet him oftener than usual. 
 He was very sorry for her, she could see, and 
 he assumed his brightest and heartiest manner 
 when he was with her, in his efforts to help her 
 to be happy. 
 
 One day when there was a feeling of spring 
 
THE DISBROWS 151 
 
 in the air, and she had gone along one of the little 
 winding paths through the pine wood, she met 
 him with his gun on his shoulder and his dogs at 
 his heels. 
 
 "Why, Annie Laurie," he cried, "are you out 
 hunting too?" 
 
 The deep suspicion and anger she felt toward 
 his father put some irritation into her tone as 
 she said: 
 
 "And why are you hunting, Sam? I thought 
 you were w^orking in the box factory office." 
 
 "Well, so I was. You see, I had finished 
 school here and dad couldn't afford to send me 
 away. I might have gone anyway, and somehow 
 worked my way through Rutherford Academy, 
 but Hannah said I oughtn't to leave mother. So 
 I stayed — though it didn't seem to me quite the 
 best thing to do. But now, suddenly, dad says 
 I'm to go away to school. At first I refused. I 
 was afraid it would mean pinching and scrimp- 
 ing for all the rest of them at home. But dad 
 said, no, things were a little easier with him now, 
 and I'd better take the chance while I had it." 
 
 Annie Laurie stood before him in the path 
 staring, while Sam waited in vain for her con- 
 gratulations. 
 
1^2 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 "So, yesterday," he went on in a somewhat 
 dashed tone, "a fellow came to the factory look- 
 ing for work. He said he needed it very badly 
 — had his mother to look after. So I spoke up 
 and said I was leaving to go into the Rutherford 
 Academy at the spring term, and that I'd get 
 out and let him have my place. You see, there 
 were a number of things I wanted to do around 
 home before I went away. And I was just crazy 
 to get off in the hills for a day or two. That's 
 the way with us down here, isn't it, Annie 
 Laurie? We can keep under roof only about so 
 long. Then we have to go roving for a spell." 
 
 Annie Laurie hardly heard what he said. She 
 could with difficulty keep from breaking out 
 with: 
 
 "But where is the money coming from that is 
 to send you away to the academy? Didn't you 
 ask your father how he came by this money so 
 suddenly? Have 5^ou no notion of what he has 
 done to earn this money? Can you be living 
 a lie — just as he is?" 
 
 There swept back to her memory the words 
 the minister had said that day in church when 
 she had caught Sam's eye, and had known what 
 he was thinking. 
 
THE DISBROWS 153 
 
 "Plant a lie in the garden of your soul," he 
 had said, "and it will flourish worse than any- 
 poisonous weed. Do not think you can uproot 
 it when you will, for it will grow and grow till 
 it is stronger than you, and not all your prayers 
 and tears can rend its terrible roots out of your 
 life." 
 
 Sam had wondered, as she had, why the 
 preacher should have talked like that to a con- 
 gregation of good people. For they had all 
 seemed good to her; but now she realized that 
 if the Disbrows were living a lie perhaps other 
 persons whom she knew and liked were doing 
 so, too. For the first time in Annie Laurie's 
 life a tidal wave of suspicion, distrust and hatred 
 of the world swept over her, and it seemed like 
 a wicked place — a place made up of beings who 
 tried to injure each other. 
 
 She felt so ill that she leaned against a tree. 
 
 Sam seemed to take no notice, however. He 
 was watching his dogs, and talking on and on 
 in his cheerful way. 
 
 "And another fine thing is going to happen," 
 he said. "Dad has got up spunk enough at last 
 to send Hannah up to Williamsburg to have her 
 eyes operated upon, and sis has found the courage 
 
1^4 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 to go. Do you know, I believe that after she 
 gets those poor eyes of hers straightened she 
 won't be so shy and queer as she is now. I sup- 
 pose she loathes going out where she'll meet 
 people, when she has to look all over the premises 
 whenever she tries to fix her eyes on the person 
 she's talking to. Then, if dad could only get 
 some one in to take care of poor mother, Hannah 
 could go away to school too, perhaps, and grow 
 to be a little more like other folks." 
 
 Annie Laurie knew that Sam would not have 
 talked about his own people in this free way to 
 anyone but her. The two had spoken out their 
 minds to each other for years, and it had come 
 to be second nature for them to do it. 
 
 And now here they were with a black secret 
 between them. She, Annie Laurie, who had 
 meant always to be Sam's true friend, was sus- 
 picious of him! Yet she could not look at him, 
 standing there smiling in the spring sunlight, 
 his eyes full of enthusiasm, and think him guilty 
 of any knowledge of wrong-doing on the part of 
 his father. 
 
 How very, very strange life seemed 1 Once 
 she had thought it like a road. One had only 
 to walk ahead, doing right and nodding to the 
 
THE DISBROWS 155 
 
 passers-by, and all would be well. Now she saw 
 how it twisted, turned, and split — this road — 
 and how difficult it was to tell which turning to 
 take, or which by-path to seek. 
 
 Then an impulse came over her almost as 
 strong and swift as one of those which were for- 
 ever besetting Azalea. 
 
 "Sam," she said, "I haven't been in your house 
 for years. Do you know, I would like to go. 
 I'd like to go now. Do you think I might?" 
 
 Sam flushed a little and hesitated a moment. 
 
 "Why, yes, Annie, I don't know why you 
 shouldn't. Mother doesn't see many people, as 
 you know; and they won't be expecting you, but 
 if you'll take things as you find them — " 
 
 "Oh, yes, Sam," she aid dryly. "That's just 
 what I mean. I want to take them as they are. 
 I want to get acquainted with your family." 
 
 He looked pleased and softened at that. 
 
 "Do you, Annie Laurie?" he said with a little 
 thrill in his voice. "Well, that sure is nice of 
 you. Not very many of the neighbors seem to 
 care whether they live or die. Come along, 
 then. Let's go now." 
 
 So they turned in the direction of the Disbrow 
 house, Annie Laurie leading and Sam walking 
 
156 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 behind, nervously smiling, the dogs at his heels. 
 
 They turned in at the Disbrow place, pass- 
 ing through the sagging gate, and Sam uttered 
 his first apology. 
 
 "I've tried and tried to get that old gate to 
 Stay up on the level," he said. "But seems like 
 we never have the proper tools to do anything 
 w^ith ; and anyhow, the w^ood's so rotten it won't 
 hold a nail, hardly." 
 
 "Oh, a sagging gate is nothing," answered 
 Annie Laurie dully. 
 
 The little garden had not yet felt the influence 
 of spring, and it looked dejected enough. Frag- 
 ments of last year's mosquito netting dangled at 
 the windows; the paint of the little house was 
 weather-worn; the arms were off the bench on 
 the porch. Green shades kept the light from 
 making its way into the low rooms. Indeed, so 
 dim was the room into which Annie Laurie 
 stepped that at first she could see nothing. The 
 heat was fairly sweltering, and the atmosphere 
 was lifeless and stale-smelling. 
 
 "Mother," said Sam gently, "IVe brought a 
 friend to see you — Annie Laurie Pace." 
 
 "Oh," sighed a voice from the gloom, strug- 
 gling between reproachfulness and natural 
 
THE DISBROWS 157 
 
 politeness, "have you? How do you do, Annie 
 Laurie?" 
 
 "I'm very well, thank, you ma'am. Are you 
 feeling any better?" 
 
 "No — no, I don't seem to get any better. Sam, 
 you'll have to pull up a shade. Annie Laurie 
 won't be able to see a thing." 
 
 Annie Laurie closed her eyes for an instant. 
 She dreaded what she would see, and yet she 
 had long wished to know the truth — to know 
 what Sam's strange home was like. She heard 
 the shade being raised, and with something of 
 an effort she opened her eyes and looked about. 
 What she saw gave her a shock. Her own home 
 was ugly enough, as she knew well ; but poverty 
 was here, and worse than poverty — indifference 
 to appearances. The almost bare apartment 
 wore that dejected and unhappy aspect of a room 
 for which no one cares and in which no one 
 hopes. It was a sad room — a sick room — with a 
 long couch and its occupant for the chief ob- 
 jects. 
 
 Yes, the couch was long and wide, though the 
 woman who lay on it was so small. Figured 
 brown calico covered the bed, and the woman 
 was dressed in a wrapper of faded blue. There 
 
158 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 was no collar about her throat — only the coarse 
 open neck-band, showing a shriveled neck. 
 Her face was bloodless and bleached like 
 a vegetable that has grown in the dark, and out 
 of it looked a pair of weary eyes, beneath which 
 were deep, dark circles. Her hair — brown, 
 touched with gray — was brushed back straight 
 and flat from her bulging brow, and this, with 
 her high-arched eyebrows, gave her an almost 
 Chinese look. Her hands, thinner and more 
 apathetic than any hands Annie Laurie ever had 
 seen, lay on the calico cover. 
 
 "It's not very often I have light let in here," 
 she said. "It makes my head ache so." 
 
 Annie Laurie did not say that she ought not to 
 have let it in for her, if that was the case. She 
 couldn't really feel that this w^as the case. She 
 was glad the light was in the room for once, and 
 by it, she moved toward Mrs. Disbrow's bed, 
 her hand outstretched with something almost 
 like satisfaction, for she knew as she looked in 
 that woman's face, that if her fortune had been 
 stolen from her by the undertaker, his wife did 
 not know it. She was as convinced of this woman's 
 innocence when she looked at her, as she was of 
 her pitiful condition. So she took one of the 
 
THE DISBROWS 159 
 
 claw-like hands in her own strong grasp and sat 
 down beside her. Mrs. Disbrow's face was 
 quivering with the excitement of meeting a 
 stranger. 
 
 "Sam often talks of you," said his mother in 
 her fluttering voice. "I've been wanting to see 
 you. You're a strong, fine girl, Annie." 
 
 "Yes, I'm strong and well," the girl answered. 
 "I'm very thankful." 
 
 "Well, I haven't known a well day for years," 
 said the invalid. "Here I lie, racked with pain, 
 and I declare I don't know whether it's one day 
 or another." 
 
 Annie Laurie felt herself bracing against this 
 discouraged tone. 
 
 "Well," she said, "I don't suppose you really 
 have to worry about what day it is. You have 
 nothing to do — no Monday washing to think of, 
 or Saturday baking. Some one else does all that 
 for you." 
 
 She spoke merely to present a cheerful side, 
 but Mrs. Disbrow flushed a trifle. Annie Laurie 
 saw that she had said something that annoyed 
 her. 
 
 "Yes," the sick woman replied still more de- 
 jectedly, "I'm nothing but a drag on my family. 
 
i6o ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 I often say to them that it would be better if I 
 was out of their way." 
 
 "I don't suppose that makes them very happy 
 — hearing you say that." Annie Laurie replied 
 in her hearty way. It really seemed to her as 
 if that was the unkindest thing a mother could 
 say to her children. "If only I could have my 
 mother, sick or well, or any way at all, I'd be the 
 happiest girl in the world. It's terribly lonely 
 being without a mother — or a father," she added 
 almost in a whisper. 
 
 Mrs. Disbrow reached out her hand and laid 
 it on Annie Laurie's. 
 
 "Poor girl," she murmured with what was al- 
 most her first thought of anyone save herself, 
 that winter. 
 
 "And — Oh, I feel so sorry for Sam and Han- 
 nah, with you ill always," went on Annie Laurie. 
 "Of course it spoils their happiness. It seems 
 such a pity! Isn't there anything that can be 
 done, Mrs. Disbrow? Doesn't any doctor know 
 how to cure you? Haven't you any idea your- 
 self of what ought to be done?" 
 
 "Well, my husband talks of going West soon,** 
 answered Mrs. Disbrow with something like 
 vivacity — or rather, like a shadow of it. "I'm 
 
THE DISBROWS i6i 
 
 looking forward to that. If we could get to a 
 new place and to a new house, and if there was 
 something to look forward to, and hope for the 
 children to make something of themselves, I 
 don't know — maybe — " her voice trailed off and 
 her eyes fixed themselves in an aimless reverie on 
 the opposite wall. 
 
 So they were going West! That was the plan. 
 The man who had been unable to give his family 
 a chance, who had been broken by this long ill- 
 ness of his wife's, who had failed to make his 
 place among men, was going West. His chance 
 had come to him at last. Had it come through 
 theft? Annie Laurie found herself wishing that 
 they might indeed have the chance, these poor 
 people who seemed never to have been able to 
 step out into the sunshine. Yet had they a right 
 to this chance — if it meant her defeat? Could 
 she let them go this way, while she was left to 
 struggle with poverty? 
 
 The door opened and a girl entered. Han- 
 nah! She was so slender that Annie Laurie, 
 who was broad of shoulder, with a backbone that 
 might have been made of steel, wondered how 
 the poor thing managed to keep upright. Her 
 face was ivory-colored, her frock an ill-fitting 
 
i62 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 gingham of a hideous "watermelon" pink. She 
 turned her dreadfully crossed eyes on Annie 
 Laurie — or to be correct, turned one of them on 
 her — and looked at her resentfully. 
 
 "This is sister Hannah, Annie Laurie," said 
 Sam in rather a stifled voice. "You two girls 
 ought to know each other, you know." 
 
 "How do you do?" said Hannah, miserable 
 with shyness. 
 
 "Oh, I'm pretty well, thank you, Hannah," 
 Annie Laurie answered, and then she added: 
 "But I can't say I'm very happy. You wouldn't 
 expect that. I'm very, very lonely without my 
 father." 
 
 She had risen and stood before the girl, with 
 her bald little statement of sorrow, and Hannah, 
 forgetting herself and her fears for a moment, 
 looked up at Annie Laurie with sympathy in 
 her face. 
 
 "Oh," she said, "it's too bad. I — I cried after 
 I heard of it." 
 
 She seemed astonished at herself for saying 
 so much, and Sam looked at her with amaze- 
 ment. Had Hannah actually cried over some 
 one else's troubles? 
 
THE DISBROWS 163 
 
 "Did you?" exclaimed Annie Laurie. "Oh, 
 that was sweet of you, Hannah." 
 
 She forgot her Aunt Adnah's axiom that the 
 Paces seldom kissed, and leaned forward and 
 planted a warm kiss on Hannah's cheek. 
 
 "I like to know that," she went on. "You sec 
 I feel so — so friendless." 
 
 "Why, with your aunts and all?" inquired 
 Mrs. Dish row. 
 
 "I feel as if I ought to be protecting my aunts, 
 you see," explained Annie. "They are old and 
 terribly broken by father's death. And then, 
 everything has gone so wrong with us. We 
 haven't been able to find father's money any- 
 where, you know, and we're really poor. We've 
 no money to run the dairy on, and the men need 
 overseeing, and I've blundered along with my 
 bad bookkeeping. Altogether, it looks as if 
 things were going to ruin, and I just can't bear 
 that, Mrs. Disbrow." 
 
 "Why, you've always been so prosperous!" 
 exclaimed Mrs. Disbrow. "My husband often 
 has spoken of how prosperous your father 
 was, and has contrasted him with himself. 
 You see, Mr. Disbrow never has got on well 
 here. His farm has paid poorly, and of course 
 
i64 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 the undertaking business is of very little conse- 
 quence in a community like this. I declare I 
 can't blame him for being discouraged and bit- 
 ter and sort of half-hating the men who are suc- 
 cessful. It's hard to like people when every- 
 thing is going against you." 
 
 Annie Laurie swept her glance around the 
 room again, taking in the brother and sister, and 
 resting it at last on the sick woman. 
 
 "I suppose it is," she said slowly. "I suppose 
 it is. But Mrs. McBirney says you have to give 
 out liking to have people like you, and that you 
 have to think you are going to succeed in order 
 to do it." 
 
 "And you have to think well in order to be 
 well, I suppose," said the invalid angrily. "I 
 suppose that's her idea. Well, you can tell her 
 for me that she's mistaken." 
 
 Annie Laurie did not look rebuked. She sat 
 still, thinking. 
 
 "I know so little about sickness," she said 
 slowly, "that I can't even sympathize the way 
 I ought to, I suppose. Oh, Mrs. Disbrow, don't 
 you suppose you could go riding with me? I'm 
 such a good driver, I wouldn't let you be shaken 
 
THE DISBROWS 165 
 
 up at all. Sam and Hannah could sit beside 
 you to keep you from being joggled." 
 
 "A pretty sight I'd makel" cried Mrs. Dis- 
 brow. "There's too many of the neighbors 
 would be peeking out to see what I looked like, 
 after all these years of being shut away. No, 
 thank you, child, I don't believe I want to try." 
 
 "But you could go at twilight. We could go 
 when the neighbors are at supper. Wouldn't 
 it be fun, Sam? Could you sit up, ma'am?" 
 
 "No, I don't believe I could. And even if I 
 did, like as not I'd pay for it the next day." 
 
 "But why not try? Maybe you wouldn't have 
 to pay for it. Oh, ma'am, it's so wonderful to 
 be out of doors. You can't think what you miss 
 staying in here — can she, Sam?" 
 
 "No," said Sam, "she can't have an idea. Oh, 
 mother, you never would listen to me, though 
 truly I believe you'd be ever so much better if 
 you would get out. Please try. The three of us 
 will be able to take good care of you." 
 
 There was a moment's silence, and then the 
 boy flung out his arms with sudden passion. 
 
 "Oh, mother, mother, please try! Why need 
 we all be so unhappy? Why can't we have a lit- 
 tle joy like other people?" 
 
i66 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 Annie Laurie felt the tears leap into her eyes. 
 She had never before seen Sam as other than 
 the cheerful, hearty boy, but now she knew that 
 the cheerfulness and heartiness had been an imi- 
 tation of the real thing. They had been but his 
 courage masquerading as something else. 
 
 Mrs. Disbrow raised herself on her elbow and 
 looked at her son. Suddenly a great light broke 
 over her. She had not been the only sufferer 
 in that house. Before her were the two whose 
 youth she had shadowed with her pain. 
 
 "I'll go," she said in a strange voice. *'When 
 shall it be?" 
 
 "Now," cried Annie Laurie. "I'll run right 
 home and have the men hitch up. Oh, Hannah, 
 be sure she's dressed warm enough. I'll have 
 something warm put in for her feet. Oh, Sam, 
 maybe she'll like it!" 
 
 She turned toward the boy with outstretched 
 hands and he caught and held them for a mo- 
 ment. Then she was off, running as fast as she 
 could to serve the people into whose house she 
 had gone with the motives of a spy. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 SAM 
 
 Of course Annie Laurie told Azalea and 
 Carin all about it as the three sat together the 
 next day after luncheon, in the schoolroom. 
 
 "Papa said he'd seen you," Carin answered. 
 "He was horseback riding and late getting 
 home, and he said he saw you out with the Dis- 
 brows, and that Mrs. Disbrow looked like a 
 ghost that had got back to earth and didn't like 
 it very well. But he thought you were wonder- 
 ful to do that. He didn't quite see how you could, 
 feeling as you do, but he thought it lovely of 
 you just the same." 
 
 "Well," said Annie Laurie. "You see I didn't 
 feel quite the way I thought I did when I saw 
 that poor woman and Hannah; and then poor 
 Sam looked at me as if he thought I could set 
 his world right if I only would." 
 
 "It's a terribly twisted world," mused Azalea. 
 "Now, what if poor little Hannah has her eyes 
 straightened, and Sam goes to college, and Mrs. 
 
 167 
 
i68 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 Disbrow gets her health out West all out of the 
 money that was stolen from you, Annie Laurie? 
 Those are all good things to have happen." 
 
 "Yes, they are," answered Annie Laurie with- 
 out anger. "They are good things. But you 
 remember what Elder Mills said that last night 
 about avoiding lies in word and act. I remem- 
 ber particularly because it was something like 
 what the preacher had been saying over to the 
 Baptist church only a few Sundays before. It 
 seemed to me they were all harping on that sub- 
 ject, but I begin to see why, now. I can see that 
 all false things are lies — that stealing is a sort 
 of lie — a saying that something is yours which 
 isn't. It will be like that with the Disbrows, 
 I suppose; no matter what good comes to them, 
 it won't seem good — at least not to Mr. Disbrow, 
 who knows the truth about how he came by the 
 money. It's dreadful, when you come to think 
 of it, that a nice boy like Sam should be having 
 things out of that money he's no right to." 
 
 "You oughtn't to speak as if it was an abso- 
 lutely sure thing that he took the money, Annie 
 Laurie," warned Carin. "Papa says we mustn't 
 do that. He says it's a kind of crime in itself 
 
SAM 169 
 
 to accuse people of sins when you're not sure 
 they're guilty." 
 
 "I'll try not to," sighed Annie Laurie peni- 
 tently, "but it's very hard. And, oh, Carin, 
 it's getting to be so sad at the house with the 
 old aunts always talking about the lost money 
 and hunting and hunting for it, and the business 
 going to pieces and I not able to prevent it." 
 
 That night when the Carsons sat at dinner, 
 Carin told her father that Annie Laurie had 
 said Mrs. Disbrow was expecting her husband 
 to take the family West. 
 
 Mr. Carson brought his fist down on the table. 
 
 "Now, that can't be," he cried. "I won't have 
 that! I simply won't. No matter what risk I 
 run of doing the man an injustice, I won't have 
 him leave this community. He's under suspi- 
 cion and he's got to stay here. I'm sorry for 
 him, sometimes, when I see him walk into town 
 and all the men turn their backs on him and 
 walk away. Of course, it isn't really fair — or 
 at least, it may not be fair, for it is possible that 
 he is as innocent as you or I. But if he is guilty, 
 he's getting only a small part of what he de- 
 serves. At any rate, I can understand that he's 
 very uncomfortable in this town nowadays, and 
 
170 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 that he'd like mighty well to get out of it. But 
 he shan't, if I have anything to say about it." 
 
 The next morning, however, Annie Laurie 
 came with startling news. 
 
 "They're gonel" she cried as she dashed into 
 the schoolroom. 
 
 "Who?" the girls asked in unison. 
 
 "The Disbrows." 
 
 "No I" 
 
 "Yes, they have. I was walking along the road 
 and I happened to look over toward their house, 
 and there wasn't any smoke coming from the 
 chimney. And there was something about the 
 place — I can't describe it, because the curtains 
 are forever down anyway — but something that 
 looked deserted. So I pelted across the field and 
 knocked at the door and no one answered. And 
 then I tried the door and it was locked. I saw 
 the chickens were gone, too, and the cow and 
 the horses. They all went in the night." 
 
 "But do you think Sam would let his family 
 act like that?" 
 
 "Sam went to Rutherford yesterday to the 
 academy. No, I don't think he knew a thing 
 about it. He came over after I got home from 
 school to say good-bye, and he was very happy 
 
SAM 171 
 
 and — oh, well — good, you know. No one could 
 have looked as he did if he had thought his 
 father was a thief and his family sneaks." 
 
 "But my goodness," exclaimed Azalea, "don't 
 you suppose he's noticed how the men were 
 treating his father — turning their backs on him 
 and all that? Pa McBirney said he just couldn't 
 bring himself to shake hands with him any 
 more. Don't you suppose Mr. Disbrow ever 
 had spoken of that at home?" 
 
 "He always was bitter and fault-finding any- 
 way," said Annie Laurie. "Mrs. Disbrow told 
 me that. I suppose a little more or less com- 
 plaining wouldn't mean anything to her." 
 
 "But she certainly must have wondered at 
 having the house torn up in an hour or two, and 
 at setting out in the night that way like fugi- 
 tives," said Carin. 
 
 "Oh, well, you know she hated to go out driv- 
 ing with me for fear the neighbors would be 
 peeping at her, so I suppose she was well pleased 
 to go in the night. She'd hate to have folks find 
 out what a poor little handful of things they had, 
 and all that." 
 
 "Of course," said Azalea, "it would be easy 
 enough to find which way they went, by the 
 
172 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 wagon marks. They must have had the cow tied 
 on behind the wagon, and so they could be fol- 
 lowed easily and overtaken if — if you wanted 
 them to be, Annie Laurie." 
 
 "Yes, — I know. If— I wanted them to be." 
 
 The girl sank into a chair and rested her face 
 in her hand, staring straight before her. Azalea 
 and Carin said nothing. They were thinking 
 very, very hard, too. The silence was long and 
 intense. Then they heard Miss Parkhurst's 
 steps approaching down the hall. Annie Laurie 
 struck her two hands together sharply. 
 
 'T can't do it!" she cried. "I can't let Sam's 
 people be chased like that and brought back. 
 I may be wrong, and weak, and not fair to the 
 poor old aunts, but I just can't do it, that's all 
 there is to it." 
 
 Carin and Azalea looked at her with perfect 
 understanding. 
 
 "No," said Carin softly, "you couldn't do that, 
 could you? Plenty of people could, and they'd 
 be just and right — maybe. But you couldn't, 
 and I like you, Annie Laurie, because you can't." 
 
 Azalea clapped her hands. 
 
 "So do I !" she agreed. "It will all come right 
 for you, Annie. That's what dear Ma McBir- 
 
SAM 173 
 
 ney would say if she knew. Somehow it will 
 all come right. But to have that poor, sneaking, 
 miserable man chased, and that sick woman, 
 and little Hannah who is half-frightened out of 
 her life anyway — 00-00-00 1 You couldn't." 
 
 Miss Parkhurst opened the door. The three 
 girls arose respectfully and answered her good 
 morning. 
 
 "Algebra this morning," she said briskly. 
 
 Perforce they turned their thoughts to matters 
 that were anything but exciting. 
 
 But if they could have known the experiences 
 their friend Sam Disbrow was going through, 
 their lesson would have been even poorer than 
 it was — and Miss Parkhurst had already been 
 obliged to tell them that as mathematicians she 
 did not consider them brilliantly successful. 
 
 Sam had set off with a light heart. For the 
 first time in his life he was going away from 
 home — that depressing and melancholy home, 
 against the gloom of which he had set all the 
 forces of his really happy and brave nature. 
 But the home had been too much for him. He 
 could feel it slowly and surely dragging him 
 down into that pit of gloom and distrust where 
 the others lived, and to leave it behind, to have 
 
174 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 a chance to go to school and get the education 
 which he felt he must have if he was to make 
 anything of himself, filled him not only with 
 joy but gratitude. 
 
 Of course, he still wondered how his father 
 had been able to manage it. He knew that they 
 were very poor — that his father had not been 
 able to make a success at anything. His garden 
 never flourished like that of his neighbors; his 
 chickens never laid well; his cow gave only a 
 fraction of the milk she should; his cotton was 
 but a scanty crop; and even as an undertaker, 
 the only one in Lee, he sometimes was passed 
 over for his remote rival in Rutherford. 
 
 Recently things had been going even more 
 wrong than usual. Sam could not explain it, 
 but a general dislike of the whole Disbrow fam- 
 ily seemed to have invaded the town. His father 
 never had been popular, but lately Sam had 
 noticed signs of actual aversion. How was it 
 to be accounted for? If ever the faintest shadow 
 of an idea as to the real reason for this dislike 
 entered Sam's mind, he thrust it out, strangled 
 and unrecognizable, from his consciousness. He 
 believed in his father because he believed in 
 himself. He was not a person to whom suspi- 
 
SAM 175 
 
 cion came naturally, although he had lived in 
 the midst of it all his days. There is a thing 
 called reaction — the sharp turning of the spirit 
 against a condition or an idea. Sam had reacted 
 against the gray dispositions in his family. He 
 was ready to blossom into the scarlet of courage 
 and good will, of power and joy, if only a little 
 sun could shine on him. 
 
 And now it seemed to be shining. He was 
 going away to school as other boys did. There 
 would be a number of fellows he knew, and chief 
 among them would be Richard Heller, the 
 banker's son. He liked Heller. He counted on 
 him to "show him the ropes" at the academy. 
 
 It was a long time since he had been in the 
 smart town of Rutherford. His heart leaped in 
 him as he stepped out from the station, his bag 
 in his hand, and felt the throb of the busy town 
 about him. Automobiles were ranged in line 
 about the station, carriages with well-kept horses 
 stood in the shade beneath the fine elms, the 
 paved streets were clean, the street cars new and 
 fresh looking, and everywhere were busy, active 
 people, moving along with that air of confidence 
 and efficiency which too often was lacking at 
 Lee. And it exhilarated Sam. All that was 
 
176 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 strong and eager in him liked it. He wanted to 
 be a part of a community like that. 
 
 He took the street car that ran to the academy, 
 and sat wrapt in interest at noting the fine homes, 
 the well-kept lawns, the excellent public build- 
 ings. People were doing things here that were 
 worth while, said Sam to himself. And he, in 
 his way, was going to be a part of it. Perhaps 
 he could stay in the Academy till he was gradu- 
 ated — with honors, maybe — and then he would 
 stay on at Rutherford, and become a part of its 
 busy, stirring life. He would have a home like 
 the one he was passing, with tall windows, and 
 the light streaming in through beautiful trees, 
 and a porch like that, with his family sitting 
 out on it in the open, and not hiding away in 
 the shadow. Then there would be bright flowers, 
 like those in that yard, and friends coming and 
 going the way they were from that house. And 
 they would be laughing — Annie Laurie loved to 
 laugh — and sometimes they would eat on the 
 lawn. But he drew himself up with a flush. 
 What had Annie Laurie to do with it all? A 
 girl like that — would she care seriously for one 
 of the queer, shiftless tribe of Disbrow? Sam 
 
SAM 177 
 
 hit his knee angrily. Let him attend to what 
 was before him and stop thinking nonsense. 
 
 He reached the Academy, and walked along 
 under its wonderful white oaks to the Ballenger 
 dormitories, where he knew Heller stayed. Per- 
 haps Heller could get him a room near his own. 
 It was rather a trick to get in the Ballenger dor- 
 mitories and the fellows who succeeded were 
 considered lucky. But perhaps Heller could 
 manage it for him somehow — they always had 
 been good friends. 
 
 He was directed along the corridors, hung 
 with their many pictures, and decorated with 
 plaster casts, to a corner room on the third story. 
 
 He knocked expectantly. 
 
 "Come!" commanded Heller's voice. 
 
 Sam threw open the door. 
 
 "Dick!" he cried, "I've come on to school. 
 What do you think of that?" 
 
 He dropped his suit case and hastened toward 
 Richard with outstretched hand. 
 
 Dick took it silently. His eyes, that used to 
 be so cordial in their glances, turned upon Sam 
 with a scrutinizing look. They searched his 
 drooping face sharply. Then something like 
 the old expression returned. Sam was not slow. 
 
178 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 He saw that something was quite wrong — that 
 Dick had been thinking evil of him in some way, 
 and that now that he had met him face to face, 
 he was finding it difficult to sustain the suspicion. 
 
 "What's the matter, man?" Sam cried. "What 
 are you looking at me like that for? Why don't 
 you speak?" 
 
 "Sit down," answered Dick brusquely. 
 "Something is the matter, Sam, but I'd rather 
 be skinned than tell you what it is. All the same 
 I'm not going to go around snubbing you and 
 leaving you in the dark after all the good times 
 we've had together." 
 
 "I should think not, indeed," cried Sam. 
 "Skin away, old man. Let's have the operation 
 over with." 
 
 Dick, it was evident, dared not give himself 
 time to think. He blurted out what he had to 
 say. 
 
 "My dad wrote me that you were thinking of 
 coming down here to school." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "Well, and he said the neighbors all were 
 wondering where in the dickens your father got 
 the money to send you." 
 
SAM 179 
 
 **I don't know," answered Sam angrily, "that 
 it is any of their blamed business." 
 
 "It mightn't be under some circumstances," 
 Dick went on. "But—" 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "This is where the skinning process comes in." 
 
 "Rip ahead." 
 
 "But they think it mighty queer, you know, 
 that your dad should come into money just at 
 the time that Simeon Pace's money disap- 
 peared." 
 
 Sam was on his feet. 
 
 "Say!" he gasped, "I don't understand." 
 
 "They say," went on Dick, gulping with dis- 
 tress, yet determined to finish the whole story 
 then and there, "that Simeon Pace carried his 
 money in his hollow tin arm, and that your 
 father took that arm from Simeon Pace's body, 
 and helped himself to the money. Now, there 
 you are, and — dang it, Sam, — you'll have to try 
 to forgive me for telling you." 
 
 Sam sank into his seat again and sat star- 
 ing. The little clock on the mantel shelf ticked 
 off the seconds briskly — ticked on and on, and 
 still Sam sat and stared, and Dick waited, hardly 
 daring to breathe. He could see that Sam was 
 
i8o ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 going over the whole situation — was balancing 
 this against that, thinking over the things he had 
 noticed, "sizing up" the situation with his good 
 clear brain. 
 
 Suddenly he got up and seized his suit case. 
 
 "Where you going?" shouted Dick. 
 
 "Home," said Sam quietly. "I'm going 
 home." 
 
 Dick ran forward and, grasping Sam's hand, 
 wrung it with all his strength. 
 
 "Oh, Sam," he cried. "How I wish it could 
 have been otherwise! But I had to tell you. I 
 couldn't let a thing like that lie between us." 
 
 "No," said Sam wearily. "It's got to be 
 cleared up. Living a lie! I remember a sermon 
 — Annie Laurie and I heard it — living a lie! 
 No, I couldn't. Good-bye, Dick. It — it wasn't 
 for me, was it?" He looked about the charming 
 room, and through the window at the great cam- 
 pus. "Good-bye. And — thank you. You did 
 right. It was the only thing to do, since we were 
 such old — " 
 
 "Friends!" cried Dick with a half-sob. "Such 
 old friends, Sam. Yes, go home and clear it 
 up. And come back, old man — whatever you 
 do, come back!" 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 MARCHING ORDERS 
 
 Sam saw nothing now of the inviting homeS' 
 and their lovely gardens as he rode back to the 
 station. The world seemed black shot through 
 with little darts of scarlet They kept teasing 
 him — these darting flecks of red, sharp-pointed 
 and angry. At the station he found that it was 
 an hour and a half before train time, so he sat 
 down stolidly to wait. He had missed his lunch- 
 eon, and it was now near dinner time, but it did 
 not occur to him to get anything to eat. 
 
 The time, too, raced by, keeping pace with 
 those swift-speeding thoughts of his, on which 
 he could not have drawn the reins had he tried. 
 And presently he was on the train again, going 
 homeward. He soon would see his father, who 
 would not, Sam had to confess with biting 
 shame, look him in the eye nor answer any ques- 
 tion frankly. Moreover, it would be his fate 
 to add to his mother's misery; he would see 
 Hannah turning away from him even more than 
 
 i8i 
 
1 82 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 she had. And all the town would be looking 
 at him with the eyes of suspicion. He woujd 
 read: "Son of a thief! Son of a thief!" in their 
 averted glances. 
 
 Of course his father might not be guilty. And 
 yet, somehow, shamefully, heart-breakingly, it 
 was borne in upon him that he was. And why 
 should he, Sam, who had done no harm to any- 
 one, go back to face it? Why should Annie 
 Laurie and her friends see his shame? He could 
 disappear now — slip off the train at the next 
 station — and walk and walk till he reached 
 some place where nobody knew him, and then 
 he could go to work and care for himself, and 
 win an honorable name. That was what Amer- 
 ica was for, he had heard Mr. Carson say, to 
 give a chance to the individual. A man had a 
 right to prove himself, and to be judged by him- 
 self, apart from and regardless of his family. 
 
 Yet, to run away from a thing like that, to 
 let the old neighbors think him a poor wretch, 
 to lose the regard of — of all those he cared about, 
 was out of the question. And moreover, he 
 couldn't let his father go on keeping back the 
 fortune that belonged to others. He'd have to 
 go back and make him right himself. 
 
MARCHING ORDERS 183 
 
 His thoughts came clashing together as a re- 
 turning wave meets and breaks against an ad- 
 vancing one upon the seashore. And the tumult 
 and raging was too much for him. He found 
 himself incapable of going on just then. The 
 train stopped for a moment at some woodland 
 siding — the track was but a single one and such 
 stops were occasionally necessary — and almost 
 without thinking, Sam leaped from the platform 
 and slipped away into the twilight. 
 
 He walked along, hardly knowing where he 
 was going. His suit case was not much of a 
 handicap, for there was little enough in it. He 
 could not have told, if any one had asked him, 
 why he kept on pounding along the road, nor 
 why, when he came to a heavily wooded hill, he 
 should have gone in through an opening in the 
 trees and begun to climb its gentle slope. He 
 only knew that he was grateful to have the trees 
 closing around him like that, hiding him from 
 the sight of men. 
 
 He went on, stumbling over roots, half-start- 
 ing at deep shadows, and reached the summit. 
 Here the trees had been cut away, and though 
 the songs of those beneath him surged up to his 
 ears, he presently found himself standing be- 
 
184 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 neath the clear sky, perfectly sheltered from 
 view. There was a scythe-like young moon, 
 well toward the zenith, and a few pale stars. 
 The weather had softened and warmed and 
 spring was sending her sweet messages abroad. 
 He stood for a moment looking upward; then 
 he cast himself on the ground, with his face to 
 the earth, and in the solitude his sharp suffering 
 gave vent to itself in sobs. 
 
 Nor was it alone for the shame and sorrow 
 of the present that he wept. It seemed as if all 
 the tears he had held back during his lonely and 
 baffled boyhood had their way now and streamed 
 from his eyes. He cried blindly, passionately. 
 He emptied his soul of grief. And then he sat 
 up weakly and looked around him. The whip- 
 poorwills were calling to each other. Distant 
 hounds were barking. The delicate little moon 
 was running her fragile skiff over the sky-sea 
 toward its western port. It was night, and the 
 world was asleep. What was it Annie Laurie 
 sang? 
 
 'All are sleeping, weary heart. 
 Thou, thou only sleepless art." 
 
 He hoped she was sleeping — that poor Annie 
 Laurie, who was having so much trouble, and 
 
MARCHING ORDERS 185 
 
 none of it in any way her fault. And had she, 
 too, been suspecting him? Had she held this ter- 
 rible idea of his father and kept it to herself? 
 Had she come to his house that day she had been 
 so kind and good, to see what they were like — 
 the Disbrows? He seemed to be on fire from 
 head to foot with shame. Back and forth, like 
 wild beasts pacing, raged his thoughts. He had 
 no idea of the passage of time. Only the stars 
 kept moving on, beautifully, in their wonderful 
 order, and the wind, growing chillier now, blew 
 upon him, and still the whippoorwills called. 
 By and by the color of the world began to 
 change. Something strange happened to the 
 night — it grew pale, thin, transparent. The 
 birds began stirring about, making soft noises. 
 The cattle lowed in the near-by fields. Then a 
 kind of milky lightness, delicate as one of Carin's 
 scarfs, drifted up into the sky. Presently it 
 turned a soft pink; then rosy red; then it was 
 edged with orange and embroidered with saf- 
 fron. It was sunup, and Sam Disbrow faced 
 the most important day of his life. 
 
 He had to make up his mind whether he was 
 a coward or a brave man — whether he was going 
 to run away or stay and fight. And he didn't 
 
i86 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 know. As he got dizzily to his feet, he hadn't 
 an idea which he was. But the colors in the 
 sky seemed to be cheering him on like trumpets. 
 Something wild, strange and splendid swept into 
 his spirit — something that made him feel as if 
 he were about to set out on a march with brave 
 men — men who could die for an idea. It was 
 as if he had swung into the ranks, and his leader 
 had shouted ^'Forward, march!" 
 
 Sam went down the hill, and struck a road on 
 the far side of it. He followed it to a farmhouse 
 and asked if he might have some breakfast. 
 They gave him good bacon and corn bread, 
 butter and milk. He ate like one famished, and 
 then, having learned the schedule of the trains, 
 and that he had barely time to catch the next 
 one bound toward Lee, he ran as hard as he 
 could to the distant station. The train drew in 
 while he was yet a block away, but he sent out 
 a shout that startled the engineer in his cab. 
 Good-naturedly, they held the train for him. 
 He swung on the rear platform. And, though 
 he could not forget for a moment all that he was 
 going back to, still he was indefinably happy. 
 
 "Forward, march," his invisible leader had 
 commanded. Sam did not stop to find a name 
 
MARCHING ORDERS 187 
 
 for this leader — to call him God. He obeyed, 
 and having placed himself under marching 
 orders, he fell asleep, and when the conductor 
 called him at Lee, arose refreshed, and went out 
 to fight his battle. 
 
 There were not many persons on the street. 
 A mid-forenoon quietude rested over the little 
 town. A few neighbors Sam did meet, but they 
 had no chance to turn the cold shoulder to him 
 this morning for he hardly saw them. He was 
 bent for home, and he strode forward with no 
 thought of anything but meeting his father face 
 to face and hurling at him the question : 
 
 "Did you take Simeon Pace's money?" 
 
 He forgot that he was a son, and must pay a 
 son's deference, or that Hector Disbrow, sus- 
 pected of being a thief, was his father. He felt 
 as if his soul must put that inquiry to the soul 
 of the man. And on his answer depended honor, 
 happiness, everything. 
 
 As he drew near the house, he saw that there 
 was something unusual about it. With a sick 
 feeling, he realized that it looked even more 
 vacant and dejected than ordinarily. He tried 
 the front door ; found it locked ; sped to the rear ; 
 was unable to enter; and then, rushing to the 
 
i88 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 stable, realized the whole truth. His family 
 had gone. They had run away in the night. 
 The whole thing was true. His father was a 
 thief — and now he was making of himself a 
 fugitive. 
 
 But the feeling of having come back to fight 
 a battle as a brave man would fight it, did not 
 desert him. The black despair of the night 
 before had been routed by all the better angels 
 of his nature. He was in the thick of the battle 
 now, beyond question. He turned his back on 
 the house and went toward the town. 
 
 On his way, he met Hi Kitchell, who had been 
 excused from school because of a toothache, and 
 who was running along, his hand to his face, 
 quite willing to talk about his misery to anyone. 
 Sam called him. 
 
 "Hello, Hi. Toothache?" 
 
 "You bet!" 
 
 "What you going home for? Why don't you 
 go to a dentist?" 
 
 "Naw. I'm going home." 
 
 "No use in that. Turn around the other way. 
 Come on down to the dentist's." 
 
 Hi wriggled. "I'm afraid." 
 
 "I'll go with you." 
 
MARCHING ORDERS 189 
 
 "Will yeh?" 
 
 "You bet I will. And Hi, I've got a trouble 
 that's much worse than toothache." 
 
 "Have you, Sam — for sure?" 
 
 "For sure I have. Hi. Now if you had a 
 terrible trouble what would you do? I've told 
 you where to go to get a toothache cured, but 
 where would you go if — if everything you cared 
 for seemed tumbling to pieces?" 
 
 Hi came up close to Sam. He had forgotten 
 about his toothache, and he looked at Sam with 
 his ferret eyes, in which the tears had now gath- 
 ered. 
 
 "Sam," he said under his breath, "I know 
 about your trouble. I've heard of it. And — 
 and you know your people have gone away. 
 They've gone over the mountain, I reckon. 
 Why, Sam, if I was in trouble like that I'd go 
 straight to Mr. Summers." 
 
 "But he's the Methodist preacher, you know, 
 and my folks are Baptists." 
 
 "What's the difference?" cried Hi defiantly. 
 "I don't see no difference. Anyway, if Mr. 
 Summers was a Populist I'd go to him just the 
 same." 
 
 Sam was surprised to hear himself laughing. 
 
190 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 "I will," he declared, and he and Hi tramped 
 on toward town. At the dentist's office Sam 
 started to turn in with Hi, but Hi stopped him. 
 
 "You don't need to come," he said. "I reckon 
 I can stand a little tooth-tinkering. You get on 
 to Mr. Summers. And — and. Sam — " 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "If you don't want to stay up there to the 
 house alone, you come down to our place. My 
 ma, she'd love to have you. Sam — " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "We know what trouble is, ma and me, see? 
 Don't nobody around these parts know better 
 than we do. Mr. Carson, he set us on our feet, 
 and now we can hold up our heads and look 
 people in the face. My, but it feels good! But 
 we know what trouble is — all kinds, pretty near. 
 You come to us." 
 
 Sam held out a tense hand. 
 
 "Put it there, Hi." 
 
 Hi "put it there" and turned valorously up 
 the dentist's terrible stairs. 
 
 As for Sam, he kept vigorously on his way. 
 He thought of those automobiles he had seen the 
 day before, and he felt as if he were all cranked 
 up, with a good spark on, and was ready for a 
 
MARCHING ORDERS 1911 
 
 long hard run. So he turned up Burchard Ave- 
 nue, and in at the gate of the little Methodist 
 parsonage. 
 
 The first person he saw was Mrs. Summers, 
 who had just got baby Jonathan asleep and was 
 setting him out of doors in his carriarge, to grow. 
 She held up a small brown finger to warn Sam 
 that conversation was not to be permitted in the 
 vicinity of the sleeping prince, and led the way 
 into the living room. Then she went in search 
 of her husband, who, it appeared, was shut up 
 in the cell-like room he called his study. He 
 came striding out of his retreat and grasped Sam 
 by the hand. 
 
 "Thought you were off to Rutherford, son." 
 
 "So I was, sir, but — I came back." 
 
 "So I see. Why?" 
 
 "I — I heard what they were saying about my 
 father, sir. Dick Heller told me." 
 
 "Well, well, he did, eh? It was better on the 
 whole, I reckon. I had two minds to tell you 
 myself, and then I just lacked the ginger. But 
 now you know what you're up against, don't 
 you? And your folks left last night, too. Some 
 of the neighbors wanted to have a posse set out 
 after them and bring them back, but Mr. Car- 
 
192 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 son said Annie Laurie Pace was dead set against 
 it. So he forbade it. You don't mind my speak- 
 ing right out? It's best that way, isn't it?" 
 
 "Best that way," murmured Sam with dry 
 lips. 
 
 "But you've come back, son, to face the music. 
 Well, what can I do to help you?" 
 
 "Mr. Summers, do you think my father 
 guilty? Do you think he took the money?" 
 
 "I've no more information on the subject than 
 you," said Mr. Summers. "What do you think 
 — as man to man?" 
 
 They faced each other silently. Each knew 
 that the other gave verdict and that it was 
 "guilty." 
 
 "And yet," said Mr. Summers, "circumstan- 
 tial evidence is a shaky thing. A very shaky, 
 tricky thing." 
 
 "Yes," said Sam. But there was no hope in 
 his tone. 
 
 "What do you mean to do, Sam?" 
 
 "I've come to ask you, sir. I've a hundred 
 dollars that father gave me. I'd like to give 
 that to Annie Laurie if- it would help her out 
 any. But what is a hundred dollars? Why, Mr. 
 
'But you've come back, son, to face the music. 
 
MARCHING ORDERS 193 
 
 Pace had thousands and thousands! And I hear 
 they're having a terrible hard time altogether 
 — that they can't get fit helpers, and that Miss 
 Adnah isn't turning out so good a boss after all, 
 and that the accounts are getting all mixed up. 
 It looks as if the whole thing was going to 
 pieces." 
 
 "It needn't," said Mr. Summers rather 
 sharply. 
 
 Sam looked up questioningly. 
 
 "If they had one good strong, capable helper 
 on the place, say a man who was willing to work 
 for nothing for the time being, a man with sense 
 enough to find out the best ways of feeding cat- 
 tle and caring for them, and peddling milk, and 
 who wouldn't mind sitting up after a hard day's 
 work to straighten out books, and who'd try to 
 build up instead of putting in his best licks tear- 
 ing down — the way those fool hands they have 
 now seem to be doing — why, there'd be some 
 hope. See?" 
 
 Sam got to his feet. 
 
 "Do you mean, Mr, Summers, that I — " 
 
 Mr. Summers took his pipe from the mantel 
 shelf, deliberately knocked the tobacco out of 
 
194 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 it, refilled it from a generous tobacco can and 
 lit a match. While the match burned he turned 
 toward Sam. 
 
 "You can just stake your life I mean it, son," 
 
 said he. 
 
 "But will Annie Laurie — will the aunts let 
 
 me?" 
 
 The reverend Mr. Summers nodded his long, 
 
 thin head. 
 
 "I'll tell 'em to," he said. "Mr. Carson will 
 advise 'em too. You'll be making reparation, 
 Samuel. You'll be squaring yourself and your 
 family. You'll get back what belongs to you, 
 the respect of the community, the regard of your 
 — particular friends. And you'll live here, 
 in my house, understand?" 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Summers, I couldn't do that." 
 
 "I say you'll live here," roared the tall 
 preacher. "Do you think I'd let you go back to 
 that forsaken house and sit there with all the 
 sneaking ghosts of memory putting their miser- 
 able noses in the doors and windows o' nights, 
 making goblin faces at 3^ou? Not much. Bar- 
 bara! Barbara, I say!" 
 
 Mrs. Barbara came running on her little feet. 
 
 "Absalom," she whispered excitedly, "what's 
 
MARCHING ORDERS 195 
 
 the use in waking the baby? Don't you know 
 any better than that?" 
 
 The giant collapsed. 
 
 *'Willow waly," he gasped. "Can't I ever 
 remember about that young-un? But, Barbara, 
 I suppose you have been listening to our con- 
 versation?" 
 
 "I have been sitting in the next room," replied 
 little Mrs. Summers with dignity. "It would 
 have been impossible for me to avoid hearing 
 parts of it." 
 
 "Well, then, what do you think? Is this boy 
 going back to that shut-up house of his, or is 
 he going to stay here at the parsonage? That's 
 what I want to know." 
 
 Mrs. Barbara smiled her sidelong smile. 
 
 "What's the use of asking such a silly question 
 as that?" she inquired. "Of course he's going 
 to stay here. I was just thinking I'd run up 
 that rosebud muslin into curtains for his room." 
 
 The Reverend Summers turned a radiant 
 smile on Sam. 
 
 "That's the woman for you!" he cried. "You 
 think you can get ahead of her, but you can't! 
 You'd have to be smarter than a possum to get 
 ahead of her. Rosebud curtains! Now, what 
 
196 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 do you think of that, Sam? Could you have got 
 as far as rosebud curtains in that length of 
 time?" 
 
 He caught his little wife up in his great 
 arms and tossed her toward the ceiling as if she 
 had been a baby. Then he kissed her so loud 
 that the smack must have been heard in the 
 street, and dropped her in his sleepy hollow 
 chair. 
 
 "Where's my hat?" he demanded. "My nice, 
 six-year-old Panama — the Panama of many 
 journeys, of my courtship, of my marriage, and 
 probably of my old age? Why, Sam, you ought 
 to count the rings on that hat. It's more'n a 
 hundred, I reckon — if you judge it like you do 
 oaks. Come, sneak out the back way so as not 
 to shake the royal bed of the slumbering poten- 
 tate. Where are we going? To talk with Miss 
 Adnah Pace. Yes, I know she's rather a diffi- 
 cult one to manage. But I can manage her. 
 That's my specialty, managing women." 
 
 He stopped at the window to throw a kiss to 
 his smiling wife. 
 
 "Come on, son," he commanded; "forward, 
 march!" 
 
MARCHING ORDERS 197 
 
 Had he heard the words ringing in Sam's 
 brain? 
 
 Perhaps so. Anyway he spoke them. "For- 
 ward, march!" he said. He, too, knew Sam was 
 going into battle. 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 "THE DOLL lady" 
 
 "My dear Annie Laurie," said Mrs. Carson 
 one Friday afternoon not long after this, "will 
 you do Carin and myself the favor of spending 
 the week end with us? I will send for you to- 
 morrow morning, if you will do so, and we'll 
 have a chance to talk. Whenever we try to talk 
 nowadays, Miss Helena Parkhurst cries out 
 'Physiography!' or 'Grammar!' or 'American 
 History!' Anyone would think she didn't want 
 us to become acquainted." 
 
 She shook her finger smilingly at Miss Park- 
 hurst, who was putting the schoolroom in order 
 at the close of five hard days of teaching, and 
 was well pleased at the thought that she could 
 retire to the peace of her own little sitting room 
 and follow her own inclination for a day or two. 
 There were stitches to take and letters to write 
 and thoughts to think, and the young woman 
 who gave so unstintingly of her time and knowl- 
 edge to three restless girls, sighed with relief at 
 
 198 
 
*'THE DOLL LADY" 199 
 
 the thought of being her own mistress for a 
 while. 
 
 "Oh, thank you, Mrs. Carson," Annie Laurie 
 had answered. "I should love to come. You 
 can't think what a pleasure it would be. But 
 ought I to leave the aunts? They just sit and 
 watch for me to come home." 
 
 "The aunts shall be bidden to Sunday din- 
 ner," said Mrs. Carson. "We'll all be gay to- 
 gether." 
 
 She did not say it, but she knew that the flutter 
 of getting ready for such an event as going out 
 to The Shoals to dinner would keep Miss Adnah 
 and Miss Zillah well occupied over Saturday. 
 
 "Please come, Annie Laurie," begged Carin. 
 "I'm getting quite dull, really." 
 
 Annie Laurie turned to laugh at her friend. 
 Quite dull! It seemed impossible that anyone 
 could be dull in the Carson house. Something 
 was nearly always going on. Mrs. Carson would 
 be giving a luncheon to the ladies interested in 
 the Mountain Industries, or Mr. Carson would 
 have gentlemen to dinner — gentlemen who came 
 down from New York or Chicago — or there 
 would be a moonlight picnic, or a riding party, 
 or a musicale, or Mr. and Mrs. Carson would 
 be packing up for one of their sudden journeys. 
 
200 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 It was the first time that Annie Laurie had been 
 asked to stay overnight at the mansion. She 
 had been Carin's schoolmate, but hardly more 
 than that, as she understood very well. She had 
 a clear mind, capable of seeing things as they 
 were, and it seemed to her to be a sort of victory 
 that she should, at last, be asked to join them in 
 so intimate and social a manner. It showed her 
 that perhaps she was not so "stifl" after all. 
 
 Her thoughts flew to her clothes, as the 
 thoughts of any girl will when bidden for a visit. 
 The wardrobe that used to be so well kept up, 
 in its narrow limits, had grown shabby now. 
 She had been wearing black for her father, and 
 her mourning had consisted of frocks which 
 originally had been colored and which had been 
 dyed. They had not taken the dye very well, 
 and they felt either rough or flimsy to the touch. 
 Annie Laurie would have liked to put charming 
 clothes on that big strong body of hers. Her 
 ideal of beautiful dressing was before her daily, 
 in Mrs. Carson, whose dresses, lovely in color 
 and texture, never seemed to have too much 
 trimming on them, or to do anything but drape 
 and decorate her slender graceful figure. But 
 Annie Laurie had more sense than vanity, and 
 
'THE DOLL LADY" 201 
 
 she said to herself that she would not miss such 
 a pleasure and privilege as a two-day visit at 
 The Shoals because of shabby garments. 
 
 She sat, however, late that night, pressing her 
 best black frock, and sewing fresh ruchings into 
 it, curling her plume with her sharp little pen- 
 knife, polishing her boots, putting new bows on 
 her slippers, and running fresh ribbons in her 
 underclothes. She packed her satchel daintily, 
 wrapping up her garments in fresh tissue paper 
 and dropping in a little bag of lavender. Carin 
 should see that she had the tastes of a lady, at 
 least. 
 
 There was much to do the next morning, too, 
 for the Pace house was a systematic one, and the 
 Saturday routine must in no way be neglected. 
 But by half-after-ten, Annie Laurie, fresh, and 
 glowing with anticipation, stood with her hat 
 and jacket on waiting for Carin; and not more 
 than a minute behind time, Carin drove up to 
 the door, all in charming spring green, and car- 
 rying a bunch of pink tulips in her hands for the 
 aunts. 
 
 'We're to take a little drive the first thing, 
 Annie Laurie," announced Carin. "The valley 
 is delightful. Everything is bursting into bloom 
 
202 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 at once. Mother said we must go and look and 
 look and smell and smell till we have soaked in 
 the spring." 
 
 What care-free, happy people the Carsons 
 were, Annie Laurie thought. One had only to 
 be with them a very short time to be convinced 
 that the world was an immensely pleasant place. 
 
 So on they went up the sweet valley, over 
 which the mountains hung with a friendly and 
 benevolent air. The Judas trees were in bloom 
 and the orchards budding; on every branch the 
 fresh leaves were starting out, and the crimson 
 maple had flung forth its beautiful foliage. 
 Annie Laurie felt her heart leaping in her, and 
 the black care that had been hanging over her of 
 late lifted like mist before the sun. Looking 
 up, she could see where Azalea's house was 
 perched fairly upon the edge of the mountain 
 ledge. There it hung, like an eagle's great nest, 
 daringly near the long slope of old Mount Ten- 
 nyson. 
 
 "Isn't she a dear — that Azalea girl?" asked 
 Carin enthusiastically, "Never was there such a 
 friend! Why, just having her believe in me 
 the way she does, makes me long to do things. 
 For example, I had known since I was a very, 
 
"THE DOLL LADY" 203 
 
 very small girl that I could draw and paint a 
 little, and I was forever asking for a studio. 
 But when mama had given me one, I was so lazy 
 and dreamy that I hardly did anything in it. 
 Then Azalea got after me. She said I was going 
 to be a great painter. She found trees and hills 
 for me to paint. She sat for me herself, pa- 
 tiently, hour after hour, while I made horrible 
 daubs of her. But she kept saying I could do 
 better if I tried, and do you know, by and by I 
 actually did do better. Then papa decided I 
 had a bit of talent, and he arranged with Mr. 
 Bascomb to come up from Rutherford once a 
 week to give me instruction. And by and by 
 when I'm old enough I'm to go back to Chicago 
 to the Art Institute, maybe; or to New York; 
 and afterward if I show I'm worth it, to Paris 
 or Rome." 
 
 "Oh, oh!" sighed Annie Laurie in a sort of 
 rapture. "Paris! Rome! Will you really be 
 able to go to places like that, Carin? But I for- 
 get — you already have been to them." 
 
 "Yes, I've been," said Carin. "And you'll go 
 too, sometime, if you want to badly enough. Of 
 course, it happened to be easy for me. Papa and 
 mama took me, and I didn't half appreciate it. 
 
204 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 I was so young and the chance came so easily. 
 But I shall appreciate it next time; and maybe 
 you'll go with me. Who knows?" 
 
 Annie Laurie drew back in her seat with a 
 sort of shudder. 
 
 "Oh, Carin," she said, "I'm afraid things 
 aren't going to be like that with me. Fine 
 chances aren't going to come my way. Once 
 I might have thought they would, but now 
 everything is changed. There seems to be so 
 little chance of finding poor dad's money, and 
 I know so little about earning any. Of course 
 since Sam came, it's better. The cows are being 
 properly cared for, the milk gets ofif in time, 
 and the bills are sent out correctly, and all that." 
 
 "Wasn't it fine of him to come back and work 
 for you like that?" 
 
 "Fine? I think it was magnificent. At first, 
 the aunts couldn't understand it at all. You 
 know I hadn't told them my suspicions about 
 Mr. Disbrow, and I had begged the neighbors 
 not to do so. The idea hadn't occurred to them. 
 It was better for them to go on hunting and pry- 
 ing around all their lives than to get to hating 
 some one and feeling revengeful. So they 
 couldn't see what Sam meant by saying he would 
 
"THE DOLL LADY" 205 
 
 come and work for us for nothing. Aunt Adnah 
 never had liked him very well. She called him 
 'that Disbrow boy.' But Mr. Summers and 
 Mr. Carson persuaded her that Sam was going 
 into the dairy business sometime and that he 
 would consider it a privilege to work for us and 
 learn the business, and that contented her. It 
 made her think he was practical and she began 
 to like him better. As for Sam, he works from 
 early morning till late at night, and the place 
 begins to look the way it did when dad was man- 
 aging it." 
 
 "And does he seem happy — Sam?" asked 
 Carin. 
 
 "No — o, I can't say he does quite. But he's 
 something better than happy. He goes around 
 with a strange look on his face, as if his own 
 thoughts interested him more than anything else. 
 He'll hardly talk with me at all. I'd think that 
 he disliked me, only I know better. He's 
 ashamed for his family and he won't intrude on 
 me. That's what he's thinking. At first I tried 
 to make him feel differently, but then I saw I 
 was bothering him, and so I made up my mind 
 to let him alone. I reckon he knows I'll never 
 go back on him." 
 
2o6 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 "And he hasn't an idea where his people are?" 
 
 "Not an idea." 
 
 "If they were going West why didn't they 
 take the train here at Lee? What made them go 
 wandering away in the mountains?" 
 
 "Well, I've talked with Mr. McBirney about 
 that, and he says Mr. Disbrow was a mountain 
 man born and bred, although he's been living 
 in town the last few years, and he says no moun- 
 tain man would go off and leave his chickens and 
 cow and dogs behind him. It wouldn't so much 
 as occur to him to do it. Then, too, he thinks 
 Mr. Disbrow didn't dare try to take the train at 
 Lee. If the people had seen him going they 
 would have stopped him. Besides that, I don't 
 believe Mrs. Disbrow would be willing to go 
 on the train where everybody could see and stare 
 at her. You know she can't bear to be looked 
 at. I suppose it's because she's so like a ghost. 
 Why, her clothes just hang about her like the 
 rags on a scarecrow, and her face is the color 
 of dough and all fallen in. It's a fact; everyone 
 would turn to look at her. She doesn't look as 
 if she had lived in the world at all — and she 
 hasn't for a good many years." 
 
 "Well, how do you account for Sam? How 
 
"THE DOLL LADY" 207 
 
 could a boy like that come from such a family?" 
 
 "Mr. Summers says that there's no inheritance 
 for souls — that every soul comes fresh from the 
 hand of God. Sam's soul is too brave to be over- 
 come by his surroundings. That's all I can 
 make out of it." 
 
 Carin shook her head doubtfully. 
 
 "Well, maybe that's so. Yet it seems to me 
 there's more of a mystery to it than that. Your 
 Aunt Adnah may think he's a 'Disbrow boy,' 
 but he certainly doesn't seem like it to me." 
 
 They were turning in at the gate of The Shoals 
 now, and Annie Laurie looked about her with 
 delight. Gardeners were busy all over the 
 place; fresh awnings of orange and black had 
 been hung from the many windows; yellow 
 tulips appeared in flaming companies along the 
 walks and about the house. Chairs and tables 
 of brown rattan were on the porches; swinging 
 couches heaped with pillows invited one to take 
 one's ease; books and magazines were placed 
 temptingly at hand. Annie Laurie thought 
 what a contrast all this was to her own meager 
 home, and gave a sharp little sigh. But she was 
 determined to enjoy herself without stint for 
 these two bright days. 
 
2o8 AJNNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 And this, indeed, was easy to do. Luncheon 
 was served to the girls in Carin's studio, and 
 there for the greater part of the afternoon the 
 two read, sang and laughed together. Carin 
 had at least three books which Annie Laurie 
 "simply must read"; and Annie Laurie was in- 
 sistent that Carin should do some painting, "be- 
 ginning at the very beginning," and show her 
 how it was done. 
 
 "Then I'll paint you," declared Carin, and 
 made her friend stand, straight and tall before 
 a draping of red-brown velvet which was just 
 a shade browner than Annie Laurie's hair. 
 
 "But I ought to be a fine artist to do you jus- 
 tice," Carin protested, "not just a silly niggling 
 beginner. Just you wait, Annie Laurie! Some 
 day you are going to be a beautiful woman, and 
 by that time I hope to know enough to paint 
 you the way you ought to be." 
 
 Then there was a walk in the late afternoon, 
 and tea with Mrs. Kitchell at the Industries, 
 and then the stroll back in the lilac-tinted 
 air, and the fun of dressing together for dinner. 
 
 Annie Laurie could hardly make her own 
 toilet for watching Carin, as she came all fresh 
 from her bath, in her dainty garments, and 
 
"THE DOLL LADY" 209 
 
 slipped into her simple, exquisite frock of cling- 
 ing white silk. A maid came to tie her corn-col- 
 ored scarf, and to wind the broad corn-colored 
 ribbon about her wonderful hair, which was 
 almost the same color, only full of light and 
 shine as no ribbon ever could be. Her slender 
 feet were in white, too, and about her neck was 
 a necklace of clouded amber beads. 
 
 "What a love you are," cried Annie Laurie. 
 
 "No more a love than you are yourself," re- 
 torted Carin. "Look!" 
 
 She swung her friend around to face the 
 cheval glass, and Annie Laurie saw her own tall, 
 almost haughty, young figure mirrored there, in 
 its plain, well fitting gown of black. She caught 
 a glimpse of her own pretty slippers with their 
 smart bows, of her straight fair neck — Carin 
 had forbidden her to wear her net yoke — and 
 of her red-brown hair wound around and around 
 her head. 
 
 "Talk about loves!" said Carin, and led her 
 friend down to the drawing room. There were 
 a number of persons there, it seemed, and Annie 
 Laurie had a confused moment as she was pre- 
 sented to them. She had not been in this room 
 before — at most had glimpsed it from the cor- 
 
2IO ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 ridor. Now that she was in it, with the many 
 candles burning in their sconces, the flowers 
 everywhere in vases little and great, with the 
 delicate pinks and yellows of the draperies and 
 furniture making an effect like a wonderful 
 manufactured flower garden all about her, she 
 had a sick feeling of shyness and almost wished 
 that she had not accepted Mrs. Carson's invita- 
 tion. 
 
 "But that's being cowardly," she told herself 
 sharply. "And I'm not afraid of these people, 
 really. They're all kind and good. What I'm 
 afraid of is merely furniture! Now, who would 
 be afraid of wood and cloth and brass! Silly 
 goose!" 
 
 Some one — a pleasant-faced gentleman with 
 white hair — offered his arm to the "silly goose," 
 and the next moment they were all making their 
 way to the dining room. It was wonderful 
 there, too. The lights seemed to be picked up 
 by the silver and the crystal and to be thrown 
 back in little sparks at Annie Laurie's dazzled 
 eyes. There was a bright, hurried talking all 
 about her; a talking she could not quite follow. 
 But she had got that new idea in her head, that 
 she was not to be afraid of things like silver and 
 
"THE DOLL LADY" 211 
 
 glass and linen, and that certainly no reasonable 
 person could fear kind friends, and so, in a min- 
 ute or two, her shyness passed, and she was her- 
 self again. 
 
 There were delicious things passed her to eat, 
 and Annie Laurie wondered what they really 
 could be and why they tasted different from 
 anything she ever had eaten before The gentle- 
 man who had taken her out to dinner was very 
 kind, and talked to her about her lessons, and 
 the early coming of the spring, and how he had 
 not been in those parts previously, and how 
 much he liked it, and how he wished he did not 
 have to go back to Town. By Town, Annie Lau- 
 rie discovered that he meant New York. 
 
 Then, presently, the conversation died down, 
 and everyone seemed to be listening to the lady 
 who sat at Mr. Carson's right. Her name, it 
 seemed, was Miss Borrow, and she was known, 
 as Mrs. Carson explained, over the mountams 
 as "the doll lady." She had made a great study 
 of the mountain country, its flowers and trees, 
 its little wild, harmless creatures, furred and 
 feathered, and its lonely, quiet people. Some- 
 times she traveled for months in a wagon, sleep- 
 ing in a mountain cabin or in her wagon as the 
 
212 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 case might be, eating at the simple, hospitable 
 tables of the mountaineers, or cooking by the 
 roadside. And because she was simple and 
 earnest and truly, truly, a friend to all the world, 
 she had been permitted to enter the hearts of the 
 people and they had learned to trust her and 
 to speak out to her almost as freely as they 
 would to one of themselves. 
 
 "But please tell us why you are called the 
 'doll lady,' Miss Borrow," said Carin. "I think 
 I know, but I would so love it if you would ex- 
 plain to Annie Laurie, ma'am." 
 
 "Well," said Miss Borrow, turning her dark, 
 rather sad eyes upon Annie Laurie, "it was this 
 way. I had not traveled far in the lonely, silent 
 country that lies back among the mountains, be- 
 fore I discovered that the saddest thing about it 
 all was the children — the little children who 
 had nothing to look forward to, and who did 
 not know how to laugh in the happy, free way 
 that children should. They got into bad and 
 silly ways because there was nothing for them 
 to do. So I fell to wondering how I could help 
 them enjoy themselves, and to tell the truth, I 
 hadn't to wonder very long, for almost imme- 
 
"THE DOLL LADY" 213 
 
 diately it occurred to me that I would give them 
 toys. 
 
 "I decided that I would take the boys good 
 knives, so that they could make things, and 
 marbles and balls, so that they might have 
 games; and to the girls I would take dolls. I 
 have gone out from my starting point with hun- 
 dreds of the dearest, most delightful dollies you 
 could think of, tucked away in my wagon. I 
 have even had to have a second wagon to start 
 with, because of the many things I was carry- 
 ing along. At first there would be no need to 
 give these things at the houses at which I stayed 
 — the houses nearer the towns. But as I went 
 on and on, over this mountain, and down into 
 that valley and up over the next mountain, I 
 would come on the people who lived in the hol- 
 low land. 
 
 "They had few friends, or none. They went 
 nowhere. They had nothing to do, except 
 scratch the ground for a little food. One day 
 was like another; and in the faces of the children 
 was a look like that to be seen in the face of a 
 dog — a look of terrible wistfulness, as if there 
 was that in the soul which never could be ex- 
 pressed. To these children I brought my gifts. 
 
214 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 The boys were glad of the knives and marbles 
 and balls; but nothing like so glad as the girls 
 were of the dolls. Many and many of them 
 never had seen a doll at all. Yet never once did 
 I have to tell them what they were for. They 
 simply reached out their arms and took them, 
 and hugged them up to them — not before peo- 
 ple, understand, but as soon as ever they 
 were alone. 
 
 "Some of these lonely little girls had hardly 
 known what it was to be kissed, and they 
 would have been ashamed to throw their 
 arms around their mother's necks and hug 
 and kiss them; but when they got alone 
 with dolly — their own, own dolly — they kissed 
 and hugged it as if they had been starved for 
 want of things like that. Then when I could 
 take along some extra things, so that they could 
 really change the doll's clothes, and wash and 
 iron for their pets, then, at last, they really had 
 something to do. They seemed to come to life 
 — not the dolls, but the little mothers. Perhaps 
 the dolls did, too. I'm not sure. They were 
 loved enough to make them." 
 
 "Oh, Miss Borrow," cried Mrs. Carson, "you 
 
"THE DOLL LADY" 215 
 
 lucky, lucky woman, to be able to think of such 
 a lovely thing and to carry it out!" 
 
 "Lucky is that lucky does," said the old gen- 
 tleman beside Annie Laurie, twisting an old 
 saying to suit his purposes. 
 
 "Well," said Carin across the table, under 
 cover of the conversation, "that's why she's called 
 the 'doll lady,' Annie Laurie. Isn't it beauti- 
 ful?" 
 
 "Beautiful," replied the other. "And — and 
 why couldn't we help get some of the dolls ready, 
 Carin? And my aunts — if I could get them to 
 working on those dolls, perhaps they wouldn't 
 be worrying and wondering so much." 
 
 Mr. Carson overheard her remark, though it 
 was intended only for Carin. 
 
 "Excellent and sensible, Annie Laurie," he 
 said in his light way — that way which meant so 
 much yet seemed to mean so little. "You have 
 said a wise thing. I believe the Misses Pace are 
 to honor us with their presence at dinner to- 
 morrow, are they not, Lucy?" 
 
 "Yes," responded Mrs. Carson, "I am glad to 
 be able to say that they are." 
 
 "We will try then, as you say, my dear An- 
 nie .Laurie, to help the aunts find a new and in- 
 
2i6 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 teresting occupation. We will give them — 
 some dolls to play with," smiled Mr. Carson. 
 For he knew, and Annie Laurie knew, that 
 the poor fretted old ladies needed them as much 
 as any heart-starved mountain child. 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 THE LONG RED ROAD 
 
 There was music after dinner, and Mrs. Car- 
 son asked Annie Laurie to sing. It was a great 
 moment in its way — that in which the shy girl 
 with the oriole's voice went out before all the 
 company to sing to Mrs. Carson's accompani- 
 ment. For a second or two she thought that she 
 really could not. Then it came over her that it 
 was a chance — that she who had lived that plain 
 drab life was standing now where beautiful col- 
 ors played about her. She was, she said to her- 
 self, in the heart of a rainbow. And a song was 
 a song, just as a piece of furniture was a piece 
 of furniture. She had already decided that she 
 was not to be afraid of upholstering and silver 
 and fine glass. Very well, then, why should she 
 be afraid of a song, since she really had a voice 
 and could sing? Her music lessons had been 
 stopped since her father's death, but Mrs. Car- 
 son often invited her to sing with her in the 
 
 schoolroom where Carin's piano stood, and she 
 
 217 
 
2i8 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 was quite aware that she had learned more from 
 Mrs. Carson with her taste and her beautiful, 
 delicate fashion of expression than she could 
 from her teacher. So now, full, free, sad and 
 deep, her young voice arose in: 
 
 "All are sleeping, weary heart. 
 Thou, thou only sleepless art." 
 
 She thought of Sam away in his bare room, 
 bending over those puzzling accounts of hers, 
 working for her without pay, to redeem so far 
 as he could his father's terrible wrong. And as 
 she thought of him, and the beauty of the song 
 opened the doors of her heart, it seemed as if 
 all that distrust of mankind which had come to 
 her so bitterly when she first realized the great 
 wrong that had been done her, went drifting out 
 on the tide of song. So the lovely words to their 
 noble setting poured from her lips with a sort 
 of splendor, and when she had ceased, and had 
 stood for a moment, motionless, her slender 
 straight body tense with the rapture of it, she 
 had the great happiness of hearing sincere and 
 enthusiastic applause break from all the com- 
 pany in the drawing room. 
 
 Mrs. Carson and Carin were hardly less happy 
 
THE LONG RED ROAD 219 
 
 than she. They made her sing again and again; 
 then Mrs. Carson forbade more. 
 
 "We'll not have our singing bird excited so 
 that she'll lose her sleep the first night she stays 
 under this roof," she said. And then she her- 
 self, at the solicitation of her guests, sang some 
 of those wonderful songs of hers. Annie Laurie 
 could not understand the words, for they were 
 now in one tongue and now another; but as the 
 music rose and fell, shifting in its beauty as a 
 sunset shifts it? colors, or as water ripples in the 
 wind, a great happiness flooded her. She sat 
 thrilling to it, moved to the core of her being 
 by its rhythm, and Mrs. Carson, arising from the 
 piano, came straight to her. 
 
 "Annie Laurie Pace," she said in her charm- 
 ing way, "I could feel all the strings of the 
 piano vibrating again in you. You are a true 
 musician. Sometime you and I will sit together 
 night after night and listen to opera." 
 
 "Oh!" Annie Laurie gasped. "It — it 
 couldn't be!" 
 
 "It shall be," smiled Mrs. Carson. "Wait, 
 child. Wait just a little while." 
 
 So, with a head full of new, rich ideas, the 
 girl lay down to sleep that night in the "poppy 
 
220 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 room," as the little bedroom opening off Carin's 
 was called. Poppies decorated the wall, were 
 embroidered on the linen covers to dresser, chairs 
 and bed, and the spirit of poppies, sleep, hovered 
 lightly over the room. 
 
 The next day dawned beautifully — one of 
 those Sundays which seem to have the very 
 breath of holiness in them. Annie Laurie went 
 with the Carsons to the Episcopal Church, and 
 then they all drove over to the Methodist 
 Church for the aunts. They could see the two, 
 prim and starched, awaiting them on the high 
 church steps, and Mr. Carson leaped from the 
 carriage to assist the ladies down and to help 
 them into his vehicle. Annie Laurie couldn't 
 help giving an affectionate chuckle at the 
 labored propriety of their remarks. They had 
 on their best dresses and they were determined 
 to use their best language. But Mrs. Carson 
 gave no sign that she perceived their stiffness. 
 She chatted on in that winning way of hers, till 
 even the proud and difficult Aunt Adnah felt at 
 ease. 
 
 At dinner the conversation turned upon the 
 "doll lady," and Mr. Carson had an idea. 
 
THE LONG RED ROAD 221 
 
 "I'll tell you what we'll do," "we'll hike itl 
 We'll trek it! We'll mush-mush!" 
 
 "Papa," Carin protested, " what ever do you 
 mean?" 
 
 "Mean? I mean we'll follow the long red 
 road, every one of us. Your mother, Carin, and 
 your friends Annie Laurie and Azalea, and Miss 
 Zillah and Miss Adnah. We'll take to the high 
 road — in mountain wagons — and we'll go gyp- 
 sying. It's the spring vacation — or we can make 
 it so if we have a mind. What do you say. Miss 
 Parkhurst? Shall we call it vacation? And will 
 you go with us over the mountains?" 
 
 "I'll call it vacation if you please, sir," smiled 
 Helena Parkhurst. "But if I have any time 
 away from my duties, I'd love to go home to my 
 mother. She's very lonely without me." 
 
 "You shall, then. Of course she's lonely with- 
 out you. But what do you say, ladies?" he 
 asked, turning to Annie Laurie's aunts. 
 
 Miss Adnah wiped her lips carefully before 
 replying. 
 
 "You are very kind indeed, sir, but I never 
 have done-such a thing in my life, though I must 
 say that I have rather envied people when I 
 saw them starting off on such an expedition." 
 
222 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 "Of course you have envied them, and you 
 shall do so no longer. You shall go and know 
 the joys they have known. As for the dairy, Sam 
 will look after that. If necessary he can have 
 one of my men to help him. You are pleased, I 
 hope, MissZillah?" 
 
 Miss Zillah turned her faded, quiet eyes on 
 him, and smiled slowly. 
 
 *'Mr. Carson," she said "all my life I have 
 slept properly under a roof. I have done my 
 duty as I saw it to do. I have conducted my- 
 self, I hope, in a ladylike and discreet manner, 
 but — " she hesitated. 
 
 "But what, madam?" 
 
 "But from childhood I have longed to cook 
 my meal in a pot over a camp fire and to sleep 
 under the pines." 
 
 Everybody laughed. 
 
 "What's more," w^ent on Miss Zillah, show- 
 ing the shadow of a dimple in her withered 
 cheek, "I feel that I would love to run about in 
 a short skirt and tie a turban about my head." 
 
 "Delightful! Delightful," declared Mr. Car- 
 son. "We'll go by the middle of this week." 
 
 "But Mr. Carson, ought we?" Miss Adnah 
 broke in. "The — the expense — " 
 
THE LONG RED ROAD 223 
 
 "Expense, madam? There's no expense. All 
 that is needed is time, and of that we have as 
 much as anybody living." 
 
 He held up a hand for silence, and in his rich 
 voice, warm with an almost boyish enthusiasm, 
 he repeated a poem he had read but whose author 
 he did not remember: 
 
 " 'Beyond the East, the sunrise, beyond the West, 
 
 the sea — 
 And East or West, the wander-thirst will never 
 
 let me be. 
 It works in me like madness, dear, to make me 
 
 say good-bye, 
 For the stars call and the sea calls, and O! the 
 
 call of the sky. 
 
 " 'I know not where the white road leads, nor 
 
 what the blue hills are. 
 But a man can have the sun for a friend, and for 
 
 his guide a star. 
 And there's no end of voyaging v/hen once the 
 
 voice is heard, 
 For the river calls and the road calls, and O! the 
 
 call of the bird. 
 
 *' 'Yonder the long horizon lies, and there by 
 night or day. 
 
224 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 The old ships draw to home again, the young 
 
 ships sail away, 
 And come I may, but go I must, and if you ask 
 
 me why, 
 You may put the blame on the stars and sun, and 
 
 the white road and the sky.' 
 
 "Only it's the red road with us, ladies — the 
 long red road, and it winds up the mountains, 
 and down the mountains, and we'll follow it till 
 we long for home again." 
 
 "Oh," whispered Annie Laurie to Carin as 
 they walked from the dining room together, 
 "how fine it will be to get the poor aunts away 
 from that house where they worry and search, 
 and search and worry!" 
 
 "And don't you see," returned Carin, "that 
 papa is really having in the back of his mind the 
 idea that he may run across the Disbrows? He 
 thinks that, after all, Mr. Disbrow won't quite 
 dare spend that money — at least not much of it. 
 He could talk about going West but he hasn't 
 really the courage to go. He'll drive around in 
 the mountains, shooting a little, and grazing his 
 cow and horses, and eating up the chickens. 
 
THE LONG RED ROAD 225 
 
 Papa says that's the way a man with his rearing 
 would do, probably. So we're to take to all 
 sorts of byroads and odd ways in the hope of 
 finding them." 
 
 "Really?" said Annie Laurie. "But— Oh, 
 Carin, if we found them! What a humiliation 
 for them!" 
 
 "Well, so far as Mr. Disbrow is concerned, I 
 think he has some humiliation coming to him," 
 said Carin sharply. 
 
 Annie Laurie hated to tell Sam they were 
 going to the mountains. She feared he would 
 read in her eyes her knowledge of this second 
 intention — this hope of finding the fugitives. 
 Perhaps he did. He was very silent these days, 
 and he worked furiously. Annie Laurie tried 
 to get him to sit with them evenings, but he 
 would not. His old-time light-heartedness, pre- 
 served under so many difficulties, seemed to 
 have passed entirely. Yet he was not sullen 
 nor even sad — only very grave. He was indeed 
 fighting his battle, and it was not an easy one. 
 
 But little by little he could see — everyone 
 could see — that he was winning the respect of 
 the townspeople. Men went out of their way 
 
226 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 to speak to him and to ask him how he was get- 
 ting on in his new business and to say they'd be 
 glad to help him out if he got in any difficulty. 
 Some of the nicest women in Lee invited him to 
 their homes; but to all such invitations Sam 
 sent a respectful refusal. He seemed determined 
 to keep to himself until he had won his right 
 to enter other men's doors as an honest boy, the 
 son of an honest man. 
 
 He helped with the preparations for the moun- 
 tain, saying nothing of his shamed and tortured 
 thought that his friends might come upon his 
 skulking family. Mr. Carson was to drive his 
 own team, and Benjamin, his man, vv^as to drive 
 Annie Laurie's horses. So, on a perfumed spring 
 morning the little caravan set off, with Mrs. Car- 
 son and the two Misses Pace in the Carson 
 wagon, and Carin and Azalea in Annie Laurie's. 
 
 Azalea was strangely excited by the idea of 
 the journey, though she tried to conceal the fact. 
 She could not forget how often she had gone 
 upon such long journeys in those wild, curious 
 days when she was a "show girl." Those days 
 now seemed like a fantastic dream. She felt as 
 if she always had been Azalea McBirney, 
 wrapped about with love and consideration; and 
 
THE LONG RED ROAD 227 
 
 even the memory of her poor dead little mother 
 was like a gray shadow. True, it was a shadow 
 which arose often before her mental vision, but 
 the outlines of it grew fainter and fainter. Yet 
 Azalea loved it. She could not think of that 
 brave, yet broken woman, so out of place with 
 that sorry crew of show people, without a throb 
 of love. Death had, at last, seemed the only 
 happiness for her, and Azalea loved to think of 
 her as safe and at rest in that much-cared-for 
 lowly bed of hers beneath the Pride of India 
 tree beside Ma McBirney's door. 
 
 And, oh, the long red road! How it wound 
 up the hills and over them. What valleys it 
 glimpsed, what rivers, amber brown beneath the 
 trees, what spots of quietude and peace beneath 
 the pines, what sunny openings, where succulent 
 odors of grass, freshly sprung, came to the trav- 
 elers! And, oh, the delight of sleeping in the 
 hastily spread tents — which were really no more 
 than squares of canvas stretched on pointed 
 sticks — and the appetites that developed for the 
 meals cooked over the coals on the convenient 
 tripod! 
 
 Now one and now another of the ladies cooked 
 the meals, and they vied with each other in the 
 
228 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 mixing of stews. They grew bold and tried 
 things they never had heard of, but which 
 seasoned with mountain air and tested with 
 mountain appetites, seemed the finest of discov- 
 eries. And the day and the night were sweet; 
 the wind was their playful companion; the 
 showers were their friends; the sun their great 
 protector; the moon their comforter and all the 
 stars were their intimates. 
 
 So the three girls grew browner and brighter- 
 eyed each day, and the heart in each of them — 
 even Annie Laurie's — was light as down. 
 
 But not a hint did they have of the Disbrows. 
 Though they plunged deeper and deeper into 
 the mountains, getting far beyond the towns, 
 they saw nothing of them. They went so far 
 that they came at last upon the lonely, sad-eyed 
 people whom Miss Borrow had described. In 
 their miserable cabins, which were far from 
 weatherproof, they lived their curious, solitary 
 lives. Their faces were vacant and mournful; 
 their voices like the soughing of wind in the 
 trees. They walked languidly, and there was a 
 strange and repellent pallor in their faces. Some- 
 times they sang a little, sitting before their doors 
 
THE LONG RED ROAD 229 
 
 in the moonlight, and their voices rose and fell 
 with a curious cadence. The monotony of their 
 lives rested upon them like a deadly spell, per- 
 mitting them to nurse senseless hates and ani- 
 mosities, and to keep up foolish family feuds. 
 
 Now and then they came upon a desolate 
 schoolhouse, approached by little winding paths, 
 over which bare-footed children had run for 
 weary miles. For they prized their schooling 
 beyond all words to express. 
 
 "Whar is her who tells us how?" one little, 
 sallow-faced child had asked when she had run 
 eleven miles to the schoolhouse to find the 
 teacher absent. They heard such stories of 
 starved minds and all but starved bodies, and a 
 deep pity awoke in their hearts for these people 
 of their own blood and of an inheritance much 
 like their own. 
 
 "When we are a little older," said Azalea, her 
 eyes shining with a deep purpose, "we will come 
 back and teach them." 
 
 "Yes," said Annie Laurie. "We will teach 
 them to read and to sing." 
 
 "To read and to sing and to draw," said Carin. 
 
 "Very well," said Mr. Carson, laughingly and 
 yet with meaning. "And I'll send some one 
 
230 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 along to help with such trifles as arithmetic, 
 geography, grammar, et cetera, and incidentally 
 I'll foot the bills. Is it a bargain?" 
 "It's a bargain," said they in chorus. 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 Hi's HOUN' DAWG 
 
 It was Saturday and Hi Kitchell and Jim Mc- 
 Birney, having done their chores, met by ap- 
 pointment at the spring under the tulip trees 
 where Azalea intended to build her bungalow 
 when she became very rich. 
 
 It was a lovely spot and they threw themselves 
 down in perfect content, their dogs near at hand, 
 and looked off at what Hi called a "purty worl'." 
 
 "It jes' seems like everything worth speakin' 
 about hed come my way," sighed Hi contently. 
 "You-all remember what a pore little forsaken 
 cuss I was, Jim, when me and 'Zalie came drag- 
 gin' along with that thar show of Sisson's a year 
 back an' more?" 
 
 " 'Taint more'n a year, Hi.'* 
 
 "Seems like a century. An' no sooner hed we 
 
 laid eyes on your pa and ma than things began 
 
 to go right. An' now look at us. 'Zalie's like 
 
 your sister and gettin' a tip-top education, and is 
 
 ofif ridin' the country over with the Carsons; 
 
 231 
 
232 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 and me and ma hev a home anybody would be 
 proud to own, and that thar Industries busi- 
 ness is lookin' up more'n more every livelong 
 day. Why we're so happy we're in danger of 
 bustin'. I asked ma t'other day if she didn't feel 
 most like bustin', and she said she did." 
 
 ''It's a good place to live here-abouts," agreed 
 Jim. "Pleasant things have a way of happenin' 
 'round here. If it wa'n't for that dod-gasted 
 hard luck of Annie Laurie's, I'd think this was 
 w^here the nicest folks in creation lived. But 
 some one done her a mean, low-down trick." 
 
 "It was that scowlin', grumblin' Disbrow," 
 averred Hi. "I know it. Ma says she feels it 
 in her bones, and so do I, and Kitchell bones is 
 simply great for givin' pointers. I say, what's 
 the use in you and me loafin' 'round here while 
 that mis'able, sneakin' houn' gets off with Annie 
 Laurie's money? Ain't we her friends and as 
 nigh kin as she's got? What say to you and me 
 hikin' out after that thar Disbrow an' findin' 
 him and bringin' him back to justice?" 
 
 Hi's sharp black eyes sparkled with the high 
 intent of protecting the friendless. The bright 
 light of adventure shone round about him, and 
 Jim thrilled to it. Here was a friend worth hav- 
 
HI'S HOUN' DAWG 233 
 
 ing — a friend like those knights of old of whom 
 Azalea read to him, one who would go out and 
 conquer. Jim stared ofif across the purple val- 
 ley, rejoicing in his good fortune at living in 
 days when there was still a man's work to do in 
 the world. 
 
 "Hi," he breathed after a time, "I'm with 
 you." 
 
 "Then," said Hi, with something of the air 
 of an Arctic explorer about to embark on his 
 hazardous voyage, "we must make ready. Thar's 
 no use in waitin' around here, dreamin' and 
 sighin' the way the rest of the town is doin'. 
 Let's get our grub together and be on our way." 
 
 "I wish I could take Peter," said Jim wist- 
 fully. Peter was his hound. "But he's got such 
 a sore foot I don't dast. Ma, she doctors it up 
 every morning and she says we'll have to be 
 mighty careful or we won't have no dog at all — 
 he'll die from blood poisonin'." 
 
 "It's too bad," agreed Hi, "but we-all ken take 
 Bike." Bike, Hi's hound, wagged his tail in 
 recognition of the attention paid him. 
 
 "It will make me feel awful bad for you to 
 take Bike and me to be goin' along without no 
 dog at all," mused Jim. 
 
234 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 There seemed to be no limit to Hi's chivalry 
 to-day. 
 
 "Well then, by gum, I won't take Bike," he 
 declared, his face lighting with the glow of 
 sacrifice. Jim was not unappreciative. 
 
 "Honest, Hi!" 
 
 "Honest." 
 
 "Well then, let's send the dogs home and we 
 can go right on from here. We don't need no 
 provisions. I've got some money — " 
 
 "So have I." 
 
 "What's the use of delayin' then. Let's set 
 off." 
 
 So the dogs were commanded to go to their 
 respective homes, and with lowered tails and 
 drooping ears, they obeyed. Bike writhed along 
 on his belly, beating the ground with his tail. 
 He actually shed tears of humiliation and de- 
 pression, but Peter, more absorbed with the dis- 
 comfort in his foot, limped lamely and obedi- 
 ently on his way toward home. 
 
 "Pore houn's," sighed Hi, "they sure are cast 
 down." 
 
 "Ain't it just their luck," Jim sympathized. 
 "Pore critters." 
 
 Both boys were talking their worst and en- 
 
HI'S HOUN' DAWG 235 
 
 joying it. This spang-up grammar was well 
 enough to catch on to when a fellow was tally- 
 ing with Mrs. Carson, or even to Azalea, but 
 there was such a thing as letting down and en- 
 joying oneself when the ladies were out of the 
 way. Men must be men now and then. 
 
 So, in all the freemasonry of their kind, the 
 two set ofif across the mountain. Neither one 
 would have confessed that the "wander-thirst" 
 was on them too. But the truth was, Mr. Car- 
 son had set a most infectious example. Moun- 
 tain folks have pretty hard work staying at home. 
 The roads call, and they long to be up and away. 
 It always seems as if something wonderful must 
 be waiting for them over the next hill. Jim and 
 Hi had the gypsy mood on them this day. They 
 actually ran for a long time, taking the cut-offs 
 that led them over the spur of the mountain to 
 Mulberry Valley, which lay "over-yon" and 
 which they had seldom visited, and then always 
 under the guidance of some grown person who 
 insisted on pushing them along and getting home 
 again. 
 
 Getting home seemed to them just now as the 
 last thing in the world that a fellow would care 
 to do. What was the use in getting home when 
 
236 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 a person could run along paths bordered with 
 trim huckleberry bushes, or rest on a stone where 
 lichen had woven a pale green lace? There 
 were partridge berries peeping up between dark 
 green leaves; here was tender wintergreen; 
 yonder the "sweet buds" were coming out, 
 weighting the air with their fruity odor. Dear 
 me, why should anybody go home? 
 
 There was an eagle hanging over the valley, 
 strong, and calm, and sure. Three buzzards sat 
 on a blasted pine and shook their evil heads; a 
 king snake gave them a chase and got away from 
 them in spite of their best endeavors. And still 
 the little path went on and on. It passed by a 
 deserted house, where the bats hung from the 
 roof. It wound by wooded hills and fields that 
 once had been tilled, but had perhaps proved 
 too unfertile, and so been left; it crept on up the 
 farther mountain, — the unknown mountain — 
 and still coaxed, and lured, and solicited; and 
 the boys kept on. 
 
 Their brown, dusty feet had grown weary and 
 their throats were dry when at length they came 
 upon a cabin. They weren't sure at first whether 
 it was lived in or not. The heavy shutters — 
 there were no windows — were closed, but the 
 
HI'S HOUN' DAWG 237 
 
 door stood slightly ajar. The chimney, which 
 was made of field stone held together with the 
 red clay of the field, blossomed like a garden 
 with ferns and vines. The yard was bare of 
 grass, but the old stone wall round about it was 
 overgrown with green things, though it was still 
 so early in the year, and the myrtle and mimosa 
 showed their green beside that of the laurel and 
 rhododendron. There w^as a small well with a 
 sweep, and on the bench lay a broken gourd 
 which had been used as a drinking cup. But 
 over the place was the deepest silence, save for 
 one early bee which made a cheerful buzzing, 
 and seemed to fairly boom, so still was the place. 
 
 'T say," whispered Hi, "don't it look spooky?" 
 
 "Maybe a hermit lives here," Jim suggested. 
 
 "Or a skelington," added Hi. 
 
 It was Hi who had the courage to push back 
 the warped door and look in. Jim was a few 
 feet behind him and he never forgot the yell of 
 horror that came from Hi's throat, a yell that 
 had fear in it, fear for the next second's happen- 
 ing. Jim heard a swishing and a hissing, and he 
 knew. Neither formed the word ^Wattlers!" on 
 their frozen tongues. Hi tried to leap back- 
 ward and fell over a stub of a bush and lay 
 
238 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 prone. Jim seized his arm and dragged him 
 along for a dozen feet, and even in the rush they 
 could hear their hearts beating frantically. That 
 swishing and hissing kept up. It seemed to 
 grow louder. Hi turned himself and got on his 
 feet like a monkey. They both ran without look- 
 ing behind. And after they had started and had 
 got away from the real danger, they began to 
 fear imaginary evils. Panic was on them. With 
 their blistered bare feet they sped on and on, 
 taking no note of where they were going. Their 
 throats, which had been dry to start with, be- 
 came like paper. Their eyes bulged from their 
 heads. They had started out great heroes, but 
 they had undergone a transformation and were 
 two terribly frightened and tired little boys. 
 
 Even as they sank exhausted beneath a pine 
 tree they looked about them shudderingly for 
 snakes, but seeing none they lay there and gasped, 
 their hearts straining in their sides. Then, as 
 their panting ceased, a soft noise struck their 
 ears. It sounded very familiar, and yet in 
 their utter bewilderment they could not at first 
 tell what it was. The meaning penetrated first 
 to Jim. 
 
 "A spring," he whispered. "A spring!" 
 
HI'S HOUN' DAWG 239 
 
 They made their way toward it, dragging 
 their feet like weary dogs, and when they saw it, 
 clear, cold and beautiful, gushing from the 
 ground amid wild forget-me-nots, they sank on 
 their knees and drank long. After that they 
 lay still, staring at the sky. The world swam 
 before them dreamily, the clouds rocked back 
 and forth; they slept. 
 
 When they awoke it was dark. It was not just 
 partly dark as it is most nights of the year. No, 
 it was black. They might have been shut up in 
 a black velvet box or lost in a large bottle of 
 black ink. There was nothing above, below, 
 around, so far as their sense could inform them. 
 It was Jim who had opened his eyes first. At 
 least, he thought he had opened them, but when 
 he found he could see nothing at all he had his 
 doubts about having done it. He felt of his 
 eyelids. Yes, they were open, beyond doubt. 
 Had he then suddenly gone blind? He couldn't 
 imagine why he should, and yet, judging from 
 his present plight, it seemed probable. 
 
 "Hi!" he shouted, as if Hi were on the other 
 side of a forty-acre lot. 
 
 Hi's voice answered close at hand, sleepily. 
 
 "Yep!" 
 
240 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 "Hi, I believe I've gone blind. I can't see 
 nothing — not a blamed thing." 
 
 There was a short silence. 
 
 "I can't neither," cried Hi. "Maybe we're 
 both blind." 
 
 "It's being so hungry, I reckon," said Jim. 
 "Don't you think a fellah could get so run down 
 from eatin' nothing that he'd go blind?" 
 
 "I reckon he might," sighed Hi. 
 
 Silence fell again. They could hear the need- 
 les as they fell from the trees, the low whisper- 
 ing of the spring, and the far-away sound of 
 wind or rain, they were not sure which. 
 
 Then suddenly they knew that they were not 
 blind. All the world was lit up — lit up terribly 
 and then engulfed in darkness again. Then the 
 thunder came, clamoring and roaring about 
 them. They were mountain boys and they had 
 heard thunder roar and rumble over the hills 
 many times, but had it ever had such a frightful 
 bellow as this? It kept on and on and before 
 the first volley had quite died, again the world 
 was lighted with that fiery light — that forked 
 flame — and again the voice of the sky awoke the 
 thousand voices of the hills. 
 
 "Oh, gosh!" groaned Hi. 
 
HI'S HOUN' DAWG 241 
 
 "Ain't there no place to hide?" demanded Jim 
 with trembling voice. 
 
 No, there was no place to hide. The storm 
 king owned everything around there that night. 
 It was all his domain and he meant to do with 
 it as he would. So he blasted an oak, and the 
 boys saw it; and he cracked his horrid whip at 
 the invisible horses of the air, and they rushed 
 by screaming. And then the rain came; not 
 drop by drop as rain should, but in drops that 
 chased each other so that they became streams; 
 in streams that became inverted fountains. 
 
 The boys couldn't even call out to each other. 
 They fought for breath as the furious winds 
 whipped them and the drenching rain engulfed 
 them almost like a wave It was a cloudburst, 
 they knew that much, and finally, from mere 
 animal instinct, they turned their faces to the 
 ground, wreathed their arms about their heads 
 and lay prone. Still the lightning flashed and 
 the thunder bellowed; still the winds wailed 
 and the trees snapped. It seemed at last merely 
 a question of keeping alive till it was over. 
 
 But by and by it was over. It ceased almost 
 as suddenly as it had come, and weak as half- 
 drowned rats the two boys got to their feet, and 
 
242 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 looking up into a clear sky, saw the morning star 
 shining down at them. 
 
 "We've got to get home," said Jim, breathing 
 deep. 
 
 "Yes," agreed Hi. 
 
 It was some time before they could find any 
 sort of a trail whatever, but after a while they 
 came upon one, though whether it had been made 
 by human feet long since and overgrown, or 
 whether it was merely a rabbit run they could 
 not decide. However, they decided to take it. 
 The dawn was flushing the sky and they could 
 make their way without much difiiculty now, so 
 far as seeing was concerned, but their feet were 
 blistered and their bodies felt as sore as if they 
 had been pounded. They went on and on, dog- 
 gedly. 
 
 "We're bound to come to a road soon," they 
 kept telling each other. 
 
 "Oh, yes, we'll get somewhere." 
 
 And they got "somewhere," beyond any man- 
 ner of doubt. Lifting their eyes at length, they 
 saw before them that frightful cabin of "rat- 
 tlers," and stealing to the door to greet the 
 brightly shining sun was a fine, confident father 
 of rattlers. Hi gave one despairing whoop and 
 
HI'S HOUN' DAWG 243 
 
 fled, Jim following, and once more they sped 
 on, taking however an opposite direction from 
 that of the night before and trying to keep their 
 faces toward home. There was the mountain 
 before them to cross, and then Mulberry Val- 
 ley, and then there was Tennyson mountain to 
 climb. It was really quite simple. 
 
 "Anybody ought to be able to do that," said 
 Hi stoutly. 
 
 But the trouble was that after an hour's hard 
 plodding they came to a sort of opening and 
 thought they had reached a road at last, and 
 there before them once more was the House of 
 Rattlers. And that was the time they gave up 
 and cried. They dared not stay near there, so 
 they went on their way hastily, but not running 
 now, sobbing as they went. 
 
 They were lost, that was all there was to it. 
 They were quite completely lost on a mountain 
 they never had visited before — a mountain 
 where nobody lived and where the only neigh- 
 borly things were rattle snakes. 
 
 They were both wondering if they were go- 
 ing to die there, to starve and be heard of no 
 more. Of course, years and years from then 
 their "skelingtons" might be found. But how- 
 
244 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 ever interesting that might be for others, it really 
 would do them no good at all, when you came 
 to think of it. 
 
 Ugh, how chilly the morning air was! And 
 how wet their clothes were! And how empty 
 their stomachs! And the rattlers — the rattlers! 
 
 There was a strange, bell-like sound in the 
 distance, a deep, musical, beautiful sound. It 
 rang over the hills with a note at once sad and 
 glad. The boys stopped in their tracks and 
 listened. It came again, like church bells, only 
 faster. It thrilled the two forlorn wanderers, 
 and brought the light back to their faces. 
 
 "Bike!" shouted Hi. "It's Bike. He's fol- 
 lowed us. Oh, Bike, Bike, here we are, you 
 blessed old houn' dawg! Here! Here!" 
 
 They put their fingers in their mouths and 
 whistled, they shouted, they laughed, they 
 hugged each other; and then, over a rise came 
 Bike, wild-eyed with delight, large, it seemed, 
 as a bear, and bursting with importance. 
 
 He leaped on them till he knocked them down; 
 he insisted on licking their faces, on pretending 
 to bite their calves, on lathering them as if they 
 were puppies. He couldn't have enough of 
 
HFS HOUN' DAWG 245 
 
 1 
 
 them nor they of him. But after all, he came 
 to his senses sooner than they. 
 
 "Enough of this," he seemed to say. "For 
 goodness sake, let's be getting home." 
 
 He turned his back on them and started over 
 the rise, wagging his tail and giving vent to 
 sharp, scolding barks. 
 
 "A fine lot of trouble you've put me to," he 
 appeared to be saying. "Hustle yourselves nov^^ 
 and get home. Don't you knov^ your folks are 
 worried to death about you? Such boys! Such 
 boys! It wears a respectable hound out trying 
 to take care of you." 
 
 And the boys understood and agreed with him. 
 So they followed meekly enough, limping first 
 on one foot and then on the other and calling to 
 him every few minutes not to go so fast. 
 
 They went on for hours and hours, as it 
 seemed, but at last they stood beneath the tulip 
 trees by the spring on Azalea's plateau. 
 
 "Well," said Hi, "this here is whar we part. 
 We-all don't seem to be bringin' the Disbrows 
 back to get their just punishment." 
 
 "I reckon we'd better not say much about 
 punishment," grinned the leg-weary Jim. "So 
 long. Hi. Hope it don't hurt much." 
 
246 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 "Same to you," called Hi. He and Bike were 
 already on their way down the mountain, and 
 Jim, tired almost to collapse, made his way 
 up the road to where Ma McBirney paced back 
 and forth, pouring out her soul in prayer. 
 
 But Pa McBirney seemed to have some feel- 
 ings which did not come under the head of grati- 
 tude for his son's return. He knew what such a 
 night of torture meant to the dear woman be- 
 side him, who already had suffered too many 
 shocks. He looked Jim over with a sternly par- 
 ental eye. 
 
 "If you got what's coming to you, son," he 
 said, "you'd be well lathered." 
 
 "I know it, sir," said Jim with conviction. 
 
 Pa hesitated. He was a gentle man. 
 
 "Well," he said, "if you know it, and if you 
 think you'll remember it, latherin' wouldn't 
 teach you nothing. Go in with your ma and 
 get some food, and then wash yourself up and 
 go to bed. Ma'd better give you some of that 
 salve o' hern for your feet. And Jim — " 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "You watch out jest as hard as you can, and 
 don't grow up a plumb fool." 
 
 "Yes, sir," said Jim. 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 THE VOICE IN THE MIST 
 
 It has been said that Mr. Carson set an ex- 
 ample for the people at Lee which many were 
 tempted to follow. And partly it was the spring 
 calling them; partly it was an itching desire to 
 find the Disbrows. Lee was pretty well dis- 
 gusted with itself as time went on, for not start- 
 ing after the absconding undertaker and his 
 family immediately after their disappearance, 
 and they told themselves they certainly would 
 have done it if Mr. Carson hadn't been so dead 
 set against it. And he was put up to acting the 
 way he did, they knew, by Annie Laurie, who 
 was too soft-hearted altogether. 
 
 It was a little surprising, all things considered, 
 that the Reverend Absalom Summers should 
 have been the next after Hi and Jim to yield to 
 the temptation to take to the hills. Resisting 
 temptation, as his little wife pointed out to him, 
 ought to be his specialty. But he contrived to 
 
 down her argument. 
 
 247 
 
248 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 "You don't seem to understand my noble soul 
 at all, Barbara," he said. "My real reason for 
 taking to the hills is that I want to visit my two 
 uncles back on Longstreet Mountain." 
 
 "But why should you visit them, Absalom, 
 dear? Do you really care about seeing them? 
 Aren't they two quarrelsome old men?" 
 
 "Well, they are some quarrelsome, Barbara, 
 and that's why I think I ought to see them, carry- 
 ing a dove of peace on my shoulder." 
 
 "They'd kill a dove of peace and eat it, 
 wouldn't they?" she asked laughingly. "Don't 
 they shoot everything in sight?" 
 
 "Pretty nigh," agreed Absalom. "They cer- 
 tainly do have nervous dispositions. They own 
 a lot of land up there on Longstreet Mountain, 
 and the two of them used to live side by side. 
 But their chickens were so inquisitive about what 
 was doing in the next yard, and they got so 
 mixed up running through the fence and for- 
 getting which place was home, that there was a 
 row on early and late between my uncles. It 
 was the same with the calves. If they wanted to 
 break into a field and eat up the corn, they al- 
 ways picked out the field of the next door neigh- 
 bor. And that made the brothers just dancing 
 
THE VOICE IN THE MIST 249 
 
 mad. Then once Uncle Ephriam shot a hound 
 of Uncle Aaron's — said he thought it was a tim- 
 ber wolf. 
 
 "And so it went. There was always trouble. 
 When they heard I'd become a preacher they 
 sent for me to come up and straighten things 
 out. I stayed up there a month and talked 
 things over and I couldn't get either old stiff- 
 neck to give an inch. So I worked out a plan. 
 Aaron had a likely building site for his house, 
 but Uncle Ephriam's was on a slope and water 
 ran into the cellar when it rained. Well, just in 
 front of them was a deep ravine — mighty pretty 
 it is too. I proposed that Ephriam should move 
 across to the other side of that gulley. I told 
 him if he would, I'd stay and help him put up 
 his house. So Aaron bought Ephriam's old 
 house to use for a barn, and Ephriam moved — 
 chickens, stock, truck and all — across the gulley. 
 We got him a nice sizable house there, and set- 
 tled him and his wife as comfortable as you 
 please. It was altogether too much work for 
 the calves and the chickens to get across that 
 crack in the earth, and so everyone lived in 
 peace." 
 
 "That was fine. But why should you leave 
 
2SO ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 Jonathan and me to go to see them if they're 
 doing so well?" 
 
 "They aren't doing so well as you might think, 
 wife. No sooner had I got those families separ- 
 ated, by a convulsion of nature, so to speak, than 
 they took to pining for each other." 
 
 ^'Nonsense, Absalom." 
 
 "It's a fact, my dear. They were as lonely as 
 owls. Said they didn't have anyone to talk to, 
 and that it wore them all out plunging up and 
 down that gulley." 
 
 "Well, what can you do about that? You 
 don't propose moving Uncle Ephriam back 
 again, do you?" 
 
 "Not at all, Barbara, not at all. I merely pro- 
 pose making conversation easy and simple for 
 them." 
 
 "With a telephone?" 
 
 "Not at all. A telephone would be out of 
 place in the hands of my reverend uncles. I 
 can't precisely tell you why, but you'll have to 
 take my word that it would. No, what I pro- 
 pose to do is to carry them megaphones." 
 
 "Megaphones, Absalom!" 
 
 "Certainly. Megaphones will become them. 
 They are sturdy, seafaring sort of men — " 
 
THE VOICE IN THE MIST 251 
 
 "Why, they've never seen the sea!" 
 
 "Don't be so literal, dear. They are sturdy, 
 
 space-roaming, wilderness-faring men in whose 
 
 hands megaphones will be appropriate. I shall 
 
 strap one on each side of my horse and set forth 
 
 -to-morrow." 
 
 "But will you get your sermon prepared?" 
 
 "I shall prepare it while I'm riding. Seri- 
 ously, Barbara, the wild man in me is uppermost. 
 You have tried to civilize me. Our young son 
 has labored to do the same thing. But you 
 scratch a Russian and find a Tartar; and you 
 scratch a mountain man and you find a rover." 
 
 "And you've been scratched, wild man?" 
 
 "I have. I'm ofif to-morrow. Bear with me, 
 dear. I'll come back as tame as a house cat." 
 
 Barbara looked at him with shining eyes. 
 
 "You'll have a wonderful sermon," she said. 
 "I know you, dear. Go to your hills — " 
 
 "From whence," broke in the Reverend Absa- 
 lom, his voice changing, "cometh help." 
 
 So away he went in the early morning, knap- 
 sack well filled, blankets rolled, and a mega- 
 phone dangling from eath side of his excellent 
 horse. 
 
 Yes, he was glad to leave domesticity and 
 
252 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 towns behind him; glad to be away from the 
 sound of voices and from the need of proprie- 
 ties. He was a hill man, after all, he told him- 
 self, and lifting his face to the sky he thanked 
 God that he was. They satisfied him, these an- 
 cient mountains which once had been lofty peaks 
 and which through all the changing centuries 
 had crumbled and shrunken till they were the 
 friendly little mountains that he knew. They 
 were so old — so old and so full of secrets. And 
 they satisfied his restless, longing, laughing, 
 dreaming soul, the curious soul of Absalom Sum- 
 mers, which differed from all the other souls on 
 earth. Yes, he mused, each soul must differ from 
 another, as the stars in heaven differ. 
 
 On he rode through the long day, thinking, 
 dreaming, living a deep and silent life. At 
 night he made his meal, fed his horse, smoked 
 his pipe and thought of his sermon. The stars 
 rolled over him in their silent and majestic 
 courses, and beneath them he knelt to pray for 
 his wife and babe, those inestimably dear treas- 
 ures of his, those lovely creatures of the hearth- 
 side. They liked their roof; he liked his sky. 
 Well, blessings on them, and might he be for- 
 given if he harbored too wild a nature in his 
 
THE VOICE IN THE MIST 253 
 
 bosom 1 It was not a silent prayer that the Rev- 
 erend Absalom put up. Far from it. He 
 shouted to the whispering pines; he addressed 
 the distant stars; he felt as if he must send his 
 voice beyond the barriers of silence and reach 
 his God. For that was the kind of man the Rev- 
 erend Absalom was. 
 
 Then, as trusting as a child in his mother's 
 arms, he laid him down to sleep. For he felt the 
 "Everlasting Arms" about him. 
 
 The next morning he arose at sunup and went 
 singing on his way. He breakfasted at about 
 seven o'clock, and stimulated by his powerful 
 cup of coffee — which, truth to tell, was a fear- 
 some liquid — he pushed onward. The road he 
 had chosen was difficult to keep and hard to 
 traverse. There were, of course, easier ways of 
 reaching Longstreet Mountain, but in order to 
 reach them he would have had to take a train, 
 and nothing was further from his inclination at 
 present than riding by steam. He wanted just 
 what he was having, the heave of good horseflesh 
 beneath him. 
 
 The day passed without events other than the 
 sort he desired: the lift of a bird from a bush, 
 the rippling of a stream across his path, the nos- 
 
254 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 ing of the horse at the ford, a burst of laurel 
 blossoms in a sunny path. He went on, whistling 
 and singing. Oftenest it was his old, best-loved 
 hymn : "A mighty fortress is our Lord." 
 
 Along late in the afternoon a mist began to 
 gather over the mountain. It blurred everything 
 delicately; it put a soft, filmy veil over the face 
 of the landscape and enhanced its beauty by so 
 doing. But after a while it began to be a bit eerie. 
 As the wanderer cooked his evening meal it 
 seemed as if shadowy white figures drew near, 
 bending over him, and then flitting away as he 
 arose. It did no more than amuse him, of course. 
 He knew the tricks of the mountain mist. But 
 he couldn't help remembering how terrified he 
 had been once as a child when he had been out 
 on a night much like this, and had had a five 
 mile walk alone with a lantern in his hand, 
 which seemed to summon ghostly figures from 
 the roadside. 
 
 "It would be a bad night for a man with a 
 bad conscience," he said aloud. "He would 
 think there were avenging spirits on his track, 
 sure enough. Come to think of it, I've plenty 
 of things to have a bad conscience about myself. 
 I'd better be watching out or the goblins will 
 
THE VOICE IN THE MIST 255 
 
 get me. And whatever would wife Barbara 
 and baby Jonathan do then, poor things! 
 
 The place where he had lighted his camp fire 
 was in a little hollow and the mist gathered very 
 thickly there, so he concluded that it would be 
 better to go on farther up the mountain. It was 
 possible that he might find an airier place where 
 the draft would keep the heavier clouds away. 
 So once more he put his horse to the path and 
 went on silently, rather weary, and heartily wish- 
 ing that the night were fair. 
 
 He was very far from the beaten road, in a 
 place so solitary that he could not hope to meet 
 anyone, so it was with no little surprise that he 
 found himself, suddenly, almost upon a group 
 of human beings. They were sitting, three of 
 them, around a fire, well wrapped from the 
 chill. There was a sort of rude hut beside them, 
 fashioned of saplings and thatched with pine 
 boughs. Here, apparently, they slept. They 
 were not then like himself, wanderers, but camp- 
 ers. Well, it was a quiet place for a camp, and 
 no doubt a sightly one — 
 
 His thoughts broke off like a thread that is 
 snapped. He recognized the persons at whom 
 he was looking. They were the Disbrows ! They 
 
256 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 were the fugitives. At first he thought of going 
 right up to them, but something withheld him. 
 He could hear Mrs. Disbrow's voice, and he 
 slid from his horse and having tied him, crept 
 nearer with as much stealth and skill in silence 
 as an Indian, that he might listen. There were 
 things he felt that he must know, and that as 
 Sam's friend he had a right to know. 
 
 "I don't mean to go on, pa," Mrs. Disbrow 
 was saying. "What's the use of going on? What- 
 ever would it mean for me but another house 
 to look after, and me lacking the strength to do 
 it? Hannah would drudge and drudge, and 
 that's all there'd be to it. Living like this there 
 aren't any pantry shelves to clean or doorsteps 
 to scrub. That's a great point to a woman with 
 no elbow grease. You understand, pa, it's been 
 pretty dull for me these last few years back. 
 You can't tell what it is to lie awake all night 
 wondering if the morning will ever come, and 
 when the morning comes, hating it because the 
 light tears your eyes out and the noise splits 
 your ears." 
 
 "But you seem to stand the light and the noise 
 here well enough, ma." 
 
 "So I do. That's why I want to stay. The 
 
THE VOICE IN THE MIST 257 
 
 only noise is what the crickets and birds make, 
 with now and then a bee humming or an owl 
 screeching. And the light is green, coming 
 through the trees. Why, it's as if a thousand 
 years had rolled off my back. There's no one 
 around wondering about me, and trying this 
 trick and that to get a sight of me." 
 
 "No one ever did that, ma," cried out the 
 shrill voice of Hannah. "That was just your 
 imagination. It was your being sick made you 
 think that way." 
 
 "Well, however that may be, out here we're 
 free. Now I propose, since you've got some 
 money, pa, that we move around here and there, 
 like a nice family of bears — the father, and the 
 mother and the baby bear." 
 
 She gave a curious, unaccustomed laugh. 
 Then suddenly she turned toward her husband, 
 and Mr. Summers could see her wild eyes gleam- 
 ing in the firelight. 
 
 "But what I can't make out, Hector," she 
 said, "is where you got that money. Why don't 
 you talk out the way a husband should to a 
 wife? Here we've been living so close to the 
 wind that we hadn't enough to satisfy us, and 
 Hannah's been going without enough to clothe 
 
258 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 her decently. Now, of a sudden, your pockets 
 are full of money I What does it mean. Hector? 
 And why did you clear out of Lee in the night? 
 When you gave the word to go I was feeling so 
 dull in my head that I didn't care whether the 
 thing was right or wrong. But now I seem to 
 have come to life. I've got to thinking again, 
 like I was a real human being. And Hector — " 
 
 Her voice carried on the air with the wild note 
 of a loon. 
 
 "Hector!" 
 
 "Well, ma, go on, for goodness sake." 
 
 "How did it come that you got that money 
 just when Simeon Pace's money disappeared? 
 Tell me that, husband! Tell me you didn't have 
 anything to do with it! My life's been queer 
 and dark, but it's been honest. You've turned 
 out a different man from what I thought you'd 
 be. I hoped on and on for you, but you didn't 
 get anywhere, and I got worn out and took to my 
 bed and meant never to get out of it. But even 
 when you'd taken all the spunk out of me I 
 never thought you was anything but honest. Are 
 you. Hector? Are you honest — or a thief?" 
 
 It wrung Summers' heart; yet he knew that 
 the time had come for judgment. He had been 
 
THE VOICE IN THE MIST 259 
 
 a boy of wild pranks and he loved a prank still. 
 An idea came flashing into his head. He crept 
 back to his horse, loosened one of the mega- 
 phones and put it to his mouth, and in that voice 
 w^hich had electrified great camp meetings, mag- 
 nified many times by the horn, he bellowed into 
 the mist: 
 
 "Disbrow, thief! Give back the money you 
 stole! Make restitution! Return the money of 
 the orphan! Simeon Pace is in his grave, and 
 his orphan's money is in your pocket! Disbrow, 
 thief!" 
 
 The great megaphone waved up and down in 
 the air, and the accusing voice was borne to the 
 group around the fire, as if carried on winds 
 from the furthermost heaven. In the white 
 gloom, with the wreathing wraiths of the mist 
 dancing about them, the dark cavern below, the 
 sighing trees above, the monstrous voice, like 
 that of an angry angel, besieged their ears. Sum- 
 mers was too far from them to see them cower, 
 and he could not see their stricken faces. His 
 heart secretly misgave him for what he might be 
 doing to the woman and the girl, but he did not 
 flinch for all that. He gave out one last call : 
 
 "Make restitution! To-morrow at sunrise set 
 
26o ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 out upon your journey. Do not pause till wrong 
 has been made right. This is the first warning. 
 Beware the second!" 
 
 The mountain echoes caught it up and shouted 
 the words back, while up and down the chasm 
 below the roadway the mist figures writhed and 
 climbed. Summers mounted his horse and stole 
 back the way he had come till he reached the 
 bottom of the gulch, then taking the path on the 
 other side of it, he proceeded on his way. It was 
 almost dawn when he drew rein, tethered his 
 horse, and laid him down to sleep. 
 
 "I hope," he said to his horse, "that I haven't 
 scared those poor women to death. But it had 
 to be, you see — nothing else for it." And then 
 suddenly he burst into a wild torrent of laugh- 
 ter. It rolled out of him in waves; it shook him 
 like a convulsion. And having eased his soul, 
 he lay down and slept. 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 GOOD FOR EVIL 
 
 The Carsons and the Paces, with Azalea, came 
 driving home one chilly evening in a light fall 
 of rain. They were tired and cold and had alto- 
 gether an after-the-picnic sort of feeling. In- 
 deed, when Azalea, who was to stay in the val- 
 ley for the night, and Annie Laurie had helped 
 the aunts into the house, they found them so 
 travelworn that they insisted that they should get 
 into bed at once and have their suppers brought 
 to them. 
 
 A few weeks before, Aunt Adnah would have 
 perished rather than submit to such an indignity, 
 no matter how comfortable she found it. And 
 Aunt Zillah would not have indulged in such 
 a luxury with her sister's stern eye upon her. 
 But more and more Annie Laurie's determined 
 will was having its way in that household, and 
 when to her command was added Azalea's im- 
 portunities, the aunts yielded. 
 
 Sam had the fires burning for them in a few 
 
 261 
 
262 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 minutes, and as the old ladies undressed and 
 toasted their shins before the blaze, and thought 
 of the two competent young girls down in the 
 kitchen who were preparing supper for them, 
 they experienced the luxurious feeling of those 
 who are old, well-loved, and carefully looked 
 after. 
 
 ''If they were girls who would be getting 
 everything out of its place," said Miss Zillah to 
 Miss Adnah, "I don't suppose we'd feel as com- 
 fortable as we do; but they take hold just as we 
 would ourselves. I'm bound to say that I 
 wouldn't know how to stand on my feet to get 
 supper to-night." 
 
 "And here Annie Laurie has filled those new 
 fangled water bottles for us, and looked out our 
 warmest nightgowns. We certainly have a lot 
 to be thankful for, Zillah. When brother passed 
 away I thought that I would just naturally step 
 in and take charge of things — I believed I had 
 the strength for it and the brains for it, — but it 
 seems it was not to be. Whether it was the 
 shock of Simeon's death or merely that I'm get- 
 ting old, I wouldn't undertake to say, but cer- 
 tainly I'm not the woman I was. Why, suddenly 
 when I think to be the strongest, I find myself 
 
GOOD FOR EVIL 263 
 
 all shaky in the knees and confused in the head." 
 
 "It's just the nervous shock, sister. You'll be 
 all right by and by. Trouble is like sickness, it 
 takes a while to recuperate from it." 
 
 There was a knock at the door and Annie 
 Laurie entered bearing a tray. Behind her was 
 Azalea with another. Tea, toast, little golden 
 omelettes, preserves and other dainties tempting 
 to the appetites of two jaded old ladies appeared 
 on the best dishes and the whitest napery that 
 could be found in the Pace household. 
 
 "My, my, what a fuss you make over us," said 
 Aunt Adnah, disapprovingly. "I'm sure the 
 common dishes would have done perfectly well, 
 Ann." 
 
 Annie Laurie shook her finger at her aunt. 
 
 "Don't you call me Ann," she laughed. "The 
 best dishes are none too good for you two; and 
 anyway, we're celebrating because we're home I" 
 
 Aunt Zillah narrow^ed her eyes in a way she 
 had. 
 
 "You're sure you love your home, child, now 
 that there are only us two old souls in it, and 
 that we're so poor and all?" 
 
 "Of course I love my home," declared Annie 
 Laurie. "I should say I did! And we're not go- 
 
264 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 ing to be poor. I simply won't be poor. And I 
 don't feel poor anyway. It's so meachin to feel 
 poor! Please don't use the word, Aunt. How 
 can you, when we have a fire like this and sup- 
 pers as good as those on the trays, and when we 
 can ask a friend in whenever we please, and go 
 on lovely vacations? Poor!" 
 
 She gave a little shiver of disgust at the word. 
 
 "Well, I'm sure you do put heart into one," 
 sighed Aunt Zillah, as if she needed all the good 
 cheer that anybody could spare her. "Some- 
 times I do think we're falling off in our spirits, 
 Adnah and I." 
 
 The girls stood laughing and talking with 
 the aunts a few minutes more, and then ran down 
 to get their own suppers. 
 
 "Let's eat it before the living room fire," 
 said Azalea. "We'll put it on the sewing table." 
 
 "And we'll have Sam to eat with us. He sim- 
 ply must, that's all, we've so much to tell him," 
 added Annie Laurie. 
 
 It was a much easier thing for Azalea to cook 
 the supper than it was for Annie Laurie to per- 
 suade Sam to come in and eat with them. But 
 the bright-faced girl, with her good will shin- 
 ing in her face, succeeded in overcoming his 
 
GOOD FOR EVIL 265 
 
 scruples. It was very hard for so social a crea- 
 ture as Sam to keep to himself, holding before 
 himself the hard fact: 
 
 "I am the son of a man who is under suspi- 
 cion. I must not be the friend of honest folk 
 until I am proved of an honest family." 
 
 To-night, at any rate, he permitted himself to 
 forget. So, while the rain dashed against the 
 windowpane, the three sat, warm and dry, in 
 the familiar room and ate their supper, while 
 the girls told stories of the curious people they 
 had seen, and of the nice and interesting ones, 
 and of dangers from which they had thrillingly 
 escaped. 
 
 In the midst of it there came a knock at the 
 door. 
 
 "I'll go," said Annie Laurie, "I'm nearest. 
 Who can it be on such a night?" 
 
 She flung wide the door, and then as the other 
 two turned to see who it was, she half closed it 
 again, involuntarily, and stepped back. Some- 
 thing was the matter, Sam perceived as he started 
 to his feet; then he saw Annie Laurie fling open 
 the door again and back away from it. 
 
 "Come in," she said in a strange voice. 
 
 And a man entered with a curiously swift 
 
266 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 movement, almost as if he were hunted. The 
 rain ran from his clothes and his beard; he was 
 covered with red clay, and he seemed to shrink 
 from observation. Yet after a second he took 
 off his hat, and then Sam saw that it was his 
 father. Mr. Disbrow came into the room at 
 last and closed the door behind him. 
 
 "Father I" Sam breathed, but Annie Laurie 
 held up her hand and Sam said no more. She 
 seemed for the moment to be carried out of her- 
 self, and to cease to be a very young and inex- 
 perienced girl, and to take on the grave look 
 of one who was sitting in judgment. 
 
 Disbrow's eyes, usually so wavering, fixed 
 themselves on Annie Laurie's. They were quite 
 on a level, these two, as to height, but the man 
 looked broken and beaten; the girl was strong 
 and free and, in her simple way, proud. She 
 stood there waiting, and Disbrow came on 
 toward her. 
 
 "I've come to make it up to you, miss," he 
 said with trembling lips. "I've come to give 
 back what I took from you." 
 
 Above the crackling of the fire and the beat- 
 ing of the rain on the windows they heard her 
 say: 
 
''Come in," she said in a strange voice. 
 
GOOD FOR EVIL 267 
 
 "I am glad." 
 
 The man tore off his dripping coat, and tak- 
 ing a knife from his pocket, began cutting at the 
 lining. He took out package after package of 
 bills and laid them on the table. And still he 
 clipped, and still the money appeared from the 
 wadded lining of the coat. Then he flung the 
 coat on a chair. 
 
 "I'll leave it there," he said. "If there is 
 more you can find it." He folded his arms and 
 looked at the girl. 
 
 "Well, that's over," he said. "I tried to go on 
 with the plan I'd laid out for myself, but I 
 couldn't sleep for thinking I was a thief. And 
 then a voice came from Heaven and told me so. 
 Don't smile at that, miss — my poor wife heard 
 the voice, and Hannah heard it. I've left them 
 out in the mountains and God only knows what 
 will come to them, for I reckon you'll be want- 
 ing to hand me over to the sheriff." 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Disbrow," cried Annie Laurie, 
 "you know I'll not do anything of the kind. I 
 couldn't do such a thing to an old neighbor, and 
 to Sam's father at that!" 
 
 Disbrow raised one arm in the air. 
 
 "I'll make a clean breast of everything now," 
 
268 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 he said in his deep quavering voice. "Sam ain't 
 my boy; nor he ain't my wife's boy. He's taken 
 from the asylum, Sam is. We thought we wasn't 
 going to have a child, and we took him and never 
 told him. Anybody could see he wa'n't our boy, 
 if they'd had sense." 
 
 Annie Laurie half turned. There was a con- 
 suming pity in her heart, and a great hope that 
 Sam would not disappoint her. And he did not. 
 He took three strides and stood by the man he 
 had all his life called father. 
 
 "I reckon we won't go back on the relation- 
 ship," he said. "If you took me out of an asylum 
 and cared for me when I was little, I don't mean 
 to go back on you just now, sir, when you're — 
 when you're down on your luck." 
 
 "He's not down on his luck," said Annie Lau- 
 rie in her clear tones. "He's a lucky man to 
 have the courage to bring back the thing he took 
 that wasn't his, Sam. Not everyone could have 
 done it. You ought to feel proud of a father 
 who could do that, Sam." 
 
 "I am," said Sam. "I'm mighty proud of 
 him." 
 
 Their youth, and the generosity of their youth, 
 their desire to do the best they could for each 
 
GOOD FOR EVIL 269 
 
 other's sake, had winged them up to that high 
 place where Mercy sits. Azalea, watching 
 them, thrilled to think they were her friends. 
 They were doing precisely what Ma McBirney 
 would have wished them to do if she had been 
 there to advise them. They were not being just 
 — they were much, much better than just. They 
 were merciful. Annie Laurie went on: 
 
 "I don't know how much money there is 
 there, sir," she said, pointing to the pile of bills 
 on the table, "but I am sure there is a good deal 
 and that you have given me back all you took." 
 
 "All but two hundred dollars, miss. I gave 
 Sam a hundred, and I used a hundred myself. 
 I'll pay it back some day, if I can." 
 
 "What I was going to say was that I want 
 you to count out a thousand dollars of that money 
 for yourself. I'm not going to lend it to you. 
 I don't want you to go on thinking you have a 
 debt like that. I know you've had a hard time, 
 Mr. Disbrow. Father used to speak of it and 
 feel sorry; and I've felt dreadfully sorry for 
 you times and times. Now, you're to take a 
 thousand and just pretend, if you like, that my 
 father willed it to you, and then you're to go 
 
270 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 away where you can begin over with a little 
 shop, or farm, and make your way." 
 
 Pretend that Simeon Pace had willed it to 
 him — Simeon Pace whom he had hated because 
 Pace was a successful man and he an unsuccess- 
 ful one! And Pace had felt sorry for himl But 
 if that was the case, why hadn't he helped him? 
 Yet Hector Disbrow knew why — he knew it was 
 because of his lazy ways and his bitter tongue, 
 and for the first time in his life he saw himself 
 as his neighbors had seen him, as a hang-dog 
 man whom it was anything but pleasant to meet. 
 Yes, he had missed the road, someway. He 
 hadn't known how to find the House of Good 
 Will. He had broken his wife's spirit, and had 
 darkened the lives of the two children who lived 
 beneath his roof. He had made a failure of 
 everything — had even sunk to be a thief. And 
 now here was this girl giving him another 
 chance. And Sam was saying that he'd still be 
 his son! 
 
 He was cold and hungry, worn with sleepless- 
 ness, shaken with the memory of the terrible 
 voice that had cried in the mist, and this unex- 
 pected kindness was too much for him. He had 
 not meant to do it — did not know that he ever 
 
GOOD FOR EVIL 271 
 
 could do such a thing — but he burst into the 
 sobs of a broken man, and when Sam had led 
 him to a chair he dropped his head on the table 
 and wept. 
 
 They talked together, the four of them, when 
 Mr. Disbrow had grown calmer. Azalea would 
 have left them, but Annie Laurie wanted her 
 to stay. She held her hand and kept her close 
 beside her. 
 
 "You understand everything, Azalea," she 
 whispered. "You don't seem surprised at good 
 times or at bad times, dear. You take things as 
 they come. Stay with me, Azalea, I need you 
 very much." 
 
 "What will you do, miss?" Disbrow had asked. 
 "Will you let the people know how you got your 
 money back?" 
 
 Annie Laurie thought a moment. 
 
 "Don't you think they have been suspecting 
 you, Mr. Disbrow?" she asked. 
 
 The man nodded miserably. 
 
 "There wa'n't a man in town would shake 
 hands with me," he confessed. 
 
 "And don't you think," went on the girl, "that 
 they thought it fine of Sam to give up his school 
 
272 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 and to come back here and help out the aunts 
 and myself?" 
 
 "They must have thought he was trying to 
 give a square deal," said Disbrow. 
 
 "Well, then," Annie Laurie went on, holding 
 tight to Azalea's hand to gather courage, "I 
 think I ought to tell them. It will let them 
 know you were honest in your heart after all, 
 and it will make them give Sam credit for what 
 he's done. I'm sure that's the right way, Mr. 
 Disbrow. When I was naughty I used to like 
 to be punished — it made me feel fair and honest 
 again. And you'll feel better if the neighbors 
 know. That will be your punishment. And 
 what's more, it will explain everything. I don't 
 want to have to tell a lie when I say how I got 
 my money back. I never yet told a lie and I 
 don't want to begin now." 
 
 The man bowed his head and sat staring into 
 the fire. 
 
 "I reckon what you say Is right," he admitted. 
 
 Azalea had placed a heaping plate of food 
 before him. She made hot cofifee and urged him 
 to drink it. And she found a pouch of tobacco 
 and forced that on him. His clothes had dried 
 
GOOD FOR EVIL 273 
 
 before the hearty fire, and when he had lighted 
 his pipe he began to feel master of himself again. 
 
 "I think, dad," said Sam, ''that the best thing 
 for you to do is to get out of here to-night before 
 you're seen. I've some heavy new boots that 
 you can wear and you can have my raincoat and 
 sou'wester. That's my advice — hit the trail to- 
 night and get so far out of the way that none of 
 your old neighbors will meet you. Settle in some 
 live town over the mountain; put mother in a 
 nice, light, little house — and whatever you do, 
 don't have green shades to the windows — and 
 maybe she'll get well again." 
 
 "She's better now," said Mr. Disbrow. "Fifty 
 percent better. But of course she looks with 
 contempt on me. I don't know whether she'll 
 let me go back to her or not, Sam." 
 
 "Mother!" cried Sam. "Of course she will! 
 You go back and don't take no for an answer. 
 You-all just hike over the mountain to a new 
 place and get a new start all 'round. And one 
 of the first things is to get Hannah's eyes 
 straightened. She can't enjoy herself the way 
 she is. It just spoils her life." 
 
 "Yes, it does, Mr. Disbrow," put in Azalea. 
 
274 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 "It makes her so shy that it's terrible for her. 
 Do say you'll have her eyes made right." 
 
 Disbrow looked up at Azalea with something 
 almost like a smile. She was bending forward 
 pleading with him, her own odd, intense look 
 on her face. She did indeed seem to have a way 
 of understanding the troubles of people. 
 
 "I'll do it, miss," he said, "and I'll tell Han- 
 nah you-all told me to." 
 
 They sat in silence for a few minutes, then 
 Mr. Disbrow turned his eyes on Sam and a deep 
 flush spread over his face. 
 
 "It's all right for you to say you'll stand by 
 me, son," he said, "but if I go sneakin' off and 
 hidin' away, how am I going to be able to stand 
 by you? What will 'come of you, anyway?" 
 
 "Now don't worry about me, sir," Sam said 
 independently; "I'll get on somehow." 
 
 "Oh, it's going to be easy for Sam," Annie 
 Laurie broke in enthusiastically. "You see it's 
 this way. Now I have my money I'll be able to 
 pay for all the work he's been doing for me, and 
 he'll keep right on working and saving up his 
 money, and next October he'll go back to the 
 Rutherford Academy. It's not so far away but 
 that he can afford to run down here every week 
 
GOOD FOR EVIL 275 
 
 or two to go over the books, and he'll get some 
 good man in to take his place while he's away. 
 Vacations, he can take charge himself. Oh, 
 we'll get on now, Mr. Disbrow, both Sam and 
 I, and we'll have plenty of schooling too." 
 
 Hector Disbrow looked at the tall boy sitting 
 beside him and at the bright-faced girl who had 
 spoken, and started to say something, but 
 thought better of it and put his hand up to his 
 mouth instead. 
 
 "Oh, yes," he heard Azalea murmur. 
 "They'll get on now. Things are coming all 
 right for them just as they have for me. There's 
 an end to trouble, isn't there, if you just hang on 
 and wait?" 
 
 "Well, there is, miss," agreed Mr. Disbrow. 
 "And now I reckon I better take the advice you 
 all gave me and hike." 
 
 "Are you going to walk, sir?" Sam asked. 
 
 "No, I've got one of the horses hid back here 
 a ways. I'll slip on him and get up the moun- 
 tain before daybreak. Your ma and Hannah 
 will be worrying about me, I reckon. Ma's 
 down on me, but that won't keep her from wor- 
 rying about me, you know.'* 
 
 Sam nodded. 
 
276 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 "They're sleeping in a little tent I rigged up 
 for them — kind of half house, half tent. Durn 
 it, I wish I could buy something to take to 'em. 
 The food supply's getting mighty low." 
 
 "Have you saddle bags on your horse, Mr. 
 Disbrow?" Annie Laurie asked. 
 
 "I reckon," said Disbrow dryly, ashamed to 
 test her generosity further. 
 
 "Then drive up to the storehouse door and 
 we'll be out with a lantern. I've enough food 
 to feed a little army and you-all mustn't go 
 hungry while that's the case." 
 
 He avoided her look as he thanked her. 
 Was she going to remember her offer to him of 
 a thousand dollars? She surely was. 
 
 "Azalea," she said, "count out the money I 
 promised Mr. Disbrow." 
 
 Azalea turned to the table where the fascinat- 
 ing rolls lay. There was indeed, much of it. 
 Most of the bills were of the hundred dollar 
 denomination. None of the children had seen 
 anything like it — it was like looking into Alad- 
 din's cave to stand there beside that old table 
 with rolls of bank notes. Perhaps each one of 
 the young persons wished that it had been in 
 gold instead of paper money, but even as it was 
 
GOOD FOR EVIL 277 
 
 it thrilled them. Azalea's fingers trembled, as 
 slowly and accurately she counted out the ten 
 one hundred-dollar bills and handed them to 
 Annie Laurie, who in turn gave them to Mr. 
 Disbrow. He would have liked, in the shamed 
 soul of him, to make some sort of a joke of it, 
 but he could not and the cheap words he tried 
 to speak died on his lips. 
 
 ''Thank you — thank you," was all he said. 
 
 ''It's not because you brought back my 
 money," Annie Laurie added, with something 
 of the stern accent of her Aunt Adnah; "it's be- 
 cause you're an old neighbor, as I said, and 
 because I've known you ever since I was a little 
 girl and I have seen that things were hard for 
 you. Most of all, it's because Sam would like 
 me to do it. That's so, isn't it, Sam; you like me 
 to do it?" 
 
 "Oh, Annie Laurie," Sam cried, choking, "I 
 like you to do it." 
 
 He lifted the old coat from the chair and 
 helped his father into it, but it was soaking wet 
 and he flung it down again. 
 
 "Wait," he said; "I'll be back with the dry 
 things in a minute." 
 
 So in the new, dry boots, a reefer, raincoat and 
 
278 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 storm hat — fed, warmed, forgiven, the man who 
 had so failed went out from Annie Laurie's door. 
 
 "We'll be waiting at the storehouse for you," 
 she called after him. And half an hour later, 
 with his saddle bags well filled, he was ofi up 
 the mountain, never to come into their lives 
 again. 
 
 "Come back by the fire," pleaded Azalea. 
 "Come, Sam, come back and get warm before 
 you go to bed." 
 
 "I don't see how it can be so chilly again after 
 all the lovely days we've had," Annie Laurie 
 remarked. She was deeply moved and glad of 
 the opportunity to talk about something besides 
 the man who had just ridden away from them. 
 
 So the three went in and sat before the fire. 
 
 "Oh, Sam," said Azalea, "you didn't ask Mr. 
 Disbrow who your father really was." 
 
 "I don't suppose he knew," Sam said, "and 
 I'm not sure I want to." He dropped his head 
 in his hands and sat staring at the dying fire. 
 
 "Oh, well," Annie Laurie said, "America's 
 for individuals. That's what Mr. Summers says 
 and that's what I think too. And as an individ- 
 ual, Sam, you'll pass muster, eh?" 
 
 Sam laughed rather bitterly. 
 
GOOD FOR EVIL 279 
 
 "Oh," he half groaned, "I wish—" 
 
 "What?" asked Azalea. 
 
 "Oh, I don't know what. I was just thinking 
 what a queer, lonely trio we are — orphans, the 
 three of us." 
 
 "Yes," said the girls, "that's so." 
 
 They sat for a time in silence, each absorbed 
 in thought. The fire crackled a little now and 
 then, and sank lower and lower. By and by 
 Annie Laurie spoke softly — 
 
 "Yes," she said, "we're orphans, but I reckon 
 we'll be taken care of." 
 
 "Oh, yes," murmured Azalea's soft voice. 
 "I'm sure of it. Why Ma McBirney— " 
 
 "The rest of us have no Ma McBirney," Sam 
 reminded her. 
 
 But after all, though they were pensive, they 
 were not unhappy. The feeling that they were 
 close and trusted friends comforted them. 
 High adventure seemed to be before them. The 
 fortune, so curiously lost and so strangely re- 
 gained lay there on the table by them. Sam and 
 Azalea wondered that Annie Laurie did not 
 count it to find out how much it was, but she 
 seemed oddly indifferent to that fact. Only 
 
28o ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 after a time she arose, brushed the bills into her 
 apron and stood for a moment smiling. 
 
 "Sam," she said shyly, "creep up to the attic, 
 softly, so as not to disturb the aunts, and bring 
 me down dad's old tin arm!" 
 
 "Oh!" cried Sam, horrified. 
 
 "Please," begged the girl. 
 
 So Sam brought it and the three laid the rolls 
 of bills neatly within it. 
 
 "It will comfort father," said Annie Laurie 
 quaintly, "but to-morrow I'm going to put it in 
 the bank." 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 azalea's party 
 
 Baby Jonathan had just been stung by one of 
 Pa McBirney's bees. 
 
 "I don't like the way he kisseth," he screamed, 
 standing beside the clump of golden glow. "I 
 don't like it a bit." 
 
 "I should think not, indeed, mamma's own 
 honey-bird," soothed Mrs. Barbara, dashing for 
 him and gathering him into her arms. "He 
 thought you were a flower, son-son, and just 
 lighted on you." 
 
 "He kisseth too hard," sobbed Jonathan, 
 plunging his golden head into the hollow of his 
 mother's arm. "I don't want to play with him 
 any more, ever." 
 
 "What a shame that he should be stung at his 
 first party," said his mother indignantly, as she 
 carried him to the seat at the McBirney outlook 
 where she had been sitting with young Richard 
 Heller, Sam Disbrow's friend — the one who had 
 
 spoken the cruel-kind words of truth to him 
 
 281 
 
282 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 which had sent him away from the Rutherford 
 Academy without so much as putting his name 
 on the register. They had been talking about 
 Sam now, and when Mrs. Summers had plas- 
 tered clay over the wounded cheek of her son, 
 and had soothed him with many kisses, they re- 
 sumed their conversation. 
 
 "It's going to come all right with him next 
 term," Dick said to Mrs. Summers. "All the 
 fellows in the country who know him at all real- 
 ize what a brick he's been, staying right here 
 and looking his trouble in the face and helping 
 the Paces out the way he did. Why, some of 
 the men wanted him to change his name when 
 it turned out that Disbrow was such a thief, but 
 he wouldn't do it. He said he'd promised his 
 dad — he will call him that — to stick to him, and 
 that it wouldn't be keeping his word to take 
 another name. He said Disbrow was as good 
 a name as any if he made it good. So he'll be 
 given a hearty reception when he comes back to 
 Rutherford. I've frozen onto the room next to 
 mine there at the Ballenger dormitories and I'm 
 going to get the prefect to put him in there. The 
 fellows shall see that he and I are friends, any- 
 way. I don't know as that counts for such a 
 
AZALEA'S PARTY 283 
 
 tremendous lot, but I'll let it stand for all it 
 will." 
 
 "Bless you," said Mrs. Summers, turning her 
 bright smile on the lad. "I can't tell you what 
 it means to me that my Sam is going to be happy. 
 As you know, he's been living with us the past 
 few months, and never, never did I see a boy who 
 tried harder to do what was right. But, dear me, 
 that isn't all. I've known good folk who almost 
 wore me out. But Sam is charming. Now that 
 he's happy once more he's the very life of the 
 place, and that's saying a good deal of a house 
 where my husband lives. Besides, Jonathan 
 rather keeps things going. Altogether, I sup- 
 pose we're the noisest and the happiest lot in 
 Lee." 
 
 "I dare say you are," smiled the youth admir- 
 ingly. "I know Sam's a wonder at keeping 
 things humming. He's been like that from the 
 time he was a little boy, and I never could make 
 out how such a live one could belong to a sour, 
 down-in-the-mouth family like the Disbrows. 
 It was quite a relief to me when I found he 
 Vi^asn't really related to them after all, but had 
 just been dropped in the nest, so to speak." 
 
 "It was a relief to everyone who cared for 
 
284 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 him, I imagine," Mrs. Summers said. "But am 
 I not keeping you here, Dick, away from the 
 young people?" 
 
 "I wouldn't stay here if I didn't want to, Mrs. 
 Summers," Dick replied gallantly. "You see I 
 don't know these girls very well, but Sam 
 wanted me to come up with him, and Azalea 
 was good enough to say she'd love to have me, 
 so of course I came. I've often ridden by the 
 McBirneys and thought what a delightful little 
 place it was, but I didn't suppose I'd ever be 
 coming to a birthday party here." 
 
 "Well, naturally you wouldn't have supposed 
 it. There are you in your fine, handsome home, 
 the banker's son, all of your paths running in a 
 different direction from those of the McBirneys, 
 yet I doubt if ever in your life you visited a 
 house where there was more real courtesy and 
 hospitality than there is here." 
 
 "Oh, I'm sure of that, Mrs. Summers. And 
 then Azalea — isn't she a wonder? She fasci- 
 nates everybody. As my mother was saying this 
 morning, if ever there was a girl who would 
 make you forget all about social distinction and 
 just join in on a happy human basis to have a 
 good time — all hands 'round — that person is 
 
AZALEA'S PARTY 285 
 
 Azalea. Of course, as mother reminded me, 
 Azalea came from as cultivated a family as ever 
 lived in this district, although she is now to all 
 intents the daughter of these mountain people." 
 
 "It's a privilege," said Barbara Summers, "to 
 live with Mrs. McBirney, and anyone who has 
 the sense to get the most out of it will grow up 
 to be good and patient and wise." 
 
 Perhaps these virtues were not the ones which 
 most appealed to Dick Heller at that period of 
 his life, but however that may be, he could not 
 keep his eyes off the mountain girl. He could 
 see her in her white, hand-wrought frock, her 
 hair blown about her dark face, flashing here 
 and there with her friends. He saw her run to 
 serve some one who was merely driving along 
 the road — for the road over Tennyson Mountain 
 to Lee ran quite through the McBirney yard, 
 as has been said before. It was evident that the 
 McBirney's were asking everyone who passed 
 to congratulate them on their adopted daugh- 
 ter's fifteenth birthday, and in return they were 
 served with the drink of sweetened limes and 
 the honey cake which Ma McBirney had pre- 
 pared for the occasion. 
 
 And there was Pa McBirney In his white 
 
286 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 linen clothes — they had been his father's — talk- 
 ing with Mr. Carson, in his smart white flannels ; 
 and Miss Adnah and Miss Zillah in new figured 
 lawns, carrying their old fringed parasols 
 bought years before on a great occasion at 
 Charleston; and near them was Mrs. Kitchell 
 with the younger children, brown and strong, 
 and quite in the spirit of the occasion; and Hi 
 and Jim were putting boards on saw horses, 
 ready for the feast; and Carin and Annie Laurie 
 were running down the road to welcome some 
 freshly arrived guests. 
 
 "I say," boomed the great voice of the Rev- 
 erend Absalom Summers, '^there never was an- 
 other spot like this one! Now, was there ever, 
 anywhere? When I get up here I feel just like 
 a boy, I'm so happy — why, I'm just silly with 
 happiness. I like the way the grass smells, and 
 the road winds, and the spring gushes, and the 
 flowers blossom, and the clouds sail, and the 
 valley lies, and Mrs. McBirney cooks, and Mr. 
 McBirney tells stories, and Jim whistles, and 
 I'll be plagued if I don't like everything about 
 
 it." 
 
 "Well, be calm, Absalom dear," smiled his 
 
AZALEA'S PARTY 287 
 
 wife. "You don't have to hoot like an owl be- 
 cause you're happy." 
 
 "You know how to stop the hooting of an 
 owl?" demanded the irrepressible man of the 
 company in general. "You just stand it as long 
 as you can without swearing and then you take 
 off your right slipper and put it on your left 
 foot and the owl will stop. I've tried it dozens 
 of times — and the owl always stopped." 
 
 "Git along!" called a voice from somewhere 
 up among the trees. "That way don't compare 
 with my way." 
 
 "Who is that challenging me?" roared Mr. 
 Summers. But he had no need to ask. It was 
 Haystack Thompson who was dropping down 
 on them from somewhere up in the mountain, 
 and who of course had his fiddle under his arm. 
 For to go to a party without a fiddle was some- 
 thing of which Mr. Thompson never yet had 
 been guilty. 
 
 "What's your receipt for stopping a hootin' 
 owl, Mr. Bones?" demanded Mr. Summers. 
 
 "Why," answered Haystack seriously, "you 
 jest heat a poker white hot and wave it in the 
 air three times and they'll stop clean off." 
 
 Absalom Summers shook his great fist under 
 
288 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 Haystack's nose — "What's the use in trying to 
 force a fool superstition like that down our 
 throats, Thompson?" he roared. "Changing 
 slippers is the only up-to-date, scientific way and 
 Heller here, who's been to school, can tell you 
 so." 
 
 But Haystack refused to yield an inch. A 
 heated poker was the thing for him, he said. 
 
 "A fiddle's the thing for you, Mr. Thomp- 
 son," cried Mrs. Carson. "I don't believe you 
 know how to handle anything else — not even a 
 porridge spoon." 
 
 Indeed, unconsciously, the old man had been 
 taking the covering from the instrument. 
 
 "That's right, that's right," Thomas McBir- 
 ney said. "Tune up, old friend. Then we'll 
 know that it's a party for sure." 
 
 And tune up he did. At first it seemed only 
 to be tuning, and they couldn't tell where he 
 left ofif getting ready and when he began to play. 
 But by and by there were odd little sounds 
 that might have been squirrels chittering, or 
 birds stirring in their nests. Then they grew 
 sweeter and more liquid and seemed like water 
 running over stones and wind singing in the 
 trees. And by and by the whistle of a robin 
 
AZALEA'S PARTY 289 
 
 broke in and then a thrush sang his soul out at 
 the gates of Heaven; then the night seemed to 
 be falling, kindly, as if it would give rest to all 
 the weary. After that it was black for a mo- 
 ment or two, as if a storm was gathering. There 
 seemed to be distant sounds of thunder. But it 
 passed quickly as some nights do, if one is, for 
 example, fifteen, and then the dawn came over 
 the hills, dancing. There must have been blithe 
 maidens ushering it in — for who else would have 
 had such light and lilting feet? Yes, they were 
 dancing down over the hills, scattering flowers, 
 and the birds were perched upon their shoulders 
 and rosy clouds were wreathing them. 
 
 At least that was the lovely picture that Hay- 
 stack Thompson's music brought to Barbara 
 Summers as she sat holding her little son, and 
 then the next thing she knew all of her friends 
 really were dancing. Ma McBirney was danc- 
 ing with Mr. Carson, and Pa McBirney had 
 Annie Laurie for a partner, and Sam had Aza- 
 lea, and Carin was with Dick Heller, and Jim 
 was footing it with Hi's little sister, and Hi and 
 his mother were making a show of hopping 
 around. 
 
 Only Absalom Summers wasn't dancing, be- 
 
290 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 cause he was the Methodist minister and didn't 
 believe in it — at least he said he didn't. He sat 
 beating juba with his great hands, making a ter- 
 rific rhythmical accompaniment and crying: 
 
 "That's it — keep it up — go right along on the 
 road to destruction — keep it up there, McBir- 
 ney — I'm here to see you through." He threw 
 back his head with its tossed straight hair and 
 gave vent to a roar of laughter. 
 
 "You're a comfortable preacher to have 
 around," declared Mr. Carson, stopping to catch 
 his breath. 
 
 "Comfortable!" roared Mr. Summers, giving 
 a twist to Mr. Carson's meaning. "I never was 
 so comfortable in my life." 
 
 Miss Adnah and Miss Zillah were helping 
 Ma McBirney to set the table now, and the 
 young people were dashing about on errands, 
 and more friends were coming, some from over 
 the mountains and some up from town, and by 
 and by they all sat down to the table and ate 
 together. There was fried chicken, and rice 
 cooked with cheese, and beaten biscuit, and 
 golden butter in little pats, and cooling drinks 
 of lime and orange and mint, and cakes — three 
 kinds — and ice cream which the Carson's had 
 
AZALEA'S PARTY 291 
 
 brought up in great freezers. It is necessary to 
 tell what there was to eat, because eating is a 
 very important part of a party. 
 
 And then there were the gifts to see. Almost 
 everyone had brought a gift. Even some of the 
 people who were passing and who had not 
 known there was to be a party at all, and who 
 perhaps did not know the McBirneys very well, 
 had fished out something from their wagons for 
 the orphan girl who had made so many people 
 love her. 
 
 So there was the little gold watch from Mrs.- 
 Carson, and the ivory toilet set from Carin, a 
 set of Tennyson from Mr. Carson, and a hand- 
 made petticoat from Annie Laurie, and some 
 old eardrops of pink coral made into a brooch 
 by Miss Adnah, and a knitted shoulder shawl 
 from Miss Zillah, and a kind of zither thing that 
 Sam had made himself, and a box of sweets from 
 Dick Heller, and — are you out of breath? Be- 
 cause there are ever so many more things. 
 There was a rag rug, beautifully woven, from 
 Mrs. Kitchell, and a whisk broom holder from 
 Hi, and a wonderful melon-shaped basket, fine 
 and delicate, from Haystack Thompson, who 
 knew more than most about weaving baskets, and 
 
292 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 there was a white parasol from Ma McBirney — 
 who never could afford a parasol for herself — 
 and a new riding whip from Pa McBirney, and 
 from Jim a new curry comb which he said he 
 would use when he curried Paprika, the pony. 
 And then other people, about whom you know 
 nothing, brought their contributions. Every- 
 thing was laid out in that pleasant, open cham- 
 ber, which it will be remembered divided the 
 McBirney house in two. 
 
 The people who came to this party weren't 
 the sort whose singing is ruined by something 
 good to eat. After the dishes had been cleared 
 away they sat where they could look off at the 
 valley as the shadows began to stretch long and 
 purple down from the ridges. 
 
 And then everyone regretfully realized that 
 it was time to go home. So there was a great 
 mounting of horses and piling into wagons, and 
 Jim and Hi held stirrups and helped ladies into 
 the high mountain wagons — the sort you can 
 turn the wheel under if you have to make a short 
 curve — and presently they were all off and away. 
 
 Azalea, all in her pretty white, slipped on 
 Paprika's back and rode for a way with her 
 guests. But at the first turn she shouted her 
 
AZALEA'S PARTY 293 
 
 good-byes to them and turned back up the 
 mountain. It was getting to be dusky now even 
 along her high path, and the coolness of the 
 evening was settling about her. It was a fra- 
 grant dusk, for the summer was at its height and 
 sent out a thousand pleasant perfumes. She 
 brought her pony to a halt as she reached the 
 top of the ridge, and waited for a moment to let 
 herself sink fairly into the place and the hour. 
 The trees, whispering in her ear, seemed her 
 close friends; the night was like a protectress; 
 the little sleeping creatures in the trees and the 
 holes of the ground seemed close and kind. 
 
 For once that eager nature of hers, which 
 asked for so full a measure of joy and delight, 
 was satisfied. She spoke a word to her little 
 mare, which began picking out the road again 
 with her sure feet. As Paprika drew near the 
 house she whinnied, and Azalea laughingly imi- 
 tated her. 
 
 "Send her along, sis," shouted Jim from some- 
 where in the gloom. "I'll put her up." 
 
 "Thanks," called back Azalea. She slipped 
 from her saddle and ran into the lighted room. 
 Pa McBirney was smoking, Ma McBirney was 
 still busy putting thing to rights. Azalea gave 
 
294 ANNIE LAURIE AND AZALEA 
 
 her a gentle push which sent her into her own 
 deep-armed rocker. 
 
 "Daughter will do the rest," she said. 
 
 "Oh, my dear," protested Mary McBirney, 
 "aren't you tired? You've been going like a 
 streak all day." 
 
 "Yes, but I didn't begin before sunup the 
 way you did, mother. My, my, what a happy 
 day it's been! What a happy day! And a little 
 more than a year ago — " she could not go on. 
 
 All three were silent, thinking of the changes 
 a year had brought. Azalea had remembered 
 that morning to trim with flowers the graves 
 beneath the Pride of India tree, so that they 
 would, in their way, be included in the festival. 
 For Ma McBirney had taught her how love can 
 live on though death comes between, and how 
 sorrow can be turned into sweetness. 
 
 That seemed to be the secret of the whole 
 thing anyway — turning sorrow into sweetness. 
 
 Finally Azalea spoke again. She had just 
 set the best dishes in their place and folded up 
 the table cover. 
 
 "And the girls," she said musingly, "they've 
 come to me too, this year — Carin and Annie 
 Laurie. Dear me, but we do have fun!" 
 
AZALEA'S PARTY 295 
 
 "Yes," responded Ma McBirney sympathet- 
 ically, "I never did see three girls have a better 
 understanding of each other, or ones who 
 enjoyed each other's society more. What is it 
 Mrs. Carson calls it?" 
 
 "The Triple Alliance," smiled Azalea. "And 
 now, since it's all right about Annie Laurie's 
 money, I really and truly do think we're the 
 happiest girls in the world." 
 
 THE END 
 
Books for Older Children byL. Frank Baum 
 
 The Daring Twins Series 
 
 By L. FRANK BAUM 
 
 TN writing "The Daring 
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 young folk of the ages be- 
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 Two Titles: 
 
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 Phoebe Daring 
 
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 Price 75 cents net each 
 
 Publishers The Reilly & Britton Co. Chicago 
 
Exhilarating Books for Girls of Today 
 
 The Flying Girl Series 
 
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 Publishers The Reilly & Britton Co. Chicago 
 
ANNABEL 
 
 By SUSANNE METCALF 
 
 A GIRLS' book with a clever, quick-mov- 
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The Aunt Jane's Nieces 
 
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 EIGHT TITLES 
 
 Aunt Jane' s Nieces 
 Aunt Janets Nieces Abroad 
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 Aunt Jane's Nieces on the Ranch 
 
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