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 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 plastered clay over the wounded cheek of her son, and had soothed him with many kisses, they resumed 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 realize 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, anyway. I don’t know as that counts for such a 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 suppose we’re the noisiest and the happiest lot in Lee.”

“I dare say you are,” smiled the youth admiringly. “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 wasn’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 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 fascinates 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. 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 daughter’s fifteenth birthday, and in return they were served with the drink of sweetened limes and the honey cake which Ma McBirney had prepared for the occasion.

And there was Pa McBirney in his white linen clothes—they had been his father’s—talking 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 Reverend Absalom Summers, “there never was another 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 wife. “You don’t have to hoot like an owl because 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 something 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 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. Thompson,” 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 McBirney 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 off 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 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 moment 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 Haystack 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 dancing with Mr. Carson, and Pa McBirney had Annie Laurie for a partner, and Sam had Azalea, 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, because 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 terrific rhythmical accompaniment and crying:

“That’s it—keep it up—go right along on the road to destruction—keep it up there, McBirney—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 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 handmade 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? Because 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 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. Everything was laid out in that pleasant, open chamber, 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 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 fragrant 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 imitated her.

“Send her along, sis,” shouted Jim from somewhere 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 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!”“Yes,” responded Ma McBirney sympathetically, “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