Three girls, Azalea McBirney, Annie Laurie Pace and Carin Carson rode slowly along the red clay road that led no-where-in-particular. In fact, these friends were bound for No-Where-In-Particular, and the way there was lined on both sides with blossoming dogwood, as white as snow. There were snow-white clouds in the sky, too, against a background of glorious blue. But the balm in the air suggested anything rather than snow. It blew back and forth, carrying with it delicious perfumes of the blossoming shrubs that grew by the roadside and within the wood, and touching the cheek like a caress.

The horses seemed to be enjoying themselves almost as much as the girls. They stepped daintily, throwing back their heads as if they would be pleased if their mistresses would give them leave to be off and away down the road, and expanding their nostrils to catch the scents of the spring-awakened earth. But their mistresses were too deeply engaged in conversation just then to grant them their desire.

“You see,” the fairest of them was saying—the one the others called Carin—“I don’t really want to go to Europe with father and mother this time. It isn’t as if they were going to stay in one place. They’ll be traveling the whole time, because, you see, father is going on business, and mother is going along to keep him company. It wouldn’t be very pleasant, would it, to hear mother saying: ‘And now what in the world will we do with Carin to-day?’ Really, you know, I wouldn’t at all enjoy having my name changed to ‘Little-Carin-in-the-Way.’”

The tallest girl, Annie Laurie Pace, laughed rather enviously.

“Think of giving up a European trip for that!” she cried.

“Oh, indeed, I’ll be only too thankful to go on some other occasion, Annie Laurie, when there’s time to see things or to study. Remember, I’ve gone twice already; once over the same ground that father and mother are going over this time. The next time, I hope to stay and study, but this summer I want to follow the plan we made last summer and go up into the mountains and teach school.”

“Oh, do you really, Carin?” cried Azalea, the third girl. “I’ve wondered and wondered if you’d remember about that! Would your father and mother let you?”

“That remains to be seen. One can always ask. Do you think Ma McBirney would give you permission, Azalea?”

“Oh, I think she would. The trouble with Ma McBirney is that she’s likely to say ‘yes’ whether my going makes it hard for her or not.”

“But didn’t she plan,” broke in Annie Laurie, “to visit her cousin down Calhoun way? Pa McBirney will be going too, won’t he?”

“I don’t think he could leave the stock and the farm. But you see, I thought maybe Mother McBirney would want to take me along to—”

“To show off her new daughter,” laughed Carin. “I don’t blame her.”

“I never meant anything of the sort,” protested Azalea, coloring. “But of course, having picked me up by the roadside the way she did—like a poor stray kitten, you may say—perhaps she would like her relatives to see that I wasn’t—” Azalea hesitated again, with the mocking eyes of her friends on her.

“That you weren’t what?” demanded Carin teasingly.

But Annie Laurie interrupted with one of the practical remarks for which she was celebrated.

“It’s all very well for you girls to talk of going off to the mountains to teach school,” she said, “but have you any idea of where you’ll go and whom you’ll teach?”

“We have a very clear idea,” answered Carin. “We’ll go back to Sunset Gap, where we were last summer, and where they need help about as badly as they can. I was talking with Azalea’s minister, Mr. Summers, and he says he doesn’t know of any place where the people are in greater need of schooling than they are there. You remember the place, Annie Laurie, don’t you? We stopped there overnight when we were on our camping trip. It took us a long time to get there by wagon, but this time we’ll take the train as far as Bee Tree and drive only the last fifteen miles. Mr. Summers says he knows a man who will meet us at the station.”

“You’ve quite made up your mind to go, haven’t you?” asked Annie Laurie. “What a girl you are, to be laying out all these plans without telling anyone.”

“Oh, I haven’t done much,” protested Carin, “only, when I happened to meet Mr. Summers, I talked it over with him. You see, there are men and women up there on Dundee mountain who don’t even know their letters, and teaching the children will be like carrying civilization to them,” said Carin earnestly, meaning very much more than she said but trusting her sympathetic friends to understand.

“It’s the very kind of work that I want to do above everything else,” declared Azalea with an earnestness no less than that of her friend. “Oh, Annie Laurie, if we go, do come with us! You’d make the best teacher of us all. You’re so firm, and you always think out beforehand what you’re going to do.”

“The best way for me to live up to that fine reputation,” retorted Annie Laurie, “is by staying at home. This is my last chance for learning to manage my dairy, for Sam Disbrow, who has been taking almost all of the responsibility, is leaving me next October for his two years at Rutherford Academy. I’m so happy to think he’s going, after all the disappointments and troubles he’s had.”

“But couldn’t your Aunt Adnah look after the dairy for a couple of months? I thought she was a fine business woman,” Carin persisted.

“Oh, Carin, father’s death was a much greater shock to her than to any of the rest of us. She oughtn’t to have much care. Anyway, the dairy is my business now that father is gone, and I’m anxious to learn every detail of it. I understand now about keeping the books, but I am making a study of raising fodder and preserving it, and of feeding the cattle and marketing the milk. Oh, it’s a huge undertaking.”

Annie Laurie drew a deep breath.

“Yes, I suppose it is,” sighed Carin sympathetically. “Isn’t it queer, when you come to think of it, that work had to be brought into the world? Why weren’t we made like the birds, so that we could hop around awhile, and sing awhile, and go to sleep under a nice dry leaf?”“Well, life isn’t that way,” said Annie Laurie in the solemn tones the Paces sometimes used. “We have to work for what we get, and I’m glad we do. Life is more interesting just the way it is.”

“I like to keep busy myself,” admitted Carin, “but if anyone came up to me and told me that what I was doing was work, I believe I’d fall in my tracks.” She gave a silvery laugh.

“After you’ve taught school a week, you’ll not need anyone to point out that what you are doing is work,” Annie Laurie returned. “Azalea, have you spoken yet to Pa and Ma McBirney about going?”

Azalea gave a little chuckle, half of amusement, half of affection, as her friend spoke the names of the good mountain people who had taken Azalea into their home when she was orphaned.

“Naturally, I haven’t,” she said, “because until this hour I didn’t know Carin was really planning for it. And now I’ll have to approach the subject cautiously. You know how it is with my dear pretend-parents; they’re mountain people and don’t like to be frightened out of their wits by having a question hurled at them. You have to lead them up to it, like you would a nervous horse.”

“Don’t say ‘like you would,’ Azalea,” pleaded Carin. “You know Miss Parkhurst never lets you. Say ‘as you would,’ Zalie.”

“As you would,” breathed Azalea meekly.

“Well,” said Annie Laurie, “it’s a grand plan and I hope it will come true, though I’m not perfectly in love with the idea of having you girls go off for the summer and leave me. But never mind that. Let’s have a gallop!”

She flicked the reins on the neck of her pretty mare, and the animal, delighted at the signal, bounded away as playfully as a kitten. Like kittens, too, the ponies on which the other girls were mounted followed after. As they rode, the blooms of the dogwood rained about them and the laughter of the girls mingled with the nickering of the horses.

At the ford, two miles down the valley, they drew rein.

“It’s time I was getting home,” said Annie Laurie. “How about you, Azalea? Do you go up the mountain to-night?”

“No, I’m staying with Carin. That’s getting to be my habit on Friday nights. Mother McBirney comes down Saturday for her trading, and I meet her at the village and then we go home together.”

And now while they canter back down the lovely Valley of Lee in the bland light of the closing day, let us tell something of their history to such readers as have not met them before.

Azalea McBirney did not bear the name to which she was born. She was Azalea Knox, the daughter of a ne’er-do-well son of a fine family, and of a loving-hearted mother who had left her home and friends for the sake of the man she married. The young mother had fallen upon such evil days that at last, to provide her little girl with the necessaries of life, she had traveled with a band of sorry actors who journeyed from town to town in squalid, covered wagons. Sick in body and shamed in spirit, she died on the road in front of the mountain cabin where Thomas and Mary McBirney lived. They had taken Azalea into their home, where she shared their care and affection with Jim McBirney, their only living child.

Carin Carson was the daughter of Charles and Lucy Carson, Northerners of wealth, who, having lost their three sons in a tragic manner, had come to the beautiful little mountain town of Lee, to forget, if possible, amid its beautiful surroundings and peaceful life, the pain which had made their old home impossible to them. They had interested themselves greatly in Azalea, had offered to make her their adopted daughter, and upon her decision to stay with her devoted foster mother, had given her the privilege of sharing with Carin the excellent instruction received from Miss Parkhurst, Carin’s governess.

A warm friendship had developed between the girls, and it was a sharp disappointment to them when Mrs. Carson, who thought they were growing too self-centered and indifferent to other young folk, brought into their classroom Annie Laurie Pace, the daughter of the dairy-man at Lee. It was only after Annie Laurie’s revolt from their selfishness that they realized the need they had of her as well as the privilege that it was to her—a girl too advanced for the district school—to share their opportunities with them. Troubles came to Annie Laurie. She lost her father and her fortune; but these misfortunes only bound the three girls closer in “the triple alliance” which they had formed. When, finally Annie Laurie’s fortune was recovered by a singular chance, they settled down into happy enjoyment of their school days.

The previous summer had found them together with their elders upon a camping trip which was to remain in the minds of all of them as one of the most delightful experiences of their lives. On this excursion they had seen something of the lives of the mountaineers of the Blue Ridge far back from the railroads and the main routes of travel, and had resolved that at the first opportunity they would return to pass on to these untaught, friendly, wistful folk some of the knowledge which had been bountifully given them. But this thought had slipped out of sight during the winter, for each girl had been much occupied after her own fashion. Now, with the return of summer, their thoughts turned naturally to the mountains. Back of their desire to be useful to their less fortunate neighbors, was the hunger for life in the open. They dreamed of the low-lying valleys bathed in purple mist, of the flaming azalea burning on the higher slopes, of the innumerable flowers springing to life along the adventurous pathways, of the wild beauty of the storms, and the ever-new miracle of sunrise and sunset.

Annie Laurie said good-bye, and Carin and Azalea turned in at the great gate of the Shoals, the beautiful home built by Colonel Atherton, the grandfather of Azalea. But Azalea entered it now, a poor girl, the foster daughter of simple mountain folk, and it was Carin’s parents who owned the fine old place and who lived there in a very different sort of state from that which had obtained in Colonel Atherton’s day. His thought had been all of his own indulgence and glory. Charles Carson and his wife had their greatest happiness in sharing their prosperity with others. They had built up a trade for the handicraft of the mountain people, had lent a hand to several of the enterprises in the town of Lee, and were the chief supporters of a school for the mountain children.

When Mustard and Paprika, the ponies, had been led away by the stable boy, the girls ran up the wide sweeping stairs to Carin’s room to dress for dinner, and as they brushed their hair and changed their frocks, they talked of how they could best approach their parents with their rather madcap plan of going up into the mountains. In the midst of their talk Mrs. Carson came into the room. She kissed them in her gentle way and then held Azalea off with one white jewelled hand, eyeing her with quizzical affection. Azalea returned her look adoringly, for Carin’s mother was the girl’s ideal of what a “beautiful lady” should be. The faint breath of violet perfume which floated from her gowns, the satin sheen of her waving hair, her indescribably soft and musical voice, her gestures, her laugh, all served Azalea as the standard by which she measured charm in women.

“You two have been plotting something,” declared the lady. “I can read conspiracy in your faces—such a pair of telltale faces as you have! Come! What is it?”

She drew Azalea closer to her, and the girl nestled her face for a moment against Mrs. Carson’s soft cheek.

“It’s the mountains, mamma Carson,” she replied. “Carin and I want to go up there and teach school the way we planned last summer. You remember, don’t you?”

“So that’s it! Well, that’s not a very dark conspiracy. There wouldn’t be any objection if we weren’t going abroad.”

“But it’s because you are going abroad, mamma,” cried Carin, “and because I don’t really want to go, that this plan seems so—so timely.”

Well, that was where the argument began. It was continued at the dinner table; it was taken up the next day with the McBirneys as soon as ever they showed their faces in the village, so that they were not, after all, allowed to approach the subject in that gradual and cautious manner advised by Azalea; it was carried to the Reverend Absalom Summers and his wife Barbara. Even Jonathan Summers, aged three, took a hand in it by pulling Azalea’s skirt and saying: “Don’t go! Don’t go.”

Mr. Carson explained the situation to Mr. Summers after this fashion: “It’s not that I am really so keen about taking Carin on this trip; and I certainly have no objection to her making herself useful, but going to live upon a wild mountain among wilder people doesn’t appeal to me as the best thing for young girls to do. I doubt if it would be safe.”

“Safe?” roared the Reverend Absalom, who had been a mountain man himself and to whom the honor of the mountaineers was dear. “Safe, Mr. Carson! Do you mean to insinuate that those girls wouldn’t be as safe on Dundee Mountain as here in the town of Lee? Are you not aware that women are honored and protected in the remotest regions of our mountains?”

Mr. Carson enjoyed the outbreaks of his friend and was not at all put out at having provoked one. His smile led Mr. Summers to suppose that his eloquence had not been vigorous enough, so he resumed in a louder tone of voice:

“We may do a good many things up on the mountain that aren’t generally approved of by people living in the valleys; we may quarrel among ourselves, and we may forget to pay the government the tax on our whiskey; we may be lazy—we are lazy, if you like; we may have different ideas of enjoyment from those you have, but if you think there is any human panther among us who—”

Mr. Carson roared with laughter.

“No, Summers,” he cried, waving his hands to stop the stream of protest, “I don’t think so—I don’t think anything. But you know yourself that if the girls go up to Sunset Gap, they’ve got to have a reliable, sensible, agreeable woman along with them. Now where shall we find anyone like that? She must like roughing it, yet she’ll have to be a refined, companionable woman. She must know how to keep the pantry stocked, do the cooking, and yet be a restraint to our impulsive young people. Such a person is hard to find.”

Mr. Summers had to admit that it was. His little wife, Barbara, who wanted terribly to go with the girls but who was unwilling to leave her preacher-man, had to admit it also, though she usually was the first to think of the answer to any puzzle. Finally, Mr. Carson put it this way:

“McBirney and his wife are willing Azalea should go, providing the proper protectress is found. Mrs. Carson and I feel the same way. Now, Summers, I ask you, isn’t it up to the girls to find the right chaperon? Why not leave it in their hands? Let them produce a woman of good sense, refinement, courage, love of adventure mixed with judgment, well-educated, accustomed to killing snakes, friendly to the mountain people, with a religious nature and a perfect disposition—no objection to a little knowledge of medicine thrown in—and they can go.”

The Rev. Absalom threw back his head and laughed, and his laugh was entirely out of proportion to the size of the little house in which he and his wife and his yellow-headed son lived and had their being, and in which they were now entertaining their friends the Carsons and the McBirneys.

But Carin and Azalea arose to the situation.

“It’s an hour before father and mother are to start up the mountain for home,” said Azalea, taking the dare gayly; “so we’ve time to go out and look around.”

“Why not?” demanded Carin. “I’m great at finding four-leaf clovers. Why shouldn’t I find the perfect chaperon?” Half in expectation, half in despair, the two of them ran off down the sunny street, followed by the applause of Barbara Summers’ small brown hands.

“First,” said Carin, when they were beyond the hearing of their elders, “let’s go tell Annie Laurie.”

“Of course,” agreed Azalea. “Even if she doesn’t know of the right person, she must be told what we’re doing.”

It was not far from the Summers’ home to the rather gaunt house which Annie Laurie Pace had inherited. The girls made their way between the well-kept fields in which the fodder was raised for Annie Laurie’s fine herd of cattle—the celebrated Pace herd, which provided milk for half the county—and so came by carefully tended roads to their friend’s home.

Annie Laurie had been training vines to grow over the austere house, and had made flower gardens in the yard which until recently had worn a forbidding and business-like appearance. There was even an arbor about which clematis and wisteria were beginning to climb, and here, sparsely sheltered by shade, sat Miss Zillah Pace, the younger and gentler of Annie Laurie’s two aunts. There was a wistful look on her face and her hands lay idly in her lap, but when she saw the two girls she got to her feet and came swiftly forward to meet them.

“Oh,” she cried, “how very nice to see you on such a beautiful day! Everyone ought to be young to-day, oughtn’t they? I declare, I don’t see how I’m ever going to give up and be middle-aged if it means sitting around here at home season in and season out.”

“Were you such a very giddy girl, Miss Zillah?” asked Carin in amusement, casting an eye at Miss Zillah’s staid frock and prim little curls, and thinking how amusing it was that such a settled little person should be able to think of herself as adventurous.

“Not on the outside,” returned Miss Zillah. “When I was young I had a very great sense of duty, and there were many opportunities for me to exercise it. But do you know, I’m kind of worn out doing my duty, and I’d give anything if I were going away on some such jaunt as we went on last year.” She looked at the girls appealingly, and then concluded with a shy little smile, “I suppose you think I’m a dreadfully silly old woman.”

But Carin had clasped Azalea’s arm in a fierce grasp.

“The perfect chaperon,” she whispered, “made to order!”

“Found in fifteen minutes,” whispered back Azalea.

Miss Zillah, who caught their rapid exchange of confidence, looked perplexed.

“Oh, don’t think us rude, Miss Zillah,” pleaded Carin. “We’re not; we’re merely excited. You see, we’ve just made a discovery.”“Have you, my dears?” asked Miss Zillah. “Come sit down in the arbor and tell me about it.”

“I’m afraid we’re almost too elated to sit down,” laughed Azalea. “You see, what we have discovered, Miss Zillah, is you.”

“But it’s a long time since you landed on my continent,” said Miss Zillah.

“Yes, but when we first saw you we made the same mistake that Columbus did. We thought you were some one else.”

“Who did you think I was? Who am I?” laughed the nice old lady, glad of an excuse to be talking happy nonsense.

“Why, we thought you were just Annie Laurie’s aunt,” explained Azalea, “but now we’re wondering if you’re not our chaperon. We’re going up to Sunset Gap again; this time to teach school. And we must have a perfect chaperon, else we’ll not be allowed to go.”

“And you’re she!” cried Carin, flinging her arms impulsively about Miss Zillah’s soft neck. “You know you are! Say you’ll come, Miss Zillah, and then we can run back and tell our people that everything is all right.”