“Only two more little days,” said Azalea, “and then we are through.”

“Little days, little days,” sang Carin in a tune of her own. “Only two more little days.”

“You use strange expressions,” remarked Miss Zillah to her girls. “Why do you say ‘little days’? Why not ‘short days’?”

“When I love anything,” explained Azalea, “I call it little.”

“Then you do love these days? I’m glad. I was afraid—”

“Aunt Zillah, dear—afraid?”

“Afraid you were tired, my girl. You’re tanned, of course, and so not pale, but you do seem rather weary.”

“Oh, I’m tired, but school teachers have a perfect right to be tired. Six weeks of teaching children who haven’t been in the habit of learning is rather an order, now, isn’t it, Aunt Zillah? But they’ve learned! All this last week they’ve studied like mad trying to get as much as they could before school closed. Even that queer, cross Mr. McIntosh has worked as if his life depended on it.”

“His young shote depended on it, you remember,” laughed Carin. “Mr. Rowantree has lost his wager with him and will have to hand over the brace of ducks.”

“So much the worse for Mary Cecily and the babies,” sighed Azalea. “Well, they’ll have plenty this year, anyway. The farm is really doing well, and it will do better next year now that Jake Panther is to take it over to work it on shares. He has much more in him than I thought at first. Now that he sees there’s some hope ahead for the Panthers, he’s a changed fellow. He’s roofed the cabin he and his grandmother live in, and set up a doorstep, and put out a rain barrel and made all sorts of improvements. Even Grandma Panther herself doesn’t look quite such a witch as she did.”

“Oh, but Paralee is the prize,” said Carin. “Since the great news came from Asheville that her father would soon be as strong and active as ever he was, and since dear Aunt Zillah fitted her out in decent clothes, and Jake got his regular job, she walks and looks like one who has just discovered what it is to be alive.”

“I hope it will all come right about her going to the Industrial School at Hardinge. You wrote to your father and mother about it, Carin, didn’t you?”

“Of course I did, Zalie. That’s the third time you’ve asked me that question. I’m just as sure father will send her away to school as I am that he’ll open up the moonlight school and put Mr. Rowantree at the head of it. Oh, I do wish those dear people of mine would come! There’s so much I want to show them and tell them about. We must take them over to Rowantree Hall the very first thing.”

“There’s a large package waiting for me at Bee Tree,” said Miss Zillah. “Little Dibblee Sikes stopped in to tell me. It must be my mantel ornaments. I want to see them on Mis’ Cassie’s spare room shelf before we go.”

“Come, Carin we must be off,” cried Azalea, snatching her parasol from its hook. “Good-bye, Aunt Zillah. Only two more little days—little days—little days.”

“Silly one!” cried Carin, gathering up her parasol also and trailing after her. “Why is your heart so thistledownish?”

“How do I know? How do I know?” answered Azalea, still lilting. “Except because I like my little days.”

It had come to that, simply. She liked her little days of hard work. She had broken the back of rebellion that memorable day when Keefe rode away to his great happiness with his sister, and she had been left, bereft of these two “charmers of the world” as she called them, to do her hard stint of work. In a way, Carin followed where she led. If Azalea’s enthusiasm for the teaching had faltered, Carin’s would have faltered too. But Azalea’s devotion to her work had steadily increased since she had fought her fight with envy and selfishness. She had been able to summon to her aid the hidden powers of her will, and these had sustained her even through these last hot, nerve-wearying days of her teaching. Now she felt herself to be the victor over that indolent, brooding, indulgent self which had more than once in her life tried to get the upper hand.

Not a pupil in the school but had made headway. Some of them had done extraordinarily well. Dibblee Sikes had cried whenever the last day of school was mentioned; but he cheered up when Azalea assured him that there should be a “moonlight school” for his mother.

“Maybe,” said Azalea, “it can be arranged so that there will be a day school all winter long for you youngsters.”

“But you’ll not be here, ma’am,” said Dibblee. “No one can learn us like you and Miss Carin. There’s been teachers here that just yelled at us and we got so skeered we couldn’t learn nothin’. All the fun we had was running away from school.”

“You shan’t have that kind of a teacher, I promise,” Azalea assured him. “Oh, Dibblee, if only I knew enough I’d stay right here and teach you all the time; but, you see, I have to go to school myself for a long time yet. As I am now, I should soon run out of learning and you would get ahead of me.” She laughed gayly and Dibblee laughed with her. There was much laughter about the schoolhouse these days, and it was no longer because some one had blundered or met with an accident. They laughed now because they were happy, because their shyness had ceased to be a torment to them, and because they felt that they were more like other children—not strange, not some one who needed a “missionary” to help them on. Of all the services that Azalea and Carin had been able to perform for them, the bestowing upon them of self-esteem was the greatest. Just how this result had been attained it would be hard to say. Perhaps it was the gentleness, the unfailing politeness of their young teachers and their way of seeming as “kin” to these shy, wild, suspicious young creatures, that had done it.

“It’s like teaching squirrels to eat from the hand,” Azalea had said more than once to Carin.

Little had been seen of the Rowantrees and nothing of Keefe since the day Keefe went to his sister’s home, but they were all, even the children, coming to school for the “last day.” The parents of the pupils were coming too, not only that they might, like parents the world over, swell with pride over the accomplishments of their offspring, but also because word had been sent broadcast that the moonlight school would be under discussion.

There were few flowers left on the mountain side by this time, but the prettiest imaginable decorations had been contrived with spurge and galax, rhododendron leaves and vines. The place was really a bower, and the children were clean and fresh for the occasion. Indeed, it may well be doubted if certain of them had ever been so freshened and decorated as on this day. Their young teachers had led them to believe that they were to expect high festival, and they themselves were in the most charming of their white frocks, with the little strings of gold beads which Mrs. Carson had given them at Christmas.

The event held one throbbing secret. It was a cold secret, although it arose from a warm impulse. By the greatest perseverance, Aunt Zillah had managed to get a wagonload of ice and a number of ice cream freezers up from Lee, and now, with the eager aid of the McEvoys, delicious ice cream, made after Miss Zillah’s own receipt, smooth as satin and tempting as nectar, filled the great freezers which bulked mysteriously beneath their gunny sack wrappings in the shade of the schoolhouse. Moreover, in the little cupboard where Azalea and Carin kept their stores, were six of the most noble, decorative and triumphant cakes which Miss Zillah ever had concocted.“I don’t know much about educating the young,” she told the girls and Mis’ Cassie, “but when it comes to feeding them, I understand the matter perfectly. Anyone who has reared a girl like Annie Laurie is bound to know something about that.” She sighed a little, for the day held one drawback. She did long to have her niece share in the pleasures of this closing time and to have her see what had been accomplished, and she had written begging Annie Laurie to come, but the girl had replied vaguely. Business at the dairy was very brisk. She was working early and late to get her hand in completely before her valuable assistant, Sam Disbrow, left for Rutherford Academy.

“It will be a month yet before he goes,” Aunt Zillah had said almost petulantly. “I should have thought Annie Laurie might have spared us one day.”

Mr. and Mrs. Carson were already at Lee, having run down to open up the house.

“There seems to be no end of things to do,” Mr. Carson wrote his daughter. “Do you really think you need us up there, kitten? What difference will a few hours make? Have McEvoy pack up your possessions, and hasten to us.”

“He doesn’t mean a word of it,” Carin declared. “He and mother are simply dying to get up here and see what we’ve done. Whenever papa sounds dull and prosy like that I know he’s planning something delightful. It isn’t normal for him to be stupid. He’s up to something, you’ll see.”

But as the “last day,” hot, with gay clouds, came, and the pupils appeared an hour too early, and the Rowantree’s old surrey swung from the thick shade of the old wood road, all indicating that the hour was at hand, Carin began to have her doubts. For once in the history of the world, her parents were going to be stupid and sensible and economical! They were going to act like other people! She was horribly disappointed in them, and kept very busy so as not to be alone with Azalea and let her see how disappointed she was.

There really was a great deal to do, for the parents of the pupils required much polite consideration. School did not call that morning until half after ten o’clock. The time preceding that was spent in talking about the moonlight school. There seemed to be a general desire for it, although some of the neighbors were exceedingly shy about expressing their desires.

“I’m ready to teach it,” Mr. Rowantree declared. “And I’ll do it for the smallest sum possible.”

The mountain folk may or may not have approved of Mr. Rowantree, but there was none who doubted his ability to teach them anything they might wish to know. Indeed, they always had held a great opinion of his bookishness; and now they seemed to find him more likable than they had imagined possible. His fine and gracious manners never relaxed, no matter with whom he talked, and where they had once been offended and annoyed by this display of elegance, it now seemed different to them, since the young teachers, who evidently approved of him, had themselves such pretty, fine ways, and yet were so simple and friendly.

The truth was, the folk of Sunset Gap were beginning to take a new view of various matters. For almost the first time in their existence they had been brought into close contact with people from the outer world, and their fears and prejudices had, in the light of their summer’s experience, been dying a rapid and painless death.

The morning hours were given up to a hasty review of the work done, that the parents might see something of what their children had been learning. The young teachers secretly hoped that their audience would be so pleased that they would take measures to establish a school of their own volition.

Now Azalea and now Carin, flushed, eager and slightly tremulous, led on their classes through the review of reading, spelling, geography, history and arithmetic, while crowded about the windows and the platform sat the parents, their tanned faces smiling and interested. Miss Zillah in her lavender lawn, her curls fresh as flowers, beamed upon them from the platform. Little Mary Cecily Rowantree and her brood was at the rear, where her young ones could ease their feelings by turning somersaults in the school doorway or by chasing an alarmed bunny.

Mr. Rowantree moved about from place to place, lending an academic aspect to the scene. Seated on the low, broad window sill, gay and lithe as a faun, was Keefe, with whom Azalea and Carin had been able to exchange little more than a nod. He still showed the effects of his illness, his eyes looked unnaturally large and his mouth was strangely sensitive; but he was more charming than ever. He had a sketching pad and pencil with him, and in the most engaging manner he sketched the heads of those in the room. He seemed very far away to Azalea—very much a creature of some brighter, lighter world than that in which she dwelt. She felt in her heart that he was going on to things of which she would know nothing—to a successful life in some great city. He would know artists and the most interesting sort of folks. He would live in strange, delightful places; he would travel. She and Sunset Gap would be only a fading, picturesque thought in his memory.

But all that foolish fretting and fuming, she told herself severely, was over and done with. She was Azalea McBirney, with her chosen work to do. Things were as they were; not dreams, not charming visions, but just plain facts, plain needs, plain work. Moreover, life was all the better for being as it was. If the body needed simple bread more than candies, so the spirit needed the plain bread of life more than delicacies.

So she bent brain, spirit, eyes, hands, lips to the labor of the day. She determined to draw from each of her pupils a quick and eager response. She threw herself into the hour’s performance, and had the profound satisfaction of feeling those minds which a few weeks before had been so aloof, so chilled, so closed, open to her influence as flowers open to the sun.

From time to time more neighbors came and clustered about the windows without, leaning on the sills and listening to the program. Neither Azalea nor Carin paid much attention to these soft comings and goings, these quiet unobtrusive movements of the people without there in the heat of the changing day. There was some fear of rain; Azalea heard the people whispering about it; she herself noted how the light in the room changed from bright sunlight to soft shadow. She hoped, of course, that the rain would hold off; and yet she couldn’t help thinking how charming Keefe would look there on the window ledge, with the silver rain falling between him and the trees; and she remembered that first wonderful day at the Rowantrees, when they all had eaten on the gallery with the rain making a silver curtain between them and the rest of the world.

It was time for the nooning—the famous nooning that was to hold Aunt Zillah’s surprise—and Azalea was just bringing the exercises to an end, when she saw an extraordinary sight. Carin, the proper, the correct, the ladylike, who had been seated on the platform near an open window, was suddenly seen to plunge through the window like the most madcap child in the whole school. Not a sound came from her, but with her bright hair tumbling about her from the violence of her leap to the ground, she was speeding down the path. What was worse and more astonishing, Aunt Zillah, the very mirror of what was decorous, had looked, and was now speeding after her, only she was swung down from the window by the sympathetic Keefe, who apparently had the key to her extraordinary conduct. In spite of the titter of delight that shook the school, Azalea preserved her dignity, but out of the corner of her eye she saw Mr. and Mrs. Carson, and Carin homing to them like a swift dove; and Annie Laurie running with outstretched arms to meet her Aunt Zillah.

Azalea didn’t say even in her inmost heart: “And there’s nobody for me.” She was through with that sort of “grumping” and did not mean ever to give way to it again. Besides, in a day or two she would be driving up the dear familiar road with Pa McBirney, and coming upon the well-loved clearing with the little house that was her home, and listening to Jim’s questions, and feeling Ma McBirney’s kind eyes on her, and then she would go creeping up to her own sweet, odd room in the loft that looked up the mountain side, and she would be happy. Yes, of course she would be happy. That was her life. Every one had his own life. Mary Cecily had hers and Keefe had his, and Carin had hers—

All of this time she was talking, was neatly and cheerfully bringing the exercises to a close, and her well-trained pupils were doing their best to give her their attention and not to let their eyes wander down the road to view the interesting scenes taking place there.

“Miss Pace,” said Azalea clearly, “has a luncheon prepared for you which you are all asked to help prepare in the grove. Everyone is invited—everyone. No one is to go away.”

No one had the slightest intention of going away. What was the use of doing that when already Paralee and Mis’ Cassie and Mis’ Sikes and others of the neighbors who had been pressed into service, were bringing forth platters of sandwiches and cold meat loaf and pickles and salad; and Miles McEvoy was starting a fire among the well-blackened stones of a rude fireplace in the schoolyard, and Mrs. McIntosh was mixing coffee in the huge pot.

“And now,” said Azalea to herself, “it is the moment for me to go and meet my friends.”

She walked out of the schoolroom door quite properly, meaning to remember every step of the way that she was only the schoolteacher, and not Carin with loving parents, nor Aunt Zillah with a devoted niece—but just at her most dignified and self-conscious moment she was caught about the waist by Annie Laurie’s strong arms and lifted entirely off her feet. Yes, right there before her pupils and all the people she had been hoping to impress with her discretion, was swung quite clear of the ground and hugged till she literally heard a little crack in her ribs!

“I suppose you thought I wasn’t coming up here to see how things were going on, didn’t you, you funny little old schoolma’am?” demanded Annie Laurie’s strong bright tones. “Me—as inquisitive as a house cat—not to come nosing! That’s too ridiculous. Well, here I am, anyway!”

Here she very much was, tall and glowing and quite grown up in her pretty blue linen, with her wide hat with the cornflowers. And here were Mr. and Mrs. Carson, ready to greet Azalea as if she were almost their own. Oh, it was good to have Mrs. Carson’s arm about her waist—good to be in the encircling gentleness and protection of her calm love!

But there really wasn’t a moment to waste in talk. Azalea told them that. Her mind swung back to its duties.

“After luncheon,” she said, “we’ll visit.”

Carin remembered her responsibilities, too; and Aunt Zillah was suddenly in a hospitable flurry. But there really was no call for haste. Sunset Gap was not used to it. There always had been, in the experience of its inhabitants, plenty of time for everything. There was time to eat, certainly. People sat about in little groups and partook of Aunt Zillah’s delicious repast, and they waited on each other graciously, forgetting, it seemed, all about their shyness and their terrific pride and their old quarrels.

But the great moment came when the generous freezers yielded up their strange confection, and for the first time in their lives the folk at Sunset Gap knew the taste of that odd little miracle among foods, ice cream in August weather. Some tasted it suspiciously; some ate it injudiciously; some knew it for a good thing from the first second; some doubted till they had sampled the second saucer; but all realized that this would be an occasion to tell of; and that if the truth of the statements were doubted, they had witnesses to prove that they had eaten frozen food the hottest day of the year.

That afternoon came the “exercises” and like last day exercises in schools the world over, what they involved of anguish, triumph, amusement and disaster it would take long to relate, and the record would be of no interest save to those who had suffered and rejoiced with the day’s events.They were shortened—fortunately, no doubt—by the approach of the storm which had threatened all day. The watchers without grew restless; the horses stamped and tugged at their hitching, and Azalea, bringing the session quickly and happily to an end, begged for one second’s hearing for Mr. Carson.

“He has something very important to say to you,” she cried, her voice reaching out above the heads of her restive audience. “You must listen, because it is something that may make all your future lives happier.” She smiled at them beautifully, and they paused, half risen from their seats to listen.

Charles Carson had but a brief word.

“The moonlight school of which you have been talking, friends, will be opened here next month. It will hold every night that the moon shines the year round for the next twelve months. Each person who enters has the privilege of paying what he can for his instruction. If he cannot pay, he shall have the instruction nevertheless. Mr. Rowantree, your neighbor, a scholarly man and one whom many a university would be proud to have on its list of teachers, will be your leader. May it be for your great good and joy! I believe it will be, for no joy in this world is greater than the joy of knowledge.”

“Three cheers for Mr. Carson,” cried Keefe. “Come now! Whoop—whoop—hurrah!”

The neighbors and the children gave the cheer heartily if somewhat awkwardly, and when Keefe called “Three cheers for your teachers, Miss Carson and Miss McBirney,” they became rather lustier; and when he came to, “Three cheers for Miss Pace,” remembering the dainties she had provided, they were aroused to a hoarse enthusiasm. They wanted to be polite; to shake hands; to say thank you; but the storm was muttering. Azalea waved them all away laughingly.

“Why say good-bye?” she cried. “We’ll never forget you and you’ll never forget us, but we mustn’t stop to talk about it. The storm’s coming. Run—or stay.”

The thunder drowned her voice.

“Come, Azalea,” cried Keefe; “don’t stop to lock up. Some of the people will be wanting to stay in the schoolhouse, probably. Here, put on my coat and run.”

“But you mustn’t run, Keefe,” warned Azalea. “Your heart—mustn’t you be careful of that?”

The boy laughed lightly and held out his hand, and Azalea, taking it, felt herself flying along through the darkening paths of the woods.

Safe in the Oriole’s Nest, the Carsons, the Rowantrees, the Paces and Keefe and Azalea, made many plans that evening of wild summer rain. It had been arranged that they were all to be accommodated for the night between the McEvoys’ and the cottage, so since none was leaving, there was no need for haste. Not a person there was of the sort who feels that nightfall bids him to bed. They did as they pleased with their day and their night, and this night they wished to talk. The little Rowantrees, Gerald and the weary Constance, Moira and Michael, the twins, were nested in the hammocks and on the couches, and in the lightning-pierced gloom, with the storm crashing and thundering about them, the others sat long, talking over each other’s affairs with a frankness which might not have been easy under other circumstances.Keefe made it known that he was going to New York, taking his summer’s product of pictures with him, to “try himself out.” He had something to work for now; there was some zest to life; he wanted to make a success of himself for the sake of Mary Cecily and the children. Annie Laurie was to attend to her dairy, and being now ready to take up advanced studies, was to study the University Extension Course by herself.

“Miss Parkhurst, your governess,” said Mrs. Carson to Carin, “is not coming back, my dear. She is to live nearer her mother and sister and teach school. That means that our plans for you must be changed. We shall send you to the Roanoke Academy for Young Ladies. After you have had two years there you may take up your study of painting, if you wish to do so, in some art school. In the meantime, you will have art instruction at the school.”

“But, mamma,” cried Carin, “that means—why, that means that Azalea and Annie Laurie and I will not study together any more. Why, it means breaking up the Triple Alliance!”

“Never worry about changes,” said Mrs. Carson in her silvery voice. “It is the changes that make life interesting. Good has always come to you, Carin, and good will continue to come. Annie Laurie has already chosen what she wishes to do. We have decided what we think best for you. There remains only Azalea to care for. How is it with you, Azalea? What do you wish to do?”

“I mean,” said Azalea, her heart trembling a little in spite of her efforts to be calm and philosophic, “to prepare myself to take charge of the mountain industries at Lee. Just how I can best fit myself for this work I do not know. I mustn’t desert Mother McBirney, must I? I can’t put any expense on my dear family, but I can stay at home and learn weaving of Mother McBirney and basket-making of dear old Haystack Thompson, and go to Jug Town and find out how to make pottery. I can pick up my education, don’t you see?”

She sat tall, slight and very girlish-looking, by the table on which rested the reading lamp. Her vivid face, thrown into relief by the soft glow, had, to all those present, a sweet and gracious familiarity. They loved her, wanted her with them, wanted her to help them make up the sum of good things that is called “home.” There was not one person there who wanted to spare her, yet here she was with her little declaration of independence.

“Come up to New York,” whispered Keefe, fascinated, “and study at the School of Design.”

Azalea shook her head.

“I’d like to make my own way,” she said valiantly. “It—it would make me happier than anything else. I’d rather not be sent anywhere. I’d rather cut my own path.”

“So proud,” smiled Mr. Carson whimsically. “Would it hurt you to accept help from those who love you, Azalea?”

“Is it pride?” asked Azalea with a bright thoughtfulness. “I’m sure I don’t think it is. I want to use my own will, Mr. Carson, to see what I can spin out of myself. If it should happen to be a wonderful silver web how pleased I would be!”

“Oh, you’re so young, Azalea, dear,” mourned Miss Zillah. “Don’t go to taking too much risk. Don’t be too independent.”

“No, don’t, Azalea,” pleaded Carin. “Let papa and mamma make some plan for you.”

“They understand me better than you do, Carin love,” said her friend. “They know what a joy it is to make one’s own plans and carry them out. Annie Laurie knows, too, don’t you, dear?”

Annie Laurie nodded her fine ruddy head. She knew. Keefe knew too, for he was like an eagle in his love of freedom. They all gave way before Azalea finally. She was no longer a little girl to be petted and given presents to, and to be consoled for her orphanage by the hospitality they could offer. She was a young woman, poor, united to humble people, gifted with a strange, fine talent—a talent for living and for making things seem rich and wonderful—and it was their business to let her have her way. She had grown up during the summer. She realized it herself, and knew as the rest of them could not, what the influences had been which had brought that transformation to pass. Henceforth, she would have her own way to make, her own sorrows to endure, her own peculiar joys to seek. Until now one hand after another had guided her; she had clung to skirts, so to speak. But she had grown past that; she must walk alone.

She looked about her at the rude but charming room, and at the faces of her kind and dear friends. She seemed to see herself, too, as she sat there, a girl with a curious past and a strange present. As for her future! She shrugged her shoulders gayly—as her poor little dead mother sometimes had done—and spread out her hands with a wide gesture.

“It’s to be Azalea for herself,” she said with a brave little laugh. “Wish her luck!”