“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_!”