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!”