Azalea threw a glance at Carin, who was sitting in one of the school seats beside Babe, and whose face had turned rather white. Carin had been prepared for gratitude from the pupils; it had never occurred to her that they would come to school in a warring attitude. Moreover, for the first time she realized what a young girl Azalea still was. As her Zalie stood there on the platform, her hair rumpled by the wind, her face flushed with perplexity, her frock coming just below her shoe tops, she looked very tender and youthful indeed. But she had what Sam Disbrow would have called “the fighting stuff” in her. “This school is for learning,” she said, “and learning has nothing to do with friend or foe. It is for all alike. Chinamen with cues down their backs, Arabs riding on camels over the desert, East Indians, all dressed in white with turbans on their heads, may be learned. They live on the other side of the world—quite on the other side of this great ball we call the earth—but they have just as much right to get learning as we have.” Carin had an idea. She jumped from her seat and ran to the blackboard. “Did you ever see a picture of a camel?” she asked. Before the children could answer she had begun sketching one. She had colored chalks, and in a moment or two her brown camel was surrounded by a stretch of desert sand. Far off, a fronded palm indicated an oasis. Then she began telling them what the picture meant; she told them of the desert and the life on it, and of the old, old learning of the Arabs. The children sat spellbound. When she had finished, Azalea took up a piece of chalk. “Now,” she said quietly but in a tone from which there was no demurring, “we will learn our letters.” Bud gave her one last defiant glance; then his eyes fell. “Yes’m,” he said. Half an hour later two more pupils came, one a red-headed boy named Dibblee Sikes, the other a girl called Paralee Panther, with astonishingly heavy eyebrows, a sullen look and only one arm. She was the only one of the pupils who really knew how to read. Moreover, she was, under all her sullenness, wild to learn more. With her heavy eyes she watched every move that Carin or Azalea made; she listened eagerly and yet as if only half understanding, to all they said. After school was over, Azalea, more tired mentally than she ever remembered to have been in her life, walked beside this girl for a way. “How is it that you have been taught?” asked Azalea. The girl did not seem to understand. At least, she failed to reply. “Who taught you your letters?” Azalea asked again. “A woman. She’s dead.” “Did she live around here? Was it Mrs. Ravenel’s teacher?” “No. We don’t belong hereabouts. We’ve just come.” “Oh, is that so?” said Azalea with interest. “And do you live near?” “Six miles from here.” “No—not really! Oh, that’s too far for you to walk every day. Can’t you live somewhere nearer while school lasts?” “I’m content where I be.” “But the walk—”