There was no table on the gallery, but boards laid on sawhorses served every purpose, and the linen which Mrs. Rowantree gave Azalea to spread over this rude table was of the finest, most beautiful damask. The dishes, on the other hand, were of the commonest and had evidently been purchased at Bee Tree or some similar mart. But as for the food, Mrs. Rowantree knew how to manage that. She evidently made a fine art of seasoning, and while, as she said, they “had not the advantage of markets” at Rowantree Hall, they contrived, apparently, to get plenty to eat. It was quite a formal moment when Rowantree himself waved them all to their seats. He placed Miss Zillah’s chair for her magnificently, while Keefe placed Mrs. Rowantree’s. Miss Zillah was made to feel the distinction conferred upon her by being placed at the right hand of her host, who proceeded to carve his barnyard fowl with as many gestures as a trencher man of the Middle Ages might have used in carving the wild boar. The Rowantree children apparently forgot nothing in the way of manners—at least so far as outward appearances went. It is true that Carin received a bad kick in the shins which was not intended for her; and that Azalea had to hold Moira’s hand to keep her from pinching her twin, but nothing could be sweeter than the way they thanked their father when he served them with food, or the smiling manner in which they answered questions. While they sat there, it began to rain softly, gray, bead-like drops falling from the gallery’s edge to the ground, and hanging a soft shining curtain between them and the outer world. Azalea never forgot the beauty of it all. There was no wind, and they were quite as comfortable behind their silver curtain as they would have been in the house—more so, indeed, for the day had been a hot one. Delicious odors came up from the ground; the birds gave forth contented, throaty sounds, and all the regal midsummer mountain world seemed well content. They were very happy together, with a freedom from care that does not often come in this rather grim world. Only in the eyes of Mary Cecily Rowantree there remained that strange look of longing, of forever searching for something which she could not find. Keefe O’Connor caught it, and sympathized. Azalea saw it, and because she too had a hurt—as orphans must needs have—she too understood. Those who have a sorrow belong to a great brotherhood and know each other by secret signs.