“Oh, Carin, father’s death was a much greater shock to her than to any of the rest of us. She oughtn’t to have much care. Anyway, the dairy is my business now that father is gone, and I’m anxious to learn every detail of it. I understand now about keeping the books, but I am making a study of raising fodder and preserving it, and of feeding the cattle and marketing the milk. Oh, it’s a huge undertaking.” Annie Laurie drew a deep breath. “Yes, I suppose it is,” sighed Carin sympathetically. “Isn’t it queer, when you come to think of it, that work had to be brought into the world? Why weren’t we made like the birds, so that we could hop around awhile, and sing awhile, and go to sleep under a nice dry leaf?” “Well, life isn’t that way,” said Annie Laurie in the solemn tones the Paces sometimes used. “We have to work for what we get, and I’m glad we do. Life is more interesting just the way it is.” “I like to keep busy myself,” admitted Carin, “but if anyone came up to me and told me that what I was doing was _work_, I believe I’d fall in my tracks.” She gave a silvery laugh. “After you’ve taught school a week, you’ll not need anyone to point out that what you are doing is work,” Annie Laurie returned. “Azalea, have you spoken yet to Pa and Ma McBirney about going?” Azalea gave a little chuckle, half of amusement, half of affection, as her friend spoke the names of the good mountain people who had taken Azalea into their home when she was orphaned. “Naturally, I haven’t,” she said, “because until this hour I didn’t know Carin was really planning for it. And now I’ll have to approach the subject cautiously. You know how it is with my dear pretend-parents; they’re mountain people and don’t like to be frightened out of their wits by having a question hurled at them. You have to lead them up to it, like you would a nervous horse.” “Don’t say ‘like you would,’ Azalea,” pleaded Carin. “You know Miss Parkhurst never lets you. Say ‘as you would,’ Zalie.” “As you would,” breathed Azalea meekly. “Well,” said Annie Laurie, “it’s a grand plan and I hope it will come true, though I’m not perfectly in love with the idea of having you girls go off for the summer and leave me. But never mind that. Let’s have a gallop!” She flicked the reins on the neck of her pretty mare, and the animal, delighted at the signal, bounded away as playfully as a kitten. Like kittens, too, the ponies on which the other girls were mounted followed after. As they rode, the blooms of the dogwood rained about them and the laughter of the girls mingled with the nickering of the horses. At the ford, two miles down the valley, they drew rein. “It’s time I was getting home,” said Annie Laurie. “How about you, Azalea? Do you go up the mountain to-night?” “No, I’m staying with Carin. That’s getting to be my habit on Friday nights. Mother McBirney comes down Saturday for her trading, and I meet her at the village and then we go home together.”