“I only speak of it,” said Azalea, holding her friend close to her, “because that explains why I want to make every place cheerful. I can’t stand gloom and chill and hunger—can’t stand them for myself or anyone else. And then—don’t laugh at me, Carin, please—there’s another reason. I want to pass on to others all the goodness that has been done to me these last lovely months. Oh, Carin, I want to do good the way your father and mother do. I’d like to give up my whole life to it. You see, I’ve really no family. I’m very queerly placed in life. There’s gentle blood in me, and restless blood. I’m different from Ma and Pa McBirney and dear Jim. I can’t get around that, can I? No matter how much I love them, no matter how long we live together, I’ll always be different. Yet, on the other hand, I’ll not know the sort of people that Colonel Atherton’s granddaughter would be expected to know. They’ll not come into my life. I—I can’t expect to marry—when I grow up—the sort of—” “Nonsense,” cried Carin impetuously. “You’ll marry whoever you wish. And you’ll meet all sorts of people at my house—people who will appreciate you.” But Azalea shook her head. “No,” she said; “my lot has been cast in with that of simple folk. I’m glad of it, mind you, and proud to be loved by Mother McBirney. It’s the sweetest thing that ever happened to me. But all the same, I think I shall have to choose some sort of a career.” As she talked, she tidied the schoolroom, lighted the lamps, and ventured on a little blaze in the fireplace to send away the chill. Carin, less used to such services, sat fascinatedly watching her friend. “A career!” she sighed. “Oh, Azalea, what do you mean by that? Of course I believe girls should have careers,” she added hastily. “I want to be an artist myself, and if that old dairy doesn’t use up every ounce of Annie Laurie’s energy, I suppose she’ll be a singer. Anyway, she could be, if she chose. But what would you do, Zalie?” “Just do good,” said Azalea simply. “But that wouldn’t earn a living for you. Weren’t you thinking of earning a living?” “It might,” said Azalea. “It would be a great living to have people coming to you for help and to know you could drive the misery out of them—and the devils out of them, too.” “But the money—” continued Carin. “There would be enough, probably,” said Azalea, still not willing to give attention to that part of the subject. “I feel, Carin, that somehow there would be money enough.” Just then the schoolhouse door blew open with a sweep of rain-laden wind and it took the combined strength of the two girls to close it again. “Aunt Zillah was quite right,” said Carin breathlessly after this was accomplished. “We ought never to have come, Azalea.” “Oh,” cried Azalea, “there’s some one trying to get in, Carin. Did you bolt the door?” “Yes—it wouldn’t stay shut otherwise. Help me open it, Azalea. The bolt sticks.”