“I picked him up down the road a piece,” explained Mr. Thompson. “He was playing with a little snake—both of ’em having a nice pleasant time—and I up and said: ‘Why are you playing with snakes instead of studying up at Ravenel School with the young misses?’ And what do you think the little cuss said? ‘It ain’t as dangerous,’ said he. ‘Not as dangerous?’ said I. ‘How is that?’ So he up and told me the whole story.” “There’s a story whichever way you turn here,” said Azalea. “Just listen, Mr. Thompson, while I tell you the story of Paralee Panther.” So she told the tale of Paralee, of how her name was no name, of her father, paralyzed, in need of every comfort, and far from all physicians’ aid and all neighborly service. Mr. Thompson listened with deep interest. “Troubles,” he said, “is divided into two kinds. There’s the kind you can’t help and that you’d best forget; and there’s the kind you can help and that you want to get after. It looks to me as if this is something to get after.” “We all think so,” said Azalea. “And we propose going to-morrow to see. There’s a nice boy up here named Keefe O’Connor, an artist—he helps us in our school, too, almost every day—and he’s going with us.” “You-all don’t have no call to go,” said Mr. Thompson. “Not now, at any rate. Here I be, a lazy old coot, with nothing else to do. Just let me go and investigate these here Panthers.” But Azalea shook a finger at him. “Mr. Thompson, Mr. Thompson,” she said. “Do you think we’re the kind that can come up into the mountains and just sit and look off at the view? You know we aren’t. We mean to go to that poor man. That’s our adventure, don’t you see? Rescuing the helpless is the greatest fun there is. Why, the knights of old found that out. After you’ve tried all sorts of things, being rich and gay and all that, you come back to that old idea. So we’re setting out to rescue somebody, and we simply can’t be interfered with. But you may come along if you like. It will make it twice as interesting.” “About this ‘nice boy,’” said Haystack, ever the watchful protector of Azalea. “Who is he? Where does he come from? Who are his folks? What kind of a job does he look to have—or is he a shiftless good-for-nothing like me?” Carin, who felt the inquiries to be justified, flushed slightly and Azalea distinctly frowned. It was Azalea who spoke. “We don’t know a thing about him, and that’s a fact,” she confessed. “We thought that perhaps some day he’d be telling us about himself, but he never says a word. I think there’s something he doesn’t want to tell.” “Like as not,” said Haystack, dryly. “Oh, not anything that he’s ashamed of,” put in Azalea quickly, “but something that it would make him sad to tell. You know, Mr. Thompson, dear, that it’s just that way with me. There are things in my life I don’t want to speak of, ever, but nothing that I’m ashamed of. If it’s that way with me, why shouldn’t it be the same with others?”