“Lonesome, sometimes. Interesting, of course, and nice, but lonesome. I was always taking favors from other people. I had no one of my own. There was only—only the Pride of India tree with mama under it. I used to go out and talk to it, but—” “Hush,” said the lady. “Do not weep, Azalea. Save all your strength for our sakes. I cannot doubt that what you tell me is true. I want you to see something.” She brought me a little album open at the face of a young man. Carin, darling, when I looked at it, I knew it was the face of my father. It was like my own face, only a man’s and bolder. And yet, so like! “My father!” I said. “I never saw his face before.” “It is wonderfully like your own,” said Mr. Knox. “And now you must call me your Uncle David, Azalea; and you must call my dear wife your Aunt Lorena. Remember, you must never feel lonely any more.” Then I suddenly thought of Mother McBirney waiting for me, and watching and watching the road, and praying and wondering, and I cried out: “Oh, my dear Mother McBirney! I can never leave her—never!” “But someone else has a claim on you now,” said my Uncle David. Carin, think of having a right really to write that: “My Uncle David!” “Yes, I know, but—” “I do not mean your Aunt Lorena and myself,” he said. “I mean that you have a grandmother and that it will be the happiest hour of her old age when she takes the daughter of her favorite son in her arms.” “Not a grandmother? A grandmother of my own?” “Indeed you have, and a very wonderful and proud old lady she is. The grief of her life was the waywardness of her son. She cannot realize that he is dead. We have to watch her lest she steal out to meet him in secret as she did in the old days when his father turned him from home. She used to creep from the house to meet him and to take him money, for she lived in the light of his handsome countenance. So it is your duty, Azalea, to go to her.” “A grandmother,” I said, “of my very own!” It seemed wonderful—like having a mother, only more majestic. I can’t explain what I felt. And I can’t write any more just now, darling Carin. My aunt has kept warning me that I must put my pen down. So I obey. Another day you shall know the rest. _As always_, _Azalea_. CHAPTER III OWN FOLK “Little Windows,” Mount Hebron, October 22nd. _Carin dear_: I was not quite so well after writing you. Aunt Lorena says I mustn’t write so much at one time again till I am stronger. This is just to say that Mother McBirney has been sent for, though I can’t see how she is to leave home. Who will look after the men? Oh, how I am needed in that little house! And here I lie in this beautiful room, idle, of no use to anyone. And so sleepy! I never dreamed anyone could be so sleepy.