Did I tell you that Mrs. Babb, the moon-shiner’s mother, was over taking care of Father McBirney and Jim? That fierce mother of wild sons! I remember describing her that way to myself long ago. But you know how kind and nice she can be. She always was an obliging neighbor, and so, for the matter of that, were her sons. You have heard about the time her son set Hi Kitchell’s arm and was good to Jim. That was when I was kidnapped, and the whole countryside was searching for little Azalea. The funniest thing happened to Uncle David and Mother McBirney when they were coming over here together. Uncle David knew, of course, about my going into the little cabin and warming myself before the fire and helping myself to soup, so he was watching out for the place. And sure enough he came to it, and he and Mother McBirney went in. There were two women there, a mother and daughter, and both were very nice looking, though one, of course, was no longer young. They seemed different from most of the mountaineers; not inclined to tell much about themselves. They showed the picture of me, and they said they had enjoyed the things I left. They talked about me quite a little, and were polite, though cold and offish. Uncle David had his camera with him, and he wanted to take pictures of them to bring to me, but they objected to that. Wasn’t that queer of them? Some day I am going to call on them, unless indeed I leave this part of the country forever and ever. I suppose I may. Aunt Lorena doesn’t want me to go to Mallowbanks—that is the name of the old Knox place—all in my homespun. She wants to dress me out as Queen Guinevere did Enid. I have asked her to wait, but she is not very well content to do so. “If you are presented to your grandmother in homespun,” she says, “she will remember it to the last day of her life. Your grandmother is very old, Azalea, so that she is inclined to pay too much attention to little matters. She will say to everyone who comes to the house: ‘This is Azalea, the daughter of my dear Jack. She came to me in homespun, but I have clothed her in silk—as becomes her.’ Oh, it is so easy to imagine her saying it. Truly, she will never forget the homespun nor let you forget it. What is worse, she will insist on dressing you herself, and she will probably do it out of the cedar chests in the lumber room.” “Out of the cedar chests?” said I. “Yes, the famous, terrible cedar chests. They are filled with loot from all over the world—old shawls and crepes and brocades and laces. Never was there such an expensive and unusable mess. Ever since David married me she has wanted me to make over these things—” “And very lovely you would look in them,” broke in my Uncle David in gentle rebuke.