“Should you like to?” asked Uncle David in great surprise. “Oh, immensely.” “My dear Azalea!” cried Aunt Lorena incredulously. “Why not? You advised me to make new friends. I have. She is my new friend.” “But Delight Ravanel is old enough to be your mother! And she’s always raging at things and people. How can you possibly endure her for two weeks?” “She was very pleasant indeed to-day. Perhaps she is grouchy because she is lonely.” “Azalea,” gasped my grandmother, “what was the word you used? Grouchy? What does that mean, pray? No such word was in use in my day.” Then I saw myself as I was, a very naughty young person, setting all these lovely folks at odds. “It means what I am to-night—cross and hateful, dearest grandmother. Please, please forgive me for using it. I ought never to use anything but the nicest words I know in your presence.” I picked up her little wrinkled hand and squeezed it, and she looked at me as I love to have her, with something of the love in her eyes which she gave in the old days to my unforgotten, wayward father. “Aunt Lorena,” I said, “she really does want me to visit her. But I’ll make it a weekend instead of two weeks if you think best.” “We couldn’t spare you for two weeks, Azalea,” said Uncle David kindly. “Make it a week-end, do. For my part, I am glad you like her. Particularly glad. She is a lonely and hurt soul, is poor Delight, who delights nobody.” At that, Carin, things I had heard came back to me, and I knew she once had loved uncle. It must be a terrible thing to love someone, always, who cares nothing for you. I can’t think of anything worse. “I already had made up my mind to like her,” I said. When we went to the drawing-room it was raining so terribly, and the wind was blowing so wildly, that the great room was unbearable. “Let’s go to the writing room,” said Aunt Lorena. The writing room is a delightful little place, mostly occupied by a great sofa. There is a wide fireplace, too, and seats coming out from it at right angles. Young James built a great fire for us, and Semmy brought in some marvelous nut candies she had made, and Martha served the coffee there. “No light but the firelight, please, Lorena,” commanded grandmother. So we sat there by the light of the fire and listened to the storm. Uncle and auntie were together on one of the cushioned benches beside the fire; grandmother was on the huge lounge, wrapped in her camel’s hair shawl and heaped about with pillows; I sat down on the other bench beside the fire. Keefe looked at me a moment as if undecided what to do. Then he bowed and asked: “Have I your permission?”