Mr. and Mrs. Carson were people who had traveled in many foreign places, and had heard and seen much that was most beautiful and wonderful in the world, but their ways were so simple and hearty that neither Mary nor Thomas McBirney felt abashed with them. In fact, the Carsons were ignorant of many things in the country round about them, and they asked questions as if they were children. The McBirneys answered them politely, though they really couldn’t help wondering how it was that such learned people didn’t know ginseng when they saw it, or that they hadn’t heard about the asbestos mines in the neighborhood, or didn’t understand how to trap the rabbits that spoiled the gardens. Azalea was fascinated with the free ways all these Carsons had. They seemed to say whatever came into their heads, and they laughed outright in such a hearty and happy way that those who heard them had to laugh too. Mr. Carson kept running through the hymn tunes he had heard, though he did it in a quiet, charming way, not at all as if he wished to attract attention, but as if he felt himself among friends who would allow him to follow his impulses. He was, of course, different from all of the other men there, yet he had a way of making it seem as if they did him a favor when they were friendly with him, and Azalea heard him heartily thanking the hook-nosed man—Mr. Pickett, his name was—for having asked him and Mrs. Carson to sing. “I never quite had a chance to sing as much as I wanted to,” he said laughingly. “I sing when I get up, and when I’m in my bath tub, and when I walk and when I ride. If my wife would let me I’d sing at the table, particularly when I see my favorite kind of custard pie coming on—but though I’ve done my best, I’ve not had my sing out yet.” “Well, if you live down this way long enough, sir,” answered Mr. Pickett, “we’ll try to satisfy you yet.” Mr. Pickett said there would be quite a long recess before the singing “took up” again, so Azalea and Carin wandered away in the woods together. Azalea couldn’t help feeling just a trifle awkward and shy with this graceful girl, whose clothes seem to move with a mysterious rustle, and who was like a flower, giving out faint odors of violet as she walked. Her laugh was gay, but soft, and every word she spoke seemed to have another accent than that to which Azalea was used. Azalea wondered how she could be so well pleased with a simple girl like herself, and with all these hard-working folk, and she tried to say something of the kind, but she could find no fit words. So they talked about the woods, and about the sort of picnics they liked, and about how afraid they were—or weren’t—of thunder storms. As they went on, they came to a beautiful hollow in the woods. There was soft, very green grass in the bottom of this cup-shaped place, and ferns and delicate vines grew on the sides. “What a lovely, lovely place!” cried Carin, clasping her hands. “Fit for the fairy queen, isn’t it, Azalea?”