“Do you believe in fairies?” asked Azalea almost indignantly. “Believe in them?” repeated Carin. “I believe in whatever I want to believe in. Don’t you think it’s fun to believe in fairies?” “What’s the use of believing in a thing that isn’t true?” “Oh, well,” said Carin, sighing, as if she found it rather hard to bridge the distance between Azalea’s mind and her own, “some thoughts are for use and some are for fun. My shoes are for use, but my gold beads are for fun. Ideas are like that too. I know the earth turns over and makes day and night; I play there are fairies just to suit myself. It’s like trimming on a dress—thoughts of that kind. You like trimming on a dress, don’t you, Azalea?” But Azalea’s answer was a low cry. “Don’t move, Carin! Don’t move! Oh, Carin, the snake!” Carin looked and saw. Before her, coiled and ready for its wicked spring, was a snake with a gleaming, splendid skin, green and brown and iridescent tints, in diamond shaped pattern, and on the summer air was a dry, curious rattle that told both the girls its alarming story. Carin said nothing for the second or two in which she realized her danger, and she seemed only to half hear Azalea’s sharp cry: “Now, jump to one side, Oh, quick!” But she had no time to obey, for at that instant, a shot rang on the air, and the wicked head of the serpent drooped. “Oh, Oh!” screamed Azalea, more terrified now that the danger was over than she had been before. And “Oh,” sighed Carin softly, and slid down to the ground and sat there, very white, with one hand to her lips. “It’s all right, honey bird, all right,” cried a voice near them. “That there sarpent can’t do you no manner of harm now. You jest sit still a minute or two and get over your scare, and then I’ll escort you back to your folks.” Carin and Azalea both turned and looked into the eyes of a wonderful old man—looked into eyes, large, dark, and soft, half hidden beneath bushy eyebrows, and set beneath a beetling brow. His hair was iron-gray, curling and thick, and it stood up on his head in such a way as to make him look two or three inches taller than he really was, and that was quite unnecessary, for he stood, as he was quick to declare, six feet and four inches in his stocking feet. He was very thin, and when he walked he seemed on the point of falling to pieces, because he had what is known as double joints, so that his arms and legs swung about in almost any way he wished to have them, and his head turned about with wonderful ease on his long neck. He stooped now and it was an amazing thing to see him do it—and picked up a fiddle which he had laid against the trunk of a tree.