“Now, neighbor, you do me the honor to enter and be seated, if you please. I want to get the rights of this story before I do anything. And don’t think you’re wasting time, for I give you my word that you’re saving it, and that as soon as I find this is a thing we all ought to enlist in, I’ll have the whole town about us—baying at our heels, sir—and it will be view and halloo with us.” Haystack Thompson shifted his violin to his other arm, and ran a long tongue over his lips. Then he looked over his man. “You the preacher?” he asked. “Right you are.” He came in then, and at Mrs. Summer’s invitation to draw his chair up to the breakfast table, did so, and ate while he told his story. From time to time the Rev. Absalom consulted his wife Barbara. He had a way of lifting an eyebrow or half closing an eye, that was a code of signals in itself; and she had her own swift ways of answering. So that by the time Haystack was through with his story, both Mr. and Mrs. Summers had decided what to do. “You show him,” said Mr. Summers. So Mrs. Barbara arose and beckoned their visitor. “There’s no need of a searching party, sir,” she said. “Come see what we found this morning.” And then, just as the two of them stepped out onto the porch, Azalea opened her weary eyes and blinked at the light. “Well, praise the Lord!” broke from Haystack’s lips when he saw her. “Amen!” shouted the Rev. Absalom, and in spite of some effort to restrain himself he broke out with: “The Prince of darkness grim, We tremble not for him; His rage we can endure, For lo! his doom is sure. One little word shall fell-ll-ll him.” Azalea sat up on her cot with the bedclothes drawn up to her chin, and stared about her with eyes too full of surprise to be troubled. Then, with a rush, she comprehended. “Oh, Mr. Thompson, dear!” she gasped. “Is it really you? Oh, Mr. Thompson!” She forgot her uncovered arms and her straggling hair, and sprang from her couch into the old fiddler’s outstretched arms, and wept. It was not a mere summer shower, but a cloudburst—a freshet. And Haystack Thompson wept too, and mopped his eyes on his red bandana; and the Rev. Absalom Summers mopped his on the roller towel; and little Mrs. Summers dried hers delicately on the hem of the baby’s frock. But, however, it became necessary to bring all this to an end, and Haystack found the courage to do it. He set the little girl down firmly in a chair and shook a warning finger at her. “Storm’s all over!” he announced; and he helped Mrs. Summers to wrap her pink knitted shawl around the girl’s shoulders. “I’m off,” he announced, “to send word to the folks at home.” “And I’m with you,” declared the preacher. Mrs. Summers ran to the window to see the two tall men making their way down the street, and then hastened back to her strange guest. Azalea had arisen and came forward with the pink shawl dragging behind her.