Then Azalea had come to fill the lonely hours with her bright ways, and every night Mary McBirney had thanked God for her daughterly society. And now she was gone! Nor could the woman who had grown to love her, rest in the comfort that she was, like Molly, safe from harm. When Molly died, her mother’s grief had been selfish. She did not mourn for Molly, but for herself. But now she mourned most for the lost girl, who might be going through terrible experiences, and who was, no doubt, eating out her heart in terror and homesickness. There were not wanting those who said—and believed—that the “circus girl” had run away of her own accord and gone back to the wandering folk with whom she had spent the greater part of her life. But never for one fleeting second did Ma McBirney think this. She had looked too often into the clear and loving eyes of the girl, to believe that there could be anything about her which was not straightforward and loyal. She only prayed that in some way her love might reach out, as starlight reaches from stars, to shine on the poor wandering child and comfort her. She could see her Thomas working on his terraced, steep fields, and now and then she waved a hand to him. She didn’t want him to know how heavily her heart lay in her. She had caused him enough anxiety during the past year, and she knew his own heart was sore with the loss of his Molly, and that he also was greatly distressed over Azalea. So, not to add to his troubles, she tried to wear a cheerful face. But this morning her knees seemed to give way under her, and her pulse fluttered sickeningly. Then, as she sat there reproaching herself for not having more faith that her eager prayers would be answered, she saw three riders coming up the long road. They showed in the midst of a little clearing and then were lost among the trees, and only now and then, at some bald, out-jutting point, could she catch a glimpse of them. After a time she made out that they were a man, a woman and a girl; and when they were still far beneath her, she recognized them for Mr. and Mrs. Carson and Carin. She threw a thought to the cabin and the way it looked, and decided that nothing was out of place. All was as orderly and clean as hands could make it, and up in Azalea’s empty room, there were fresh flowers in the vase, and the canary bird was singing on the little high-swung gallery. As for Ma McBirney herself, she always was neat. Her hair rippled away from her broad, low brow, and her plain gingham frock, with its crocheted collar and its branched coral brooch, was as clean and smooth as it could be made. So, unflurried as ever—though she had never before received people so important—Mrs. McBirney awaited her guests.