“That child will be clean starved,” ma said to the boys. “And pa, too, unless he had the sense to go to the inn and get supper. And I don’t suppose he did, me not being along. Seems like married men didn’t know enough to eat unless their wives was by to tell ’em when to do it.” Not that Ma McBirney was scolding. She was merely passing the time. “I reckon we’d best take that there sheet in, ma, and swing out the lantern,” Jim said as he heard the distant shriek of the train. “It sure will cheer them up to see it,” ma said. “It’s all ready for use, Jim. I filled it and polished it yesterday.” So Jim climbed up the tulip tree to the first long, out-reaching branch, and swung out a serviceable headlight lantern. “There!” said Jim descending, “It looks like the morning star.” And so it did to the homesick eyes of the girl who sat snuggled close to Pa McBirney, sitting all starched and prim, in the pink gingham frock of little Barbara Summers. “What’s that, please?” she cried, nudging pa’s arm. “That away up on the mountain? That’s not a star, is it? It’s too low down.” “Sho!” ejaculated pa, “that’s ma’s lantern. She’s telling us to hurry up. You hear, you there?” he called good-naturedly to the horses. “Perhaps the boys will come down to meet us.” “No they won’t, Azalea. At least, Jim won’t. He’ll stay with his ma. As much as we can, Azalea, we-all must stay with ma. It ain’t good for her to be alone too much. I’ve been talking that over with Jim and he thinks just like I do. She’s had too much trouble, ma has, to be left alone to brood over them. Not that she’s a fretting one. But she’s deep, ma is.” “I know.” “It just seemed like her heart would break when you was took away, Azalea. She sets great store by you—almost as much as she did by Molly. You see, she’s turned the love she had for Molly, right on you. So you be good to her, sister, won’t you now?” “Oh, indeed I will! Just as good as I know how.” “You’re a bright girl, Zalie, and I feel it in my bones that there’s fine things in store for you. But I’m going to say right now, that if you can, I want you to stick to ma. If you can, Azalea. Of course I don’t want you to stand in your own light.” The girl slipped a hand into the arm of Pa McBirney. Then she pointed up the valley to where the light shone from the “Outlook.” “That’s my light, pa,” she said softly. Haystack Thompson, who had stayed in town for the night, putting up at the inn and intending to return to his neglected farm in the morning, had given Mr. McBirney an account of Azalea’s adventures, but now pa begged to hear them again from the girl’s lips. So she told him everything in her sweet wistful voice. “It seems like I’m a dreadful lot of trouble to you,” she said. “I can’t see why it is that I had to bring you all this worry.” “Why tain’t your fault, Zalie. What’s the use of talking like that?”