From every window of the great white house fluttered orange and white awnings. The lawn was trim and green; the flower beds aglow with lovely fresh blooms. Hammocks and couches swung on the wide gallery, and linen-covered chairs and great East Indian jugs filled with growing plants, stood about. Ma McBirney paused before the wide door with its fan-shaped transom and looked about her wistfully. By saying a word, Azalea could leave the humble little home which was now hers, and come down to enjoy the bright hospitality of this beautiful place. Music, books, travel—all of these things would come to her. Mary McBirney remembered how she herself had longed for opportunity in those early days when she first became aware of her ignorance, and how she had “given up” and gone her quiet way—the way to which she was born. But Azalea was not like that. She could not be happy in giving up an education and all that would go to make her capable and able to measure herself with the best. What had meant contentment for her, Mary McBirney, would mean failure for Azalea. She turned these matters over in her large, kind mind, and—rang Mrs. Carson’s doorbell. Mrs. Carson’s parlor maid, black, smiling, and chubby, answered the summons. “Tulula Darthula,” said Mrs. McBirney in her soft voice, “might I see your mistress?” “I’ll inquiah, ma’am,” replied Tulula in even softer tones. “Be pleased to enteh.” Mrs. McBirney would have been quite content to sit on the porch, but the thoughts surging in her brain impelled her to accept Tulula’s invitation. “Will you be seated in the mornin’ room, ma’am?” Mrs. McBirney hesitated a moment. Then she said shyly: “If you don’t think Mrs. Carson would mind, Tulula, I’d like to sit in the drawing room this time.” “Why ce’t’ney, ma’am. Suit yo’sef.” Tulula rustled away with her message, and Mary McBirney, who all her life had seen only the mountain or the village homes, entered the long shadowy drawing room, with its paintings, its occasional white statue, its shining floor and carved furniture, and sitting there, measuring all this meant of knowledge and delight, steeled her heart for the sacrifice. Then Mr. and Mrs. Carson entered together, and upborn by love, Mrs. McBirney went to meet them, saying: “I asked to come in here for—for a reason. I hope you don’t mind, ma’am.” “Our home is for our friends,” answered Mrs. Carson gently. “I would like to see you here often, friend.” She knew, somehow, that Mary McBirney had a great thing to say. “This is the reason:” said Mrs. McBirney. And then she told them the whole story. * * * * * It had been rainy Sunday. The rain began before daylight; it wiped out the sunrise, and it turned what should have been a golden midsummer day into mere blankness and desolation. At least, a person could look at it that way if he wanted to. Up at the McBirney house no one had thought of dressing for church.