The young lady, whose name was Miss Davis, then explained that she came from Boston, that she taught in the Jonesville school, and that she should return to her home the middle of May. “And if that will be convenient for Hazel,” she concluded, “she can go by rail all the way with me.” “If my mother tells me it is what she wants me to do,” Hazel said, “of course I would love to travel with you.” “I think from your minister’s letter, that you will hear shortly from your mother,” answered Miss Davis, and went into the details of the journey. Hazel learned that if she were in company with a white person she might ride in the Pullman car and sleep in the fascinating bed that pulled down from the top. She would only be traveling two days, and her mother would be at the end of the journey. But Granny! She did not want to look in her direction as she talked with Miss Davis. “Wasn’t she pretty?” she asked the old woman as their visitor trotted down the road. “I didn’t see as she was well-favored,” Granny answered. Hazel put her arms about her grandmother’s neck. “I don’t leave for three weeks,” she said, “and I’m coming back again. Why, Granny, I truly do love the South. At least, the part where you are.” “You dear baby,” was Granny’s only answer. When Scip heard the news among the pines that afternoon, he started as though Hazel had struck him. “Who going to take you?” he asked. Hazel explained about Miss Davis, and the comfort of the train. Scipio could find no fault, but remained silent watching a redbird that hopped fearlessly about among their books on the ground. They had made a pet of this cardinal, scattering food for him, and making bird sounds in conversation which Hazel insisted he could understand. When she had finished talking, the bird flew to a bough near them and began his clear, sweet song. “He is asking you to stay,” Scip said. He felt like crying. “I’m going to my mother, Scip,” Hazel said softly. After a little pause she went on: “I’ll write letters to you. See, I’ll make you a plain copy of written letters. I’ll make it very plain. You’ve only learned to print, Scip, but these next three weeks you must learn about writing.” And glad to have something definite to do, the little teacher turned to her task with earnest persistence and the matter of departure was not spoken of again. But it hung over the three weeks. The mocking bird’s morning song now had a note of sadness. “You’re going away,” he said. The hen was reproachful as she showed her chickens. “You won’t see them grow up,” she clucked. Pussy Lucy purred, “You can’t play with me when I get to be a cat.” And even the pigs grunted, “Why do you leave our babies now that they are so cunning?” for spring had glorified the pigs that fathered and mothered dear little offspring. “There are so many things to say good-bye to,” Hazel said to Granny one night.