“Oh,” he half groaned, “I wish—”
“What?” asked Azalea.
“Oh, I don’t know what. I was just thinking what a queer, lonely trio we are—orphans, the three of us.”
“Yes,” said the girls, “that’s so.”
They sat for a time in silence, each absorbed in thought. The fire crackled a little now and then, and sank lower and lower. By and by Annie Laurie spoke softly—
“Yes,” she said, “we’re orphans, but I reckon we’ll be taken care of.”
“Oh, yes,” murmured Azalea’s soft voice. “I’m sure of it. Why Ma McBirney—”
“The rest of us have no Ma McBirney,” Sam reminded her.
But after all, though they were pensive, they were not unhappy. The feeling that they were close and trusted friends comforted them. High adventure seemed to be before them. The fortune, so curiously lost and so strangely regained lay there on the table by them. Sam and Azalea wondered that Annie Laurie did not count it to find out how much it was, but she seemed oddly indifferent to that fact. Only after a time she arose, brushed the bills into her apron and stood for a moment smiling.
“Sam,” she said shyly, “creep up to the attic, softly, so as not to disturb the aunts, and bring me down dad’s old tin arm!”