Annie Laurie and Azalea

by Elia Wilkinson Peattie

Azalea clapped her hands.

“So do I!” she agreed. “It will all come right for you, Annie. That’s what dear Ma McBirney would say if she knew. Somehow it will all come right. But to have that poor, sneaking, miserable man chased, and that sick woman, and little Hannah who is half-frightened out of her life anyway—oo-oo-oo! You couldn’t.”

Miss Parkhurst opened the door. The three girls arose respectfully and answered her good morning.

“Algebra this morning,” she said briskly. Perforce they turned their thoughts to matters that were anything but exciting.

But if they could have known the experiences their friend Sam Disbrow was going through, their lesson would have been even poorer than it was—and Miss Parkhurst had already been obliged to tell them that as mathematicians she did not consider them brilliantly successful.

Sam had set off with a light heart. For the first time in his life he was going away from home—that depressing and melancholy home, against the gloom of which he had set all the forces of his really happy and brave nature. But the home had been too much for him. He could feel it slowly and surely dragging him down into that pit of gloom and distrust where the others lived, and to leave it behind, to have a chance to go to school and get the education which he felt he must have if he was to make anything of himself, filled him not only with joy but gratitude.

Of course, he still wondered how his father had been able to manage it. He knew that they were very poor—that his father had not been able to make a success at anything. His garden never flourished like that of his neighbors; his chickens never laid well; his cow gave only a fraction of the milk she should; his cotton was but a scanty crop; and even as an undertaker, the only one in Lee, he sometimes was passed over for his remote rival in Rutherford.

Recently things had been going even more wrong than usual. Sam could not explain it, but a general dislike of the whole Disbrow family seemed to have invaded the town. His father never had been popular, but lately Sam had noticed signs of actual aversion. How was it to be accounted for? If ever the faintest shadow of an idea as to the real reason for this dislike entered Sam’s mind, he thrust it out, strangled and unrecognizable, from his consciousness. He believed in his father because he believed in himself. He was not a person to whom suspicion came naturally, although he had lived in the midst of it all his days. There is a thing called reaction—the sharp turning of the spirit against a condition or an idea. Sam had reacted against the gray dispositions in his family. He was ready to blossom into the scarlet of courage and good will, of power and joy, if only a little sun could shine on him.

And now it seemed to be shining. He was going away to school as other boys did. There would be a number of fellows he knew, and chief among them would be Richard Heller, the banker’s son. He liked Heller. He counted on him to “show him the ropes” at the academy.

It was a long time since he had been in the smart town of Rutherford. His heart leaped in him as he stepped out from the station, his bag in his hand, and felt the throb of the busy town about him. Automobiles were ranged in line about the station, carriages with well-kept horses stood in the shade beneath the fine elms, the paved streets were clean, the street cars new and fresh looking, and everywhere were busy, active people, moving along with that air of confidence and efficiency which too often was lacking at Lee. And it exhilarated Sam. All that was strong and eager in him liked it. He wanted to be a part of a community like that.