Annie Laurie turned to laugh at her friend. Quite dull! It seemed impossible that anyone could be dull in the Carson house. Something was nearly always going on. Mrs. Carson would be giving a luncheon to the ladies interested in the Mountain Industries, or Mr. Carson would have gentlemen to dinner—gentlemen who came down from New York or Chicago—or there would be a moonlight picnic, or a riding party, or a musicale, or Mr. and Mrs. Carson would be packing up for one of their sudden journeys. It was the first time that Annie Laurie had been asked to stay overnight at the mansion. She had been Carin’s schoolmate, but hardly more than that, as she understood very well. She had a clear mind, capable of seeing things as they were, and it seemed to her to be a sort of victory that she should, at last, be asked to join them in so intimate and social a manner. It showed her that perhaps she was not so “stiff” after all.
Her thoughts flew to her clothes, as the thoughts of any girl will when bidden for a visit. The wardrobe that used to be so well kept up, in its narrow limits, had grown shabby now. She had been wearing black for her father, and her mourning had consisted of frocks which originally had been colored and which had been dyed. They had not taken the dye very well, and they felt either rough or flimsy to the touch. Annie Laurie would have liked to put charming clothes on that big strong body of hers. Her ideal of beautiful dressing was before her daily, in Mrs. Carson, whose dresses, lovely in color and texture, never seemed to have too much trimming on them, or to do anything but drape and decorate her slender graceful figure. But Annie Laurie had more sense than vanity, and she said to herself that she would not miss such a pleasure and privilege as a two-day visit at The Shoals because of shabby garments.
She sat, however, late that night, pressing her best black frock, and sewing fresh ruchings into it, curling her plume with her sharp little penknife, polishing her boots, putting new bows on her slippers, and running fresh ribbons in her underclothes. She packed her satchel daintily, wrapping up her garments in fresh tissue paper and dropping in a little bag of lavender. Carin should see that she had the tastes of a lady, at least.
There was much to do the next morning, too, for the Pace house was a systematic one, and the Saturday routine must in no way be neglected. But by half-after-ten, Annie Laurie, fresh, and glowing with anticipation, stood with her hat and jacket on waiting for Carin; and not more than a minute behind time, Carin drove up to the door, all in charming spring green, and carrying a bunch of pink tulips in her hands for the aunts.
“We’re to take a little drive the first thing, Annie Laurie,” announced Carin. “The valley is delightful. Everything is bursting into bloom at once. Mother said we must go and look and look and smell and smell till we have soaked in the spring.”
What care-free, happy people the Carsons were, Annie Laurie thought. One had only to be with them a very short time to be convinced that the world was an immensely pleasant place.
So on they went up the sweet valley, over which the mountains hung with a friendly and benevolent air. The Judas trees were in bloom and the orchards budding; on every branch the fresh leaves were starting out, and the crimson maple had flung forth its beautiful foliage. Annie Laurie felt her heart leaping in her, and the black care that had been hanging over her of late lifted like mist before the sun. Looking up, she could see where Azalea’s house was perched fairly upon the edge of the mountain ledge. There it hung, like an eagle’s great nest, daringly near the long slope of old Mount Tennyson.
“Isn’t she a dear—that Azalea girl?” asked Carin enthusiastically. “Never was there such a friend! Why, just having her believe in me the way she does, makes me long to do things. For example, I had known since I was a very, very small girl that I could draw and paint a little, and I was forever asking for a studio. But when mama had given me one, I was so lazy and dreamy that I hardly did anything in it. Then Azalea got after me. She said I was going to be a great painter. She found trees and hills for me to paint. She sat for me herself, patiently, hour after hour, while I made horrible daubs of her. But she kept saying I could do better if I tried, and do you know, by and by I actually did do better. Then papa decided I had a bit of talent, and he arranged with Mr. Bascomb to come up from Rutherford once a week to give me instruction. And by and by when I’m old enough I’m to go back to Chicago to the Art Institute, maybe; or to New York; and afterward if I show I’m worth it, to Paris or Rome.”
“Oh, oh!” sighed Annie Laurie in a sort of rapture. “Paris! Rome! Will you really be able to go to places like that, Carin? But I forget—you already have been to them.”
“Yes, I’ve been,” said Carin. “And you’ll go too, sometime, if you want to badly enough. Of course, it happened to be easy for me. Papa and mama took me, and I didn’t half appreciate it, I was so young and the chance came so easily. But I shall appreciate it next time; and maybe you’ll go with me. Who knows?”