The Rowantree children apparently forgot nothing in the way of manners—at least so far as outward appearances went. It is true that Carin received a bad kick in the shins which was not intended for her; and that Azalea had to hold Moira’s hand to keep her from pinching her twin, but nothing could be sweeter than the way they thanked their father when he served them with food, or the smiling manner in which they answered questions.
While they sat there, it began to rain softly, gray, bead-like drops falling from the gallery’s edge to the ground, and hanging a soft shining curtain between them and the outer world. Azalea never forgot the beauty of it all. There was no wind, and they were quite as comfortable behind their silver curtain as they would have been in the house—more so, indeed, for the day had been a hot one. Delicious odors came up from the ground; the birds gave forth contented, throaty sounds, and all the regal midsummer mountain world seemed well content.
They were very happy together, with a freedom from care that does not often come in this rather grim world. Only in the eyes of Mary Cecily Rowantree there remained that strange look of longing, of forever searching for something which she could not find. Keefe O’Connor caught it, and sympathized. Azalea saw it, and because she too had a hurt—as orphans must needs have—she too understood. Those who have a sorrow belong to a great brotherhood and know each other by secret signs.
But it was a happy dinner for all of that. Between courses Rowantree himself offered to sing them an old ballad, and in a rich bass voice which set the echoes of the wood at work, he thundered the lines of “The Maid of Bohea.” There was great applause, and he sang again. It was to his singing of “Bold Robin Hood,” that Azalea and his wife brought in the custard pie and the homemade cheese, and to the sad strains of “A Sailor There Was” that they finally cleared the table. After dinner everyone turned in to help, save the master of the house, who still felt the need of quiet and of looking down what he called “the approach,” by which he meant the winding road that led from the house to the gate.
If Mr. Rowantree could sing old English ballads, Mrs. Rowantree could sing, most bewitchingly, old Irish lyrics. Carin and Azalea could sing, too, though not like their friend Annie Laurie. Keefe had plenty of good will even if he had not much of a voice, and Miss Zillah had a sweet little silver thread of song which she was not ashamed to display. So among them they had a musical afternoon, accompanied by one and another on the old square piano with its rattling keys. The gentle shower that had fallen during dinner had passed as quietly as it came, and the sun shone softly through the wet shining leaves of the trees into the room.
However, it was just before going home that Azalea had her real “adventure.” Mrs. Rowantree had drawn her arm through her own, and the two of them had strolled together down one of the laurel-edged paths of the place.
“Keefe O’Connor has been telling me your story,” Mary Cecily said gently, “and I want to say that it’s myself who knows how to sympathize with you.”
“Oh,” Azalea replied with a sharp little catch of the breath, “I didn’t know anyone had told Keefe about me.”
“Never fear but the story will follow you,” returned Mrs. Rowantree with an accent of wisdom. “Stories good and bad have a way of following one. But this I will say, Miss Azalea: I honor you for what you’ve done and the way you’ve clung to those who took you in when you were homeless. It’s very like my own story—very like, indeed.”
“Is it?” asked Azalea, forgetting herself at once and warming to her companion. “Have you been alone in the world, Mrs. Rowantree?”