“We had other reasons for coming up here to-night,” Mr. Carson said at last. “We came because we knew that we could sit out here with you all, and that we could all look at this wonderful scene, and forget all about our bodies, and our troubles, and our little human way of looking at things. We could be, as my wife said, like eagles, or like angels. We could realize that we really were spirits.”
It was Ma McBirney who murmured: “Yes.”
“We came,” went on Mr. Carson gently, “to ask Azalea to make a choice. We are going to invite her to live with us and to be as our own daughter. She will share equally with Carin in everything; at least as far as it is possible for us to make an equal division. We know the story of her life and that under more fortunate circumstances the home we live in would have been hers. She would have been educated in the best manner and fitted for the life of a lady of position. Now, of our four children only one is left. So we offer her a share of our hearts and our substance. Do you understand, Azalea?”
Carin threw an arm about Azalea’s waist.
“Oh, say yes, dear. We will be so happy.”
“We will make you welcome from our heart of hearts,” said Mrs. Carson. But it seemed as if she were holding something back; and Azalea saw her white hand laid upon Ma McBirney’s arms.
The moon had gone under a dense cloud, and they were left in the bland, moist darkness. And in that darkness there gleamed before Azalea’s mental gaze, the two homes—the great, beautiful manor, and the mountain cabin. She knew little of the life in the former, but what she did know of it came to her now with all its ease, its pleasure, and its promise. She thought of the struggle there in the mountain home; of the sacrifice, the hard work, the eternal “doing without.” Then, as if something above and beyond her came to her to lift her out of herself, she glimpsed the kind wishes and helpful affection of those in the manor; and over against them she placed the tense and tender love of Mary McBirney who had clasped her to her heart when she was motherless.
They did not need her at the manor; but she was greatly needed in the cabin. Love demanded tribute of her. And suddenly, Azalea knew what she must do. If Ma McBirney loved her like a mother, she, Azalea, gave back a daughter’s love. There was, after all, nothing worth thinking of save that—save love. A warm glow swept over her, and the deepest sense of contentment she ever had known in all her restless, curious life of change filled her heart.
“I’ve thought of everything,” she said. “And I thank you, thank you, thank you—you dears!” She turned toward the Carsons, and they could see that she was holding out her hands in the gloom. “But this is my home. Ma McBirney is dearer to me than any one now on the earth. I’ll stay with her—if she wants me.”
And then she suddenly remembered that Mrs. McBirney had not said a word to oppose Mr. Carson’s arguments. Could it be, that because of their poverty, they wished her to go to The Shoals? Little cold tremors ran over her, and her heart turned sick.