“Do you believe in fairies?” asked Azalea almost indignantly.
“Believe in them?” repeated Carin. “I believe in whatever I want to believe in. Don’t you think it’s fun to believe in fairies?”
“What’s the use of believing in a thing that isn’t true?”
“Oh, well,” said Carin, sighing, as if she found it rather hard to bridge the distance between Azalea’s mind and her own, “some thoughts are for use and some are for fun. My shoes are for use, but my gold beads are for fun. Ideas are like that too. I know the earth turns over and makes day and night; I play there are fairies just to suit myself. It’s like trimming on a dress—thoughts of that kind. You like trimming on a dress, don’t you, Azalea?”
But Azalea’s answer was a low cry.
“Don’t move, Carin! Don’t move! Oh, Carin, the snake!”
Carin looked and saw. Before her, coiled and ready for its wicked spring, was a snake with a gleaming, splendid skin, green and brown and iridescent tints, in diamond shaped pattern, and on the summer air was a dry, curious rattle that told both the girls its alarming story. Carin said nothing for the second or two in which she realized her danger, and she seemed only to half hear Azalea’s sharp cry:
“Now, jump to one side, Oh, quick!”
But she had no time to obey, for at that instant, a shot rang on the air, and the wicked head of the serpent drooped.
“Oh, Oh!” screamed Azalea, more terrified now that the danger was over than she had been before. And “Oh,” sighed Carin softly, and slid down to the ground and sat there, very white, with one hand to her lips.