“Any children in your aunt’s family?”

“One; a little baby girl, named Azalea.”

“What a pretty name!  Where is she now?”

“I don’t know.  Right there, probably.  Let me see.  I was ten when I went there.  But she wasn’t born then.  When I left, that child was about a year old, I guess.  She must be about seventeen or so, now.”

“And she’s your only living relative?”

“The only one I know anything about.  Mother’s people were English,—­none of them over here.  No near relatives, anyhow, for she was an only child.  Dad was, too, for that matter.  Little Zaly,—­that’s what they called her, is about the last leaf on the tree.”

“Let’s ask her to visit us, can’t we?  I do want to know your people; and if she’s all the people there are, I want to know her.”

“Why, child, I don’t know anything about her,—­I don’t even know if she’s still in the land of the living.”

“Can’t you write and find out?”

“Why, I suppose so.  But why do you want her?  She’s probably an awkward, countrified little thing—­”

“I don’t care for that!  She’s your kin, and I’m prepared to love her for that reason.”

“That’s a dear thing for you to say, Patty mine, but you may get more than you bargain for.  Suppose you invite Azalea and Uncle Thorpe himself comes trotting along, too!”

“Well, I could even live through that!  I don’t suppose he’d bite me!”

“But I’m quite sure he wouldn’t fit into your scheme of things entire!  Oh, let sleeping dogs lie, Pattibelle.  Take me for my whole family,—­I’m a host in myself.”

“You are,—­my lord and master,—­you sure are!  But, all the same, I must hunt up your little cousin.  Of course her father can’t come, if he isn’t invited.  And I’d like to know the child.  I might do something for her,—­be of some real help to her, I mean.  Maybe she’s longing to get East and have the advantages I could give her.”

“Maybe she’s longing to stay put in her native desert.”

“In that case, she can say so.  I shan’t compel her to come!  Let me write her, anyway, mayn’t I, Little Billee?”

“Of course you may.  You may write to anybody you wish; to the Sultan of Kasharabad, if you like.”

“Is he your relative?”

“He may be,—­for all I know.  Some family trees branch widely.”

“Well, give me Azalea’s address,—­I’m going to open a correspondence, at least.”

“No address, that I know of, except Miss Azalea Thorpe, Horner’s Corners, Arizona.”

“I’ll write, if only for the fun of addressing a letter there.  I never heard such a funny name for a place!”

Patty tore up two or three letters before she finally composed one that suited her.  It was not easy to know what attitude to take toward such a complete stranger, and with no knowledge of what sort of a girl she was writing to.  But she at last sent off this: