"We're going to have some friends here Sunday evening——"

The sudden upfling of Jinnie's head cut off his words.

What difference would his having friends make to her? Oh, yes, they wanted more wood. How gladly she would get it for him; search all day for the driest pieces if he needed them!

"I was wondering," proceeded Mr. King, "if you would come here with your violin and play for—for—us?"

Jinnie's knees relaxed and she staggered back against the wall.

"You musn't feel embarrassed about it," he hurried on. "I'd be very much indebted to you if you thought you could."

Tears were so perilously near Jinnie's lids that some of them rolled into her throat. To regain her self-possession enough to speak, she swallowed several times in rapid succession. Such a compliment she'd never been paid before. She brought her hands together appealingly, and Mr. King noticed that his request had heightened her color.

"I'd love to do it," she breathed.

"Of course I'll pay you for it," he said, not able to think of anything else,

"I couldn't take any money for fiddling," replied Jinnie. "But I'll come. Lafe says money can't be made that way."

She turned to go, but Mr. King detained her.

"Wait a minute," he insisted. "I want to tell you something! You've a great gift—a wonderful genius—and out of such genius much money is made.... I couldn't think of letting you come here unless you allowed me to remunerate you."

Jinnie listened attentively to all he said, but refusal was still in her steady gaze. Mr. King, seeing this, continued quickly:

"I want you very much, but on that one point I must have my way. I shall give you twenty-five dollars for playing three pieces."

Then Jinnie thought she was going to faint. Twenty-five dollars! It was a fortune—a huge fortune! But she couldn't take money for playing tunes that came from her heart—tunes that were a part of herself the same as her hands or feet. But before she could offer another argument, the man finished hurriedly:

"It's settled now. You're to come here Sunday night at eight. I'll send for you."

Lafe was sitting at the window as she ran through the shortcut along the tracks. Her curls were flying in the wind, her cheeks glowing with flaming color. Every day the cobbler loved her more, for in spite of the dark soil in which Jinnie thrived, she grew lovelier in spirit and face.

He waved his hand to her, and both of her arms answered his salute. When the door burst open, Lafe put down his hammer expectantly. Before he could speak, she was down upon her knees at his side, her curly head buried in his loving arms, and tears were raining down her face.

Lafe allowed her to cry a few moments. Then he said:

"Something's hurt my lassie's heart.... Somebody!... Was it Maudlin?"

Through the tears shone a radiant smile.

"I'm crying for joy, Lafe," she sobbed. "I'm going to play my fiddle at Mr. King's house and make twenty-five dollars for three tunes."

Lafe's jaws dropped apart incredulously.

"Twenty-five dollars for playin' your fiddle, child?"

Jinnie told all that had happened since leaving home.

Then Peggy had to be told, and when the amount of money was mentioned and Jinnie said:

"It'll all be yours, Peggy, when I get it,"

Mrs. Grandoken grunted:

"You didn't make your insides, lassie. It ain't to your credit you can fiddle, so don't get stuck up."

Jinnie laughed gaily and went to the kitchen, where for two hours, with Bobbie curled up in the chair holding Happy Pete, she brought from the strings of the instrument she loved, mournful tunes mingled with laughing songs, such as no one in Bellaire had ever heard.

Over and over, as Lafe listened, he wondered where and how such music could be born in the child—for Jinnie, to the lame cobbler, would always be a little, little girl.

Later Jinnie went to the store, and when Peggy had watched her cross the street, she sat down in front of her husband.

"Lafe," she said, "what's the kid goin' to wear to King's?... She can't go in them clothes she's got on."

Lafe looked up, startled.

"Sure 'nough; I never thought of that," he answered. "An' I don't believe she has uther."

It was the cobbler who spoke to Jinnie about it.

"I suppose you hain't thought what you're going to wear Sunday night?"

Jinnie whirled around upon him.

"Oh, Lafe!" she faltered, sitting down quickly.

"Peggy 'lowed you'd forgotten that part of it."

"I did, Lafe; I did! Oh, I don't know what to do!"

"I wisht I had somethin' for you, Jinnie dear," breathed Bobbie, touching her hand.

Jinnie's only response was to put her fingers on the child's head—her eyes still on the cobbler.

"What did Peggy say, Lafe?"

"Nothin', only you couldn't go in the clothes you got."

Jinnie changed her position that she might see to better advantage the plain little dress she was wearing.

"But I've got to go, Lafe; oh, I've got to!" she insisted. "Mr. King wants me.... Please, Lafe, please!"

"Call Peggy, Bobbie," said Lafe, in answer to Jinnie's impetuous speech.

Bobbie felt his way to the door, and Peggy came in answer to the child's call.

"I only thought of the twenty-five dollars and the fiddling, Peggy," said Jinnie as Mrs. Grandoken rolled her hands in her apron and sat down. "Did you say I couldn't go in these clothes?"

"I did; I sure did. You can't go in them clothes, an' what you're goin' to wear is more'n I can make out. I'll have to think.... Just let me alone for a little while."

It was after Jinnie had gone to bed with Bobbie that Peg spoke about it again to Lafe.

"I've only got one thing I could rig her a dress out of," she said. "I don't want to do it because I hate her so! If I hated her any worse, I'd bust!"

The cobbler raised his hand, making a gesture of denial.

"Peggy, dear, you don't hate the poor little lass."

"Yes, I do," said Peg. "I hate everybody in the world but you.... Everybody but you, Lafe."

"What'd you think might make a dress for 'er?" asked Grandoken presently.

Before answering, Peg brought her feet together and looked down at her toes. "There's them lace curtains ma give me when she died," she said. "Them that's wrapped up in paper on the shelf."

Lafe uttered a surprised ejaculation.

"I couldn't let you do that, Peg," he said, shaking his head. "Them's the last left over from your mother's stuff. Everything else's gone.... I couldn't let you, Peggy."

Mrs. Grandoken gave a shake of defiance.

"Whose curtains be they, Lafe?" she asked. "Be they mine or yourn?"

"Yourn, Peggy dear, and may God bless you!"

All through the night Jinnie had dreadful dreams. The thought of either not going to Mr. King's or that she might not have anything fit to wear filled the hours with nightmares and worryings. In the morning, after she crawled out of bed and was wearily dressing Bobbie, the little blind boy felt intuitively something was wrong with his friend.

"Is Jinnie sick?" he whispered, feeling her face. "My stars ain't shinin' much."

The girl kissed him.

"No, honey," she said, "Jinnie's only sad, not sick."

Together they went into the shop, where Peggy stood with the most gorgeous lacy stuff draped over her arms. Strewn here and there over the yards and yards of it were bright yellow and red roses. Nothing could have been more beautiful to the girl, as with widening eyes she gazed at it. Lafe's face was shining with happiness. Peggy didn't seem to notice the two as they entered, but she lifted the lace, displaying its length stolidly.

Jinnie bounded forward.

"What is it, Peg? What is it?"

Lafe beamed through his spectacles.

"A dress for you, girl dear. Peggy's givin' you the things she loves best. She's the only woman in the world, Jinnie."

Reverently Jinnie went to Mrs. Grandoken's side. She felt abjectly humble in the presence of this great sacrifice. She looked up into the glum face of the cobbler's wife and waited in breathless hesitation. Peg permitted her eyes to fall upon the girl.

"You needn't feel so glad nor look's if you was goin' to tumble over," she said. "It ain't no credit to any one them curtains was on the shelf waitin' to be cut up in a dress for you to fiddle in. Go put the mush on that there stove!"



CHAPTER XIX

THE LITTLE FIDDLER

Jinnie's heart was skipping about like a silly little kitten as she sat watching Peg's stiff fingers making large stitches in the lace.

"Oh, Peg, isn't it lovely? Perfectly beautiful! Nobody ever had a dress like that!... My, Peggy! How your fingers fly!"

Peg's face was noncommittal to the point of blankness.

"Tain't no credit to me what my hands do, Miss Jinnie," she said querulously. "I didn't make 'em."

The girl's happiness was absolutely complete. The dress would be finished and Sunday evening——oh, Sunday evening! Then she walked restlessly to the window and studied the sky.

"I hope it doesn't rain to-morrow!... Oh, Peggy, don't you hope so too?" Mrs. Grandoken glowered at her.

"Kid," she said, "come away from that window. You been doin' nothin' but wishin' 'twon't rain all day. You'll wear out the patience of the Almighty; then he'll make it rain an' soak you through a-purpose."

"I don't know which I like best, Lafe," the girl remarked presently, turning to the cobbler, "the red roses or the yellow."

Bobbie came to Jinnie's side and fingered the lace.

"Tell me how the dress looks, dear," he whispered, tugging at her sleeve.



"Sure," agreed Jinnie. "Feel right here! Well, that's a beautiful red rose and here's a yellow one." She took his small finger and traced it over a yard of lace. "Feel that?"

"Yes," murmured Bobbie.

"Well, that's a green vine running up and down, and all around among the roses."

"Oh, my!" gasped Bobbie. "Red and yellow. That's how the sun looks when it's goin' down, ain't it? And green's like the grass, eh?"

"Just the same," replied Jinnie, laughing.

"It's a beauty," supplemented Lafe, glowing with tenderness. "There won't be a dress at that party that'll beat it."

Mrs. Grandoken shook out the voluminous folds of lace.

"Anybody'd think to hear you folks talk that you'd made these rag tags with your toe nails," she observed dryly. "The smacking of some folks' lips over sugar they don't earn makes me tired! Laws me!... Now I'll try it on you, Jinnie," she ended.

Jinnie turned around and around with slow precision as Mrs. Grandoken ascertained the correct hanging of the skirt. When the last stitches had been put in, and the dress lay in all its gorgeous splendor across the chair, Peg coughed awkwardly and spoke of shoes.

"You can't wear them cowhides with lace," said she.

"I might make a pair if I had a day and the stuff," suggested Lafe, looking around helplessly.

"Ain't time," replied Peg. And of course it was she who gave Jinnie some money taken from a small bag around her neck and ordered her to the shop for shoes.

"She ought to have a fiddle box," Lafe suggested.

"There ain't 'nough money in the house for that," replied Peg—"but I'll give her a piece of the curtains to wrap it up in."

"That'll look better'n a box," smiled Lafe. "I'm a happy cobbler, I am."

When Jinnie returned with a pair of low black slippers, no one noticed that they weren't quite what should have been worn with a lace frock. Contentment reigned supreme in the Grandoken home that day.

* * * * *

Sunday evening at seven Jinnie displayed herself to Lafe. The cobbler gave a contented nod.

"You and the dress're beautiful," he ruminated. "Wonderful!... Kiss me, Jinnie!"

She not only kissed Lafe, but Bobbie, Happy Pete, and Milly Ann, too, came in for their share. Peg looked so sour, so forbidding, that Jinnie only faltered,

"Much obliged, Peggy darling.... Oh, I'm so happy!" She stood directly in front of Mrs. Grandoken. "Aren't you, dear?" she besought.

"We're all glad, lass," put in the cobbler.

Jinnie's blue, blue eyes were seeking approbation from the gaunt, frowning woman.

"None of you've got the sense of my bedpost," snapped Peg, sniffing the air. "Get along. They're waitin' for you."

Jinnie arrived in great excitement at Theodore King's door. She stumbled up the stone steps of the mansion with the fiddle carefully wrapped under her arm.

"Is Mr. King here?" she asked of the maid, hesitatingly.

She stood very still, scarcely breathing, until they called the master of the house, and as Theodore's eyes fell upon the lace dress, with its red and yellow roses and green vines running the length of the slim young figure, he smoothed away a smile that forced itself to his lips.

Out of gratitude to Peggy, Jinnie felt she ought to speak of the frock, so with an admiring glance downward, she confided:

"Peggy made my dress out of her dead mother's curtains, and gave me this piece for my fiddle.... Wasn't it lovely of her?"

The pleading, soulful, violet eyes stirred Theodore King with a new sensation. He had passed unscathed through the fires of imploring, inviting glances and sweet, tempting lips, nor yet realized that some day this black-haired girl would call him to a reckoning.

"It's very pretty, very pretty," he affirmed hurriedly. "I'm glad you're here.... Just wait for a moment. I'll come back for you."

There was a fixed line between his handsome eyes as he faced his guests. Theodore couldn't analyze his feelings toward Jinnie, but he was determined none should make sport of her.

"I've prepared a great treat for you," he stated, smiling, "but I want to ask you to overlook anything that may seem incongruous, for the musician is very sensitive."

Then he went back for Jinnie, and she followed him into the large room. The gorgeous red and yellow roses in the limply hanging blouse lent a color to her sunburned skin.

"You may play anything you like," Theodore whispered.

"All right," nodded Jinnie.

She unwrapped the fiddle and tuned it with nimble fingers. Not until she placed the instrument under her chin did she raise her head. Her eyes went searchingly from face to face of the attentive assembly. It so happened that they fell upon a crown of golden hair above a pair of dark eyes she vividly remembered. The glance took her back to that night more than two years before—to the night when her father died.

Molly Merriweather was seated in queenly fashion in one of the large chairs, a questioning look stealing over her countenance. Jinnie smiled at her and began to play. It might have been the beautiful woman opposite that brought forth the wild hill story, told in marvelous harmonies. The rapt young face gave no sign of embarrassment, for Jinnie was completely lost in her melodious task. Above the dimpled chin that hugged the brown fiddle, Theodore King could see the brooding genius of the girl, and longed to bring a passionate lovelight for himself into the glorious eyes. The intensity of the music established in him an unconquerable hope—a hope that could not die as long as life was in him, as long as life was in the little fiddler.

As Jinnie finished with dramatic brilliancy, great applause and showers of congratulations fell upon her ears. Theodore went to her quickly.

"Wonderful! Splendid, child!" he declared joyously. "You're a genius!"

His words increased her joy—his compelling dark eyes added to her desire to do her best.

She meditated one moment. Then thoroughly unconscious of herself, turned and spoke to the audience.

"I'll play about fairies ... the ones who live in the woods and hide away in the flowers and under the leaves."

Once more she began to play. She believed in fairies with all her heart and had no doubt but that every one else did. Under the spell of her music and her loveliness, imaginary elves stole from the solitude of the summer night, to join their tiny hands and dance to the rhythm of her song.

As she lowered her violin and looked around, she saw astonishment on the faces of the strangers about her. A deathlike hush prevailed and Jinnie could hear the feverish blood as it struck at her temples. Into her eyes came an unfathomable expression, and Theodore King, attracted by their latent passion, went rapidly to her.

"It's exquisite!" he said vehemently. "Can't you see how much every one likes it?"

"Do you?" queried Jinnie, looking up at him.

"I love it, child; I love it.... Will you play again, please?"

A flame of joy suffused her as again she turned to the open-eyed crowd.

"Once," she informed them, "a big lion was hurt in the forest by lightning.... This—is—how he died."

She slowly raised the instrument, and sounded a vibrant, resonant, minor tone, measured, full and magnificent. Each listener sank back with a sigh.

Jinnie knew the mysteries of the forest as well as a singer knows his song, and she had not presented ten notes to the imagination of Theodore's friends before they were carried away from the dainty room in which they sat—away into a dense woodland where, for a few minutes, she demonstrated the witching wonders of it. Then she slipped the bow between her teeth and struck the violin strings with the backs of her fingers. The vibrations of impetuous harmony swept softly through the lighted room. Louder and louder was heard the awful fury of approaching thunder, while twinkling string-touches flashed forth the lightning between the sonorous peals.

Jinnie never knew how the fiddle was capable of expressing the cautious tread of the terrified king of beasts in his isolated kingdom, but her listeners beheld him steal cautiously from the underbrush. They saw him crouch in abject terror at the foot of a wide-spreading, gigantic tree, lashing his tail in elemental rage. Then another scintillating flash of lightning, and the beast caught it full in the face. The slender hand of the little player was poised above the strings for a single vibrating moment, during which she stood in a listening attitude. Then, with the sweep of three slender fingers, the lion's scream cut the air like a two-edged sword.

Death came on rapidly in deep, resounding roars, and the misery of the cringing, suffering brute was unfolded—told in heart-rending intonations, until at last he gave up his breath in one terror-stricken cry.

Jinnie dropped her hands suddenly. "He's dead," she said tremulously. "Poor, poor lion!"

She turned tear-wet eyes to Theodore King.

"Shall I play any more?" she asked, shyly.

The man shook his head, not permitting himself to speak.

"Miss Grandoken has given us a wonderful entertainment," said he to his friends; then turning to her, he held out his hand, "I want to thank you, Miss Grandoken."

Many people crowded around her, asking where and how she had learned such music.

Molly the Merry, the mystified expression still on her face, drew near.

Again Jinnie smiled at her, hoping the lovely lips would acknowledge their former acquaintanceship. But as another person, a man, stepped between her and the woman, Jinnie glanced up at him. He was very handsome, but involuntarily the girl shuddered. There was something in the curling of his lips that was cruel, and the whiteness of his teeth accentuated the impression. His eyes filled her with dread.

"Where did you learn that wonderful music?" he smiled.... "I mean the music itself."

"Out of my heart," she said simply. "I couldn't get it anywhere else."

"She's very delightful!" said the stranger, turning to Theodore. "I've forgotten her name?"

He was so near her that Jinnie shrank back, and the master of the house noted her embarrassment.

"Her name is Grandoken, Miss Grandoken.... Come," he said, holding out his hand to Jinnie, and as she placed her fingers in his, he led her away.

A large car was waiting at the front door, and he held her hand in his for a few seconds. The touch of her fingers thrilled him through and through. He noticed her head just reached his shoulder and a conscious desire to draw her to him for one blessed moment surged insistent within him. He dropped her hand suddenly.

"I wish now," he said, smiling, "I had sent for you to come here before. It was such a treat!"

Jinnie shrank away as he offered her a roll of bills. An unutterable shyness crept over her.

"I don't want it," she said, gulping hard. "I'd love to fiddle for you all day long."

"But you must take it," insisted King. "Now then, I want to know where you live. I'm coming to see your uncle very, very soon."

Lafe and his wife were waiting for the girl, and the cobbler noticed Peggy's eyes were misty as Jinnie gave her the money. Over and over she told them all about it.

"And he's coming to see you, Lafe," she cried with a tremulous laugh. "Mr. King says some day I'll be a great player. Will I, Lafe? Will I, Peggy?"

"You may," admitted Peggy, "but don't get a swelled head, 'cause you couldn't stop fiddlin' any more'n a bird could stop singin'.... Go to bed now, this minute."

And as Jinnie slept her happy sleep in Paradise Road, another woman was walking to and fro with a tall man under the trees at Theodore King's home.

"I thought I'd scream with laughter when she came in," said Molly the Merry. "If it hadn't been for Theo's warning, I'm sure most of us would.... Did you ever see such a ridiculous dress, Jordan?"

The man was quiet for a meditative moment. "I forgot about the dress when she began to play," he mused. "The sight of her face would drive all thoughts of incongruity out of a man's mind."

"Yes, she's very pretty," admitted Molly, reluctantly. "And Jordan, do you know there's something strangely familiar about her face?... I can't tell where I've seen her."

"Never mind. The important thing to me is I must have money. Can't keep up appearances on air."

"You know I'll always help you when I can, Jordan."

"Yes, I know it, and I'll not let you forget it either."

The woman gave him a puzzled look and the man caught her meaning.

"You're wondering why I don't open offices here, aren't you? Well, a person can't do two things at once, and I've been pretty busy tracing Virginia Singleton. And when I find her, you know very well I will return every penny I've borrowed."

And later, when Molly went to her room, she walked up and down thoughtfully, trying to bring to her mind the familiar violet eyes and the mass of purple black curls which were the crowning glory of Jinnie Grandoken.



CHAPTER XX

THE COBBLER'S SECRET

One Sunday morning, Jinnie sat with Lafe in the shop. In hours like these they thoroughly enjoyed themselves. The quietude of these precious Sabbath moments made the week, with its arduous tasks, bearable to the sensitive girl.

For several days past Jinnie had noticed Lafe had something on his mind, but she always allowed him to tell her everything in his own good time. Now she felt the time had come. His gray face, worn with suffering, was shining with a heavenly light as he read aloud from a little Bible in his hand. To-day he had chosen the story of Abraham and Sarah. When he came to the part where Abraham said:

"Lord, if now I have found favor in Thy sight, pass not away, I pray Thee, from Thy servant," he pronounced the last word with sobbing breath. One quick glance was enough for Jinnie's comprehension.

She leaned forward breathlessly.

"What is it, Lafe?... Something great?"

"Yes, something great, lassie, and in God's name most wonderful."

Before Jinnie's world of imagery passed all the good she had desired for Lafe. His softly spoken, "In God's name most wonderful," thrilled her from head to foot.

"And you've been keeping it from me, Lafe," she chided gently. "Please, please, tell me."

Lafe sat back in the wheel chair and closed his eyes. "Wait, child," he breathed hesitatingly. "Wait a minute!"

As Jinnie watched him, she tried to stifle the emotion tugging at her heart—to keep back the tears that welled into her eyes. Perhaps what he had to tell her would make her cry. Jinnie hoped not, for she disliked to do that. It was so childlike, so like Blind Bobbie, who always had either a beatific smile on his pale lips, or a mist shining in his rock-gray eyes.

At length Lafe sighed a long, deep-drawn sigh, and smiled.

"Jinnie," he began——

"Yes, Lafe."

"I've been wonderin' if you remember the story of the little feller God sent to Peg an' me—the one I told you would a been six years old."

"Yes, I remember, Lafe."

"An' how good Peggy was——"

"Oh, how good Peggy always is!" interjected Jinnie.

"Yes," breathed Lafe, dreamily. "May God bless my woman in all her trials!"

Jinnie hitched her chair nearer his and slipped her arm about his neck soothingly.

"She doesn't have trials you don't share, Lafe," she declared.

Lafe straightened up.

"Yes, Peg has many, lassie, I can't help 'er with, an' she'll have a many more. To get to tell you something, Jinnie, I asked Peg to take Bobbie out with 'er. We can't turn the little feller from the club room when he ain't out with Peg; can we, Jinnie?"

"Of course not," agreed Jinnie, nodding.

"So when Peg said she was goin' out," proceeded Lafe, gravely, "I says, thinkin' of the things I wanted to say to you, I said to Peggy, 'Take the little blind chap along with you, Peggy dear,' an' without a word she put the youngster into his clothes an' away they went."

Jinnie's curiosity was growing by the minute.

"And you're going to tell me now, Lafe?"

"An' now I'm goin' to tell you, Jinnie."

But he didn't tell her just then. Instead he sat looking at her with luminous eyes, and the expression in them—that heavenly expression—compelled Jinnie to kneel beside him, and for a little while they sat in silence.

"Dear child," Lafe murmured, dropping a tender hand on her shining head, "dear, dear girl!"

"It must be a joyful thing, Lafe, for your face shines as bright as Bobbie's stars."

"I'm blessed happy to-day!" he sighed, with twitching lips.

Jinnie took his hand in hers and smoothed it fondly.

"What is it, Lafe, dear?" she asked.

"Do you want to kneel while I tell you?" queried the cobbler.

"Yes, right here."

"Then look right at me, Jinnie lass!"

Jinnie was looking at him with her whole soul in her eyes.

"I'm looking at you, Lafe," she said.

"An' don't take your eyes from me; will you?"

"Sure not!"

It must be a great surprise for Lafe to act like this, thought the girl.

"Lassie," commenced Lafe, "I want you to be awful good to Peggy.... It's about her I'm goin' to speak."

Jinnie sank back on the tips of her toes.

"What about Peg? There isn't——"

"Dear Peggy," interrupted Lafe softly, his voice quick with tears, "dear, precious Peggy!" Then as he bent over Jinnie and Jinnie bent nearer him, Lafe placed his lips to her ear and whispered something.

She struggled to her feet, strange and unknown emotions rising in her eyes.

"Lafe!" she cried. "Lafe dear!"

"Yes," nodded the cobbler. "Yes, if you want to know the truth, the good God's goin' to send me an' Peg another little Jew baby."

Jinnie sat down in her chair quite dazed. Lafe's secret was much greater than she had expected! Much!

"Tell me about it," she pleaded.

Keen anxiety erased the cobbler's smiling expression.

"Poor Peggy!" he groaned again. "She can't see where the bread's comin' from to feed another mouth, but as I says, 'Peggy, you said the same thing when Jinnie came, an' the blind child, an' this little one's straight from God's own tender breast.'"

"That's so, Lafe," accorded Jinnie, "and, Oh, dearie, I'll work so hard, so awful hard to get in more wood, and tell me, tell me when, Lafe; when is he coming to us, the Jew baby?"

Lafe smiled at her eagerness.

"You feel the same way as I do, honey," he observed. "The very same way!... Why, girlie, when Peg first told me I thought I'd get up and fly!"

"I should think so, but—but—I want to know how soon, Lafe, dear."

"Oh, it's a long time, a whole lot of weeks!"

"I wish it was to-morrow," lamented Jinnie, disappointedly. "I wonder if Peg'll let me hug and kiss him."

"Sure," promised Lafe, and they lapsed into silence.

At length, Jinnie stole to the kitchen. She returned with her violin box and Milly Ann in her arms.

"Hold the kitty, darling," she said softly, placing the cat on his lap. "She'll be happy, too. Milly Ann loves us all, Milly Ann does."

Then she took out the fiddle and thrummed the strings.

"I'm going to play for you," she resumed, "while you think about Peggy and the—and—the baby."

The cobbler nodded his head, and wheeled himself a bit nearer the window, from where he could see the hill rise upward to the blue, making a skyline of exquisite beauty.

Jinnie began to play. What tones she drew from that small brown fiddle! The rapture depicted in her face was but a reflection of the cobbler's. And as he meditated and listened, Lafe felt that each tone of Jinnie's fiddle had a soul of its own—that the instrument was peopled with angel voices—voices that soothed him when he suffered beyond description—voices that now expressed in rhythmical harmony the peace within him. Jinnie was able to put an estimate on his moods, and knew just what comfort he needed most. Until that moment the cobbler's wife had seemed outside the charm of the beloved home circle. But to-day, ah, to-day!—Jinnie's bow raced over the strings like a mad thing. To-day Peggy Grandoken became in the girl's eyes a glorified woman, a woman set apart by God Himself to bring to the home a new baby.

Jinnie played and played and played, and Theodore in spirit-fancy stood beside her. Lafe thought and thought and thought, while Peggy walked through his day dreams like some radiant being.

"A baby——my baby, in the house," sang the cobbler's heart.

"A baby, our baby, in the house," poured from Jinnie's soul, and "Baby, little baby," sprang from the fiddle over and over, as golden flashes of the sun warms the earth. Truly was Lafe being revivified; truly was Jinnie! Theodore King! How infinitely close he seemed to her! How the memory of his smile cheered and strengthened her!

From the tip of the fiddle tucked under a rounded chin to the line of purple-black hair, the blood rushed in riotous confusion over the fiddler's lovely face. What was it in Lafe's story that had brought Theodore King so near?

Jinnie couldn't have told, but she was sure the fiddle knew. It was intoning to Lafe—to her—the language of the birds and the mystery of the flower blossoms, the invisible riddles of Heaven and earth, of all the concealed secrets beyond the blue of the sky; all the panorama of Nature strung out in a wild, sweet forest song. Jinnie had backed against the wall as she played, and when out of her soul came the twitter of the morning birds, the babbling of the brook on its way to the sea, the scream of the owl in a high woodland tree, Lafe turned to watch her, and from that moment until she dropped exhausted into a chair, he did not take his eyes from her.

"Jinnie!" he gasped, as he thrust forth his hand and took hers. "You've made me happier to-day'n I've been in many a week. Peg'll be all right.... Everybody'll be all right.... God bless us!"

Jinnie sat up with bright, inquiring eyes.

"Did you tell Peg I was to know about——"

"About our baby?" intervened Lafe tenderly.

He dwelt lovingly on those precious words.

"Yes, about your baby," repeated Jinnie.

"Yes, I told 'er, dear. I said you'd want to be happy too."

"I'm so glad," sighed Jinnie, reverently. "Look!... Peg's coming now!"

They both watched Mrs. Grandoken as she stolidly crossed the tracks, leading Bobbie by the hand.

And later Jinnie hovered over Peggy in the kitchen. The woman had taken on such a new dignity. She must be treated with the greatest and most extra care. If Jinnie had done what she craved, she'd have bounded to Peg and kissed her heartily. Of course that wouldn't do, but talk to her she must,

"Peggy," she said softly, tears lurking in her eyes.

Peg looked at her without moving an eyelash. Jinnie wished she would say something; her task would be so much easier.

"Peggy," she begged again.

"Huh?"

"Lafe told me, dear," and then she did something she hadn't done with Lafe; she began to cry, just why, Jinnie didn't know; Peg looked so sad, so distant, and so ill.

It was probably Jinnie's tears that softened Peg, for she put her hand on the girl's shoulders and stood silent. After the first flood of tears Jinnie ventured:

"I'm awful happy, Peggy dear, and I want you to know I'm going to work harder'n I even did for Blind Bobbie.... I will, Peg, I promise I will.... Kiss me, Oh, kiss me, dear!"

Peggy bent over and kissed the upturned, tearful face solemnly. Then she turned her back, beginning to work vigorously, and Jinnie returned to the shop with the kiss warm on her cheek.



CHAPTER XXI

THE COMING OF THE ANGELS

"You'd better make it a special prayer, Lafe," said Jinnie, a little pucker between her eyes. "Every day I'm more'n more afraid of Maudlin."

"I will, honey, an' just pop into Bates' cottage an' tell Maudlin's pa to run in the shop.... Go long, lass, nobody'll hurt you."

After leaving Lafe's message at the Bates' cottage, Jinnie stepped from the tracks to the marshes with a joyful heart. Of course nothing could harm her! Lafe's faith, mingled with her own, would save her from every evil in the world.

When Bates opened the shop door, the cobbler looked up gravely. He nodded his head to Jasper's, "Howdy do, Grandoken?"

"Sit down," said Lafe.

"Jinnie says you wanted me."

"Yes, a few minutes' chat; that's all!"

"Spit it out," said Bates.

Lafe put down his hammer with slow importance.

"It's this way, Jasper. Maudlin's——"

"What's Maudie done now?" demanded Bates, lighting his pipe.

"He's been botherin' my girl, that's what," responded Lafe.

"Jinnie?"

"Sure. She's all the girl I got.... Maudlin's got to stop it, Bates."

A cruel expression flitted over Jasper's face.

"I ain't nothin' to do with Maudlin's love affairs," said he. "Jinnie could do worse'n get him, I'm a guessin'! Maudie adds up pretty good, Maudie does!"

Lafe shook his head with a grim serenity that became the strained white face.

"His addin' up ain't nothin' to his credit, Jasper," he protested. "He's as crooked as a ram's horn an' you know it. If you don't, take my word for it! There ain't nothin' doin' for him far's Jinnie's concerned!... I sent for you to bargain with you." Jasper pricked up his ears. The word "bargain" always attracted him.

"Well?" he questioned.

"You keep your boy from my girl and I'll do all your family cobblin' for nothin' till Jinnie's a woman."

Bates leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs.

"It's a bargain, all right. Them kids of mine do wear out the soles of their shoes some. But, Lafe, I can't tag Maudlin around all day."

Lafe took up his hammer.

"Lick him if he won't mind you, Bates. He's got to let my girl be, and that's all there is to it."

Saying this, he started to work, giving the shortwood gatherer his dismissal. Bates left his chair thoughtfully.

"I'll talk to Maudie," said he, "but he's an onery kid; has been ever since his mother died. He don't git along with his stepma very well, and she's got such a lot of little kids of 'er own she ain't time to train no hulk of a boy like Maudlin."

Pausing a moment, he went on, "Maudlin's been madder'n hell because that duffer King's been haulin' Jinnie's wood. He says——"

"It ain't any of Maudlin's business who helps Jinnie," interrupted Lafe. "If you got any shoes needin' fixin', tote 'em over, Jasper."

Bates left the shop and Lafe fell to work vigorously.

* * * * *

Maudlin Bates stood at the path leading to the marshes. He was waiting for Jinnie to appear with her load of shortwood. To the young wood gatherer, a woman was created for man's special benefit, and a long time ago he had made up his mind that Jinnie should be his woman.

He was leaning against a tree when the girl came in sight, with her wood-strap on her shoulders. She paid no attention to him, and was about to turn into Paradise Road when the man stepped in front of her.

"Wait a minute, Jinnie," he wheedled.

Jinnie threw him a disdainful glance.

"I can't wait. I'm in a hurry," she replied, and she hoped the fellow would go on before the car arrived.

Young Bates' face was crossed by an obstinate expression.

"I'm goin' to find out," he said, gruffly, "why you're ridin' in rich folks' motor cars."

"Isn't anything to you," snapped Jinnie.

The wood gatherer came so close that he forced her back a step on the marsh path. Her disdainful eyes had drawn him to her, for, like all men, he could be drawn by the woman who scorned him, and mesmerized by the sheer repulse. By great effort, Jinnie had escaped from Maudlin's insults for many months, but he had never been quite so aggressive as this! Now she could see the dark blood in his passionate face mount even to the whites of his eyes, those eyes which coveted the youngness of her body, the vitality of her girl life, and all the good within her.

"Get out of my way!" she said sharply. "You let me alone. I've got a right to get my wood hauled if I can."

"Well, you don't do it any more," said Maudlin. "If you're too lazy to carry your own wood, I'll help you myself.... You can't go no more to King's in his car."

Jinnie turned a pair of glinting blue eyes upon him.

"Who said I couldn't?" she demanded. "Uncle Lafe lets me."

"Your Uncle Lafe said you could marry me," said Maudlin in slow, drawling tones.

Jinnie's blood boiled up behind her ears. She was eyeing him in bewilderment. Maudlin's words made her more angry than she'd ever been in her life.

"You lie, you damn fool!" she cried, and then caught her breath in consternation. It was the first oath that had escaped her lips in many a long day, and she felt truly sorry for it. She would tell Lafe of the provocation that caused it and beg to be forgiven. She moved back a step as Maudlin pinched her.

"I don't lie," he growled. "You think because you can scrape on a fiddle you're better'n other folks. Pa an' me'll show you you ain't."

"You and your pa don't know everything," answered Jinnie, wrathfully.

"We know 'nough to see what King's doin' all right."

He made a dive at the girl and laid a rough hand on the shortwood strap.

"Here! Gimme that wood if you're too lazy to carry it."

Jinnie turned her eyes up the road. It was time Bennett came. The sound of his motor would be like sweet music in her ears. She jerked the strap away from the man and turned furiously upon him.

"Don't touch me again, Maudlin Bates.... I don't interfere with you. I'll—I'll——"

But Maudlin paid no heed to her insistence. He was dragging the strap from her shoulders.

Jinnie's face grew waxen white, but she held her own for a few minutes. Maudlin was big in proportion to her slenderness, and in another instant her shortwood lay on the ground, and she was standing panting before him.

"Now, then, just to show what kind of a feller I be," said he, "I'm goin' to kiss you."

Jinnie felt cold chills running up and down her back.

"It's time you was kissed," went on Maudlin, "and after to-day I'm goin' to be your man.... You can bet on that."

He was slowly forcing her backward along the narrow path that led into the marshes. Jinnie knew intuitively he wanted her to turn and run into the underbrush that he might have her alone in the great waste place.

Like a mad creature, she fought every step of the way, Maudlin's anger rising at each cry the girl emitted.

"I'll tell my uncle," she screamed, with sobbing breath.

"You won't want to tell 'im when I get done with you," muttered the man. "Why don't you run? You c'n run, can't you?"

Oh, if Bennett would only come! She was still near enough to Paradise Road for him to hear her calling.

Maudlin reached out his hand and caught the long curls between his dirty fingers.

"If you won't run," he said, "then, that for you!" and he gave a cruel twist to the shining hair, pulling Jinnie almost off her feet.

Then the ruffian turned, slowly dragging her foot by foot into the marshland. She opened her lips, and gave one long scream; then another and another before Maudlin pulled her to him and closed her mouth with a large hand, and Jinnie grew faint with fright and terror.

They were out of sight now of Paradise Road, still Jinnie struggled and struggled, gripping with both hands at Bates' fingers jerking at her curls.

Suddenly Lafe's solemn words surged through her mind. "He has given His angels charge over thee." Oh God! Dear God! What glorious, blessed words! Lafe's angels, her angels—Jinnie's heart throbbed with faith. Once Lafe had told her no one, no, not even Maudlin Bates, could keep her own from her! Her honor and her very life were in the tender hands of the cobbler's angels. Suddenly in fancy Jinnie saw the whole world about teeming with bright ecstatic beings, and multitudes of them were hurrying through the warm summer air to the Bellaire marshes. They were coming—coming to help her, to save her from a fate worse than death! Her mind reeled under the terrible pain Maudlin was inflicting upon her, and she closed her eyes in agony. With one mighty effort, she dragged her face from the brown, hard hand and screamed at the top of her lungs.

* * * * *

Theodore King swung his car around into Paradise Road with busy thoughts. He had decided to go himself that morning to bring the little fiddler back to his home with the shortwood. He had a plan for Jinnie.

Past the cobbler's shop sped the big motor, and as it drew up to the marshes, he heard a blood-curdling cry from the depths of the underbrush. In another instant he was out on the ground, dashing along the path. He saw Jinnie and Maudlin before either one of them knew he was near. He saw the fellow pulling the black curls, and saw a hand almost covering the fair young face.

Then Jinnie saw him, and sent him one swift, terrified, appealing glance.

In the smallest fraction of a second Maudlin was sprawling on the ground, and Theodore was soundly kicking him. Jinnie sank down on the damp moss and began to cry weakly. Her face was scratched from the man's fingers, her head aching from the strenuous pulling of her hair. Then she covered her eyes with her hands. God had sent an angel—she was saved! When Mr. King touched her gently, she sat up, wiping away little streams of blood running down her face and neck.

"Oh, you came," she sobbed, raising her head, "and oh, I needed you so!"

Theodore lifted her to her feet.

"I should say you did, you poor child! I should certainly think you did."

Then he turned to Maudlin Bates.

"What, in God's name, were you trying to do?"

Maudlin, raging with anger, scrambled from the ground.

"Get out o' here," he hissed, "an' mind your own business."

"When I keep a bully away from a nice little girl, I'm minding my business all right.... What was he trying to do, Jinnie?"

Maudlin walked backward until he was almost in the brush.

"I'm goin' to marry her," he said, surlily.

"He isn't," cried Jinnie. "Oh, don't believe him, Mr. King! He says Uncle Lafe said he can marry me, but he can't."

Once more Theodore turned on Maudlin, threateningly, his anger riding down his gentleness to Jinnie.

"Now get out of here," he exclaimed, "and don't ever let me hear of your even speaking to this child again."

The shortwood gatherer stood his ground until Theodore, with raised fist, was almost upon him.

"I said to get out!" thundered Mr. King.

With a baffled cry, Bates turned, rushed back into the marsh, and for several seconds they heard him beating down the brushwood as he ran.

Theodore tenderly drew the girl into Paradise Road.

"I wanted to see your uncle to-day," he explained, without waiting for the question which he read in Jinnie's eyes, "so I came over myself instead of sending Bennett.... There, child! Don't tremble so! Never mind the wood."

Jinnie hung back.

"I've got to sell it to you this afternoon," she murmured brokenly. "Peg's got to have the money."

"We've enough at home until to-morrow.... Wait until to-morrow."

Jinnie looked longingly at the wood.

"Somebody'll take it," she objected, "and it's awful hard to gather."

A grip of pain stabbed Theodore's heart. This slender, beautiful girl, rosy with health and genius, should gather wood no more for any one in the world.... To soothe her, he said:

"I'll come by and pick it up on my way back.... Come along."

He lifted her into the car, and they moved slowly through Paradise Road, and drew up before the cobbler's shop.

Lafe put down his hammer as they entered, and bade King take a chair. Jinnie sat weakly on the bench beside Mr. Grandoken. He took her hand, and the loving pressure brought forth a storm of outraged tears.

"'Twas Maudlin, Lafe," she wept.

Then her arms stole around the cobbler. "The angels sent Mr. King!... Lafe, Lafe, save me from Maudlin! He—he——"

Theodore King rose to his feet, his face paling. Lafe, smoothing Jinnie's head now buried in his breast, lifted misty eyes to the young man.

"My poor baby! My poor little girl!" he stammered. "She has much to stand, sir."

The other man took several nervous turns around the shop. Presently he paused near the cobbler and coughed in embarrassment.

"I'm interested in doing something for your niece, Mr. Grandoken," said he lamely.

On hearing this, Jinnie lifted her head, and Lafe bowed.

"Thank you, sir," said he.

"I don't approve of her going into the marshes alone to gather wood," continued Mr. King. "She's too young, too——"

"I don't uther, sir," interrupted Lafe sadly, "but we've got to live."

Not heeding the cobbler's explanation, Theodore proceeded deliberately.

"She plays too well on the violin not to have all the training that can be given her. Now let me be of some service until she is self-supporting."

Again Lafe repeated, "Thank you, sir, but I don't think Jinnie could accept money from any one."

"I don't see why not! It's quite customary when a young person is ambitious to receive——"

"Is it, sir?" ejaculated Lafe.

"Indeed yes, and I've been making inquiries, and I find there's a very good teacher on the hill who'll give her the rudiments.... After that, we'll see."

Jinnie was breathing very fast.

"Lessons cost lots of money," objected Lafe feebly, drawing the girl closer.

"I know that," interposed Mr. King, "but I want to pay for them. She ought to take one every day, the teacher says, commencing to-morrow."

Jinnie stood up. "I couldn't let you pay for 'em," she said quickly. "I——"

She sat down again at a motion from Theodore.

"Please don't object until I have finished," he smiled at her. "It's like this: If you study, you'll be able to earn a lot of money. Then you can return every dollar to me."

Suddenly it came to her mind to tell him she would have all the money she needed when she should be eighteen.

"I'll have——" she began, but Lafe, feeling what she was going to say, stopped her. It wasn't time to confide in any one about the danger hanging over her. He took the matter in his own hands with his usual melancholy dignity.

"Jinnie'll be glad to let you help her, sir, providin' you keep track of the money you spend," he agreed.

The girl could scarcely believe her ears. Suddenly her indignant sense of Maudlin's abuse faded away, leaving her encouraged and warm with ambition.

Theodore took one more stride around the little room.

"Now that's sensible, Mr. Grandoken," he said contentedly. "And before I go, I want you to promise me your niece won't go into the marshes even once more. I must have your word before I can be satisfied. As it is now, she earns three dollars a week bringing me wood. That I must add to the lesson money——"

Lafe's dissenting gesture broke off Mr. King's statement, but he resumed immediately.

"If you're sensitive on that point, I'll add it in with the other money. I think it wise to keep our arrangements to ourselves, though." He stopped, his face changing. "And I—I would like to make you more comfortable here."

Lafe shook his head.

"I couldn't take anything for me and Peggy," he announced decidedly, "but Jinnie'll give back all you let her have some day."

Then Theodore King went away reluctantly.



CHAPTER XXII

MOLLY'S DISCOVERY

Peggy had given Jinnie a violin box, and as the girlwalked rapidly homeward, she gazed at it with pride, and began to plan how the woman's burdens could be lightened a little—how she could bring a smile now and then to the sullen face. This had been discussed between Lafe and herself many times, and they had rejoiced that in a few months, when Jinnie was eighteen, Mrs. Grandoken's worries would be lessened.

She reached the bottom of the hill just as a car dashed around the lower corner, a woman at the wheel. One glance at the occupant, and Jinnie recognized Molly Merriweather. The woman smiled sweetly and drove to the edge of the pavement.

"Good afternoon," she greeted Jinnie. "Won't you take a little ride with me? I'll drive you home afterwards."

Jinnie's heart bounded. As yet Molly had not discovered her identity, and the girl, in spite of Lafe's caution, wanted to know all that had passed in Mottville after she left. She wanted to hear about her dead father, of Matty, and the old home. She gave ready assent to Molly's invitation by climbing into the door opened for her.

"You don't have to go home right away, do you?" asked Miss Merriweather pleasantly.

"No, I suppose not," acceded Jinnie shyly.

She connected Molly the Merry with all that was good. She remembered the woman's kindly smiles so long ago in Mottville, and—that she was a friend of Theodore King. She was startled, however, after they had ridden in silence a while, when the woman pronounced his name.

"Have you seen Mr. King lately?"

Jinnie shook her head.

"I guess it's three days," she answered, low-voiced.

Three days! Molly racked her brain during the few seconds before she spoke again to bring to mind when Theodore had been absent from home out of business hours.

"He's a very nice man," she remarked disinterestedly.

Jinnie's gratitude burst forth in youthful impetuosity.

"He's more'n nice,—he's the best man in the world."

"Yes, he is," murmured Molly.

"Theo—I mean Mr. King," stammered Jinnie.

Molly turned so quickly to look at the girl's reddening face that the car almost described a circle.

"You call him by his first name, then?" she asked, with a sharp backward turn of the wheel.

"No," denied Jinnie, extremely confused. "Oh, no! Only—only——"

"Only what?"

"When I think of him, then I do. Theodore's such a pretty name, isn't it?"

Molly bit her lip. Here was the niece of a cobbler who dared to think familiarly of a man in high social position. She had tried to make herself believe Theo was simply philanthropic, but now the more closely she examined the beautiful face of the girl, the more she argued with herself, the greater grew her fear.

"What does he call you?" Molly spoke amiably, as if discussing these unimportant little matters for mere politeness' sake.

"Mostly Jinnie," was the prompt reply. "I'm just Jinnie to every one who loves me."

She said this without thought of its import. Angrily Molly sent the motor spinning along at a higher rate. She was growing to hate the little person at her side.

"Where are your own people?" she demanded, when they were on the road leading to the country.

Jinnie glanced up. "Dead!" she answered.

"And the cobbler, Mr. Grandoken, is he your father's or mother's brother?"

Jinnie pondered a moment, undecided how to answer.

"Why, you see it's like this——"

Molly lessened the speed. Turning squarely around, she looked keenly at the scarlet, lovely face.

"Why are you blushing?" she queried.

Then like a flash she remembered. What a silly fool she had been! Jordan Morse would give his eyes almost to locate this girl.

"I remember now who you are," she said, taking a long breath. "You're Virginia Singleton."

Jinnie touched her arm appealingly.

"You won't tell anybody, will you, please? Please don't.... There's a reason why."

"Tell me the reason."

"I couldn't now, not now. But I have to live with Lafe Grandoken quite a long time yet."

"You ran away from your home?"

"Yes."

"Your father died the same night you came away."

"Yes, and—please, what happened after I left?"

"Oh, he was buried, and the house is empty."

Molly forebore to mention Jordan Morse, and Jinnie's tongue refused to utter the terrifying name.

Presently the girl, with tears in her eyes, said softly:

"And Matty, old Matty?"

"Who's Matty?" interjected Molly.

"The black woman who took care of me. She lived with me for ever so long."

Molly didn't reply for some time. Then:

"I think she died; at least I heard she did."

A cold shudder ran over Jinnie's body. Matty then had gone to join those who, when they were called, had no choice but to answer. She leaned against the soft cushions moodily. She was harking back to other days, and Molly permitted her to remain silent for some time.

"You must have people of your own you could live with," she resumed presently. "It's wrong for a girl with your money——"

Jinnie's lovely mouth set at the corners.

"I wouldn't leave Lafe and Peggy for anybody in the world, not if I had relations, but I haven't."

"I thought—I thought," began Molly, pretending to bring to mind something she'd forgotten. "You have an uncle," she burst forth.

Jinnie grew cold from head to foot. Her father's words, "He won't find in you much of an obstacle," came to her distinctly.

"Does your uncle know where you are?"

This question brought the girl to the present.

"No. I don't want him to know, either. Not till—not till I'm eighteen."

"Why?"

Molly's tone was so cold and unsympathetic Jinnie regretted she had accepted her invitation to ride. But she need not be afraid; Lafe would keep her safe from all harm. Had she not tried out his faith and the angels' care with Maudlin Bates? However, she felt she owed some explanation to the woman at her side.

"My uncle doesn't like me," she stammered, calming her fear. "And Lafe loves me, Lafe does."

"How do you know your uncle doesn't love you?"

Thinking of Lafe's often repeated caution not to divulge her father's disclosure of Morse's perfidy, Jinnie remained quiet.

The birds above their heads kept up a shrill chatter. On ordinary occasions Jinnie would have listened to mark down in her memory a few notes to draw from her fiddle, but at this moment she was too busy looking for a proper explanation. Glancing sidelong at the woman's face and noting the expression upon it, she grew cold and drew into the corner. She would not dare——

"I almost think it's my duty to write your uncle," said Molly deliberately.

Jinnie gasped. She straightened and put forth an impetuous hand.

"Please don't! I beg you not to. Some day, mebbe, some day——"

"In the meantime you're living with people who can't take care of you."

"Oh, but they do, and Mr. King's helping me," faltered Jinnie. "Why, he'd do anything for me he could. He loves my fiddle——"

"Does he love you?" asked Molly, her heart beating swiftly.

"I don't know, but he's very good to me."

Molly with one hand carefully brushed a dead leaf from her skirt.

"Do you love him?" she asked, forcing casuality into her tone.

Did she love Theodore King? The question was flung at Jinnie so suddenly that the truth burst from her lips.

"Oh, yes, I love him very, very much——"

The machine started forward with a tremendous jerk. Jinnie gave a frightened little cry, but the woman did not heed her. The motor sped along at a terrific rate, and there just ahead Jinnie spied a lean barn-cat, crossing the road. She screamed again in terror. Still Molly sped on, driving the car straight over the thin, gaunt animal. Jinnie's heart leapt into her mouth. All her great love for living things rose in stout appeal against this ruthless deed. She lifted her slight body and sprang up and out, striking the hard ground with a sickening thud. She sat up, shaking from head to foot. A short distance ahead Molly Merriweather was turning her machine. Jinnie crawled to the middle of the road, still dizzy from her fall. There, struggling before her, was the object for which she had jumped. The cat was writhing in distracted misery, and Jinnie picked him up in her arms. She was sitting on the ground when Molly, very pale, rolled back.

"You little fool! You silly little fool!" she exclaimed, leaping out. "You might have been killed doing such a thing."

"You ran over the kitty," wept Jinnie, bowing her head.

"And what if I did? It's only a cat. Throw it down and come with me immediately."

Jinnie wasn't used to such sentiments. She got to her feet, a queer, rebellious feeling buzzing through her brain.

"I'm going to walk home," she said brokenly, "and take the kitty with me."

Saying this, she took off her jacket and wrapped it about the cat. Molly glared at her furiously.

"You're the strangest little dunce I ever saw," she cried. "If you're determined to take the little beast, get in."

Molly was sorry afterward she had not let Jinnie have her way, for they had driven homeward but a little distance when she saw Theodore's car coming toward them. He himself was at the wheel, and waved good-naturedly. Molly reluctantly stopped her machine. The man looked in astonishment from the girl to the woman. He noticed Jinnie's white face and the long blue mark running from her forehead to her chin. Molly, too, wore an expression which changed her materially. He stepped to the ground and leaned over the edge of their car.

"Something happened?" he questioned, eyeing first one, then the other.

Molly looked down upon the girl, who was staring at Mr. King.

"I—I——" began Jinnie.

Molly made a short explanation.

"She jumped out of the car," she said. "I was just telling her she might have been killed."

"Jumped out of the car?" repeated Theodore, aghast.

"And we were going at a terrible rate," Molly went on.

Her voice was toned with accusation, and Jinnie saw a reprimanding expression spread over the man's face. She didn't want him to think ill of her, yet she was not sorry she had jumped. He was kind and good; he would pity the hurt thing throbbing against her breast.

"We—we—ran over a cat——" she said wretchedly.

"A barn-cat," cut in Molly.

"And he was awfully hurt," interpolated Jinnie. "I couldn't leave him in the road. I had to get him, didn't I?"

Theodore King made a movement of surprise.

"Did you notice it in the road?" he asked Miss Merriweather.

The woman was thoroughly angry, so angry she could not guard her tongue.

"Of course I saw him," she replied haughtily, "but I wouldn't stop for an old cat; I can tell you that much."

"Miss Grandoken looks ill," Theodore answered slowly, "and as I am going her way, I think she'd better come with me."

Molly was about to protest when two strong arms were thrust forth, and Jinnie with the cat was lifted out. Before the girl fully realized what had happened, she was sitting beside her friend, driving homeward. She could hear through her aching brain the chug-chug of Molly's motor following. It was not until they turned into Paradise Road that Mr. King spoke to her. Then he said gently:

"It was a dreadful risk you took, child."

"I didn't think about that," murmured Jinnie, closing her eyes.

"No, I suppose not. Your heart's too tender to let anything be abused.... Is the cat dead?"

Jinnie pulled aside her jacket.

"No, but he's breathing awful hard. It hurts him to try to live. I want to get home quick so Peggy can do something for him."

"I'll hurry, then," replied Mr. King, and when he saw Lafe's face in the window, he again addressed her:

"You'd better try to smile a little, Miss Jinnie, or your uncle'll be frightened."

Jinnie roused herself, but she was so weak when she tried to walk that Theodore picked her up in his arms and carried her into the shop.



CHAPTER XXIII

NOBODY'S CAT

Lafe uttered a quick little prayer as the door opened. His glance through the window had shown him Jinnie's pale face and her dark head drooping against Mr. King's shoulder. Theodore smiled as he entered, which instantly eased the fear in the cobbler's heart and he waited for the other man to speak.

"Jinnie had a fall," explained Mr. King, "so I drove her home."

He placed the girl in a chair. She was still holding the mangled cat in her arms.

"Is she much hurt?" questioned Lafe anxiously.

"No, Lafe, I'm not hurt a bit. Miss Merriweather took me for a little ride. I jumped out to get this kitty because she ran over 'im."

She displayed the quivering grey tiger cat.

"Jumped out of a fast-goin' car, honey!" chided Lafe. "That was some dangerous."

Jinnie's eyes were veiled with wonder.

"But I couldn't let him stay and get run over again, could I, Lafe?"

"No, darlin', of course you couldn't.... Are you pretty well broke up?"

Mr. King explained the accident as best he could, and after he departed Mrs. Grandoken came in with Bobbie clinging to her skirts. Then the story was repeated.

"Can't we do something for him, Peg?" pleaded Jinnie.

Peg knelt down and examined the animal as it lay on the floor. She would not have admitted for anything that she was disturbed because of Jinnie's fall. She only said:

"'Twasn't your fault, miss, that you ain't almost dead yourself.... I'll get a dish with some water.... You need it as much as the cat."

It was Bobbie who brought from Peggy a fierce ejaculation. He was standing in the middle of the floor with fluttering hands, a woebegone expression on his upturned face.

"My stars're goin' out," he whimpered. "I want to touch my Jinnie."

"She ain't hurt much, kid," said Peg, hoarsely. "Don't be shakin' like a leaf, Bobbie! You'd think the girl was dead."

Jinnie called the boy to her.

"I'm here, honey," she soothed him, "and I'm all right. I got a little whack on the ground, that's all.... There, don't cry, dearie."

Peg looked down on them frowningly.

"You're both of you little fools," she muttered. "Get out of my way till I go to the kitchen, or I'll kick you out."

When Mrs. Grandoken brought the water, they worked over the cat for a long time, and at length Peg carried the poor little mangled body to the kitchen, Bobbie following her.

Jinnie sat down beside the cobbler on the bench.

"There's something I don't know, Jinnie," he said.

Fully and freely she told him all—all that had happened that day. She explained Molly's recognition of her and the terrors of the afternoon's ride.

"She hates barn-cats," went on the girl, "and, Lafe, when the wheels gritted over him, I flew right out on the ground."

Lafe's arms tightened about her.

"You just couldn't help it," he murmured. "God bless my little girl!"

"Then Mr. King took me with him," concluded Jinnie.

Lafe had his own view of Molly the Merry, but he didn't tell the faint, white girl at his side that he thought the woman was jealous of her.

As Jinnie again recounted nervously the conversation about her Uncle Jordan, the cobbler said softly:

"It's all in the hands of the angels, pet! No harm'll come to you ever."

* * * * *

Jordan Morse answered Miss Merriweather's telephone call.

"I want to talk with you," said she peremptorily.

"I'll come right up," replied Morse.

She stood on the porch with her hands tightly locked together when Jordan dashed up the roadway. She walked slowly down the steps.

"What's up?" demanded Morse.

Molly glanced backward at the quiet home. Theodore's mother was taking her afternoon siesta, and no one else was about. She slipped her hand into Morse's arm and led him under the trees.

"Let's go to the summer house," she urged.

Once seated, Morse looked at her curiously.

"You're ill," he said, noting her distorted face.

"No, only furious.... I've made a discovery."

"Anything of value?"

"Yes, to you—and to me."

Morse bent a keen glance upon her.

"Well?" was all he said.

"I know where your niece, Virginia Singleton, is."

She said this deliberately, realizing the while the worth of her words.

Morse got to his feet unsteadily.

"I don't believe it," he returned.

"I knew you wouldn't, but I do just the same."

"Where?"

"In this town."

"No!"

"Yes."

Morse dropped back on the seat once more.

"For God's sake, don't play with me. Why don't you——"

"I'm going to! Keep still, can't you?"

"You're torturing me," muttered the man, mopping his brow.

"She's—she's Jinnie Grandoken—the girl who played at Theo's party."

"Good God!" and then through the silence came another muttered, "Great merciful God!"

Molly allowed him to regain his self-control.

"I told you that night, Jordan, I thought I remembered her," she then said. "To-day I found out it was she."

"Tell me all you know," ordered Morse, with darkening brow.

Molly openly admitted her jealousy of Jinnie. She had no shame because, long before, she had told her husband of her absorbing passion for Theodore King.

"I discovered it purely by accident," she went on, relating the story.

Morse chewed the end of his cigar.

"Now what're you going to do?" demanded Molly presently.

Jordan threw away his cigar and thrust his hands deep into his pockets, stretching out a pair of long legs. There he sat considering the tips of his boots in silence.

"I've got to think, and think quick," he broke out suddenly. "My God! I might have known she didn't belong in that cobbler's shop.... I'll go now.... Don't mention this to Theo."

As he was leaving, he said with curling lip:

"I guess now you know my prospects you won't be so stingy. I'll have to have money to carry this through."

"All right," said Molly.

When she was alone, Molly's anger decreased. She had an ally now worth having. She smiled delicately as she passed up the stairs to her room, and the smile was brought to her lips because she remembered having begged Jordan to help her in this matter several times before. Then he had had no incentive, but to-day——Ah, now he would give her a divorce quietly! The social world in which she hoped to move would know nothing of her youthful indiscretion.

* * * * *

That night Jinnie and Peg were bending anxiously over a basket near the kitchen stove. All that human hands and hearts could do had been done for the suffering barn-cat. He had given no sign of consciousness, his breath coming and going in long, deep gasps.

"He'll die, won't he, Peg?" asked Jinnie, sorrowfully.

"Yes, sure. An' it'll be better for the beast, too." Peg said this tempestuously.

"I'd like to have him live," replied Jinnie. "Milly Ann mightn't love him, but she got used to Happy Pete, didn't she?"

"This feller," assured Peggy, wagging her head, "won't get used to anything more on this earth."

"Poor kitty," mourned Jinnie.

She was thinking of the beautiful world, the trees and the flowers, and the wonderful songs of nature amidst which the dying animal had existed.

"I hope he'll go to some nice place," she observed sadly, walking away from Mrs. Grandoken.

Later, after cogitating deeply, Jinnie expressed herself to the cobbler.

"Lafe, Lafe dear," she said, "it's all true you told me, ain't it?... All about the angels and God?... The poor kitty's suffering awful. He's got the Christ too, hasn't he, Lafe?"

The man looked into the agonized young face.

"Yes, child," he replied reverently, "he's got the Christ too, same's you an' me. God's in everything. He loves 'em all."

That night the girl sat unusually long with paper and pencil. Just before going to bed she placed a paper on the cobbler's knee.

"I wrote that hurt kitty some poetry," she said shyly.

Lafe settled his spectacles on his nose, picked up the sheet, and read:

"I'm nobody's cat and I've been here so long, In this world of sorrow and pain, I've no father nor mother nor home in this place, And must always stay out in the rain.

"Hot dish water, stones at me have been thrown, And one of my hind legs is lame; No wonder I run when I know the boys Come to see if I'm tame.

"I've a friend in the country, and he's nobody's dog, And his burdens're heavy as mine, He told me one day the boys had once tied A tin can to his tail with a line.

"Now they talk in the churches of God and his Son, Of Paradise, Heaven and Hell; Of a Savior who came on earth for mankind, And for His children all should be well.

"Now I'd like to know if God didn't make me, And cause me to live and all that? I believe there's a place for nobody's child, And also for nobody's cat."

Mr. Grandoken lifted misty eyes.

"It's fine," he said, "an' every word true!... Every single word."

The next morning Jinnie went to the basket behind the stove. The cat was dead,—dead, in the same position in which she had left him the night before, and close to his nose was the meat Peggy had tried to entice him to eat. She lifted the basket and carried it into the shop.

"Poor little feller," said Lafe. "I 'spose you'll have to bury him, lass."

Bobbie edged forward, and felt for Jinnie's fingers.

"Bury him on the hill, dearie, where you found me," he whispered. "It's lovely there, and he can see my stars."

"All right," replied Jinnie, dropping her hand on the boy's golden head.

That afternoon, just before the funeral, Jinnie stood quietly in front of the cobbler.

"Lafe," she said, looking at him appealingly, "the kitty's happy even if he is dead, isn't he?"

"Sure," replied Lafe. "His angels've got charge of him, all right."

"I was wondering something," ventured the girl, thoughtfully. "Couldn't we take him in the 'Happy in Spite'?... Eh, Lafe?"

Lake looked at her in surprise.

"I never thought of takin' anything dead in the club," said he dubiously.

"But he's happy, you said, Lafe?"

"He's happy enough, yes, sure!"

"Then let's take him in," repeated Jinnie eagerly.

"Let's take 'im in, cobbler," breathed Bobbie, pressing forward. "He wants to come in."

They lifted the cover of the basket, and there in quietude the barn-cat was sleeping his long last sleep.

Jinnie lifted one of the stiff little paws, and placed it in Lafe's fingers. The cobbler shook it tenderly.

"You're in the club, sir," said he in a thick, choked voice. Then Jinnie and Bobbie, carrying their precious dead comrade, started for the hill.



CHAPTER XXIV

"HE MIGHT EVEN MARRY HER"

"I don't see why you must have her out of the way entirely," hesitated Molly Merriweather, looking up into Jordan Morse's face. "Couldn't you send her to some girls' place?"

"Now you don't know anything about it, Molly," answered the man impatiently. "If she doesn't disappear absolutely, the cobbler and Theodore'll find her."

"That's so," said Molly, meditatively, "but it seems horrible——"

Morse interrupted her with a sarcastic laugh.

"That's what Theodore would think, and more, too, if he thought any one was going to harm a hair of the child's head."

Molly flamed red.

"To save her, he might even marry her," Morse went on relentlessly.

Molly gestured negatively.

"He wouldn't. He couldn't!" she cried stormily. She had never permitted herself to face such a catastrophe save when she was angry.

Jordan Morse contemplated his wife a short space of time.

"I can't understand your falling in love with a man who hasn't breathed a word of affection for you," he said tentatively.

Molly showed him an angry face.

"You're not a woman, so you can't judge," she replied.

"Thank God for that!" retorted Morse.

"We wouldn't have had any of this trouble," he continued, at length, "if you'd let me know about the boy. There's no excuse for you, absolutely none. You know very well I would have come back."

All the softness in the woman turned to hardness.

"How many times," she flamed, "must I tell you I was too angry to write or beg you to come, Jordan?... I've told you over and over."

"And with all you say, I can't understand it. Are you going to impart your precious past to Theodore?"

"No," replied Molly, setting her lips.

Presently Morse laughed provokingly.

"How you women do count your chickens before they're hatched! Where did you get the idea Theodore was going to ask you to marry him?"

"I'll make him," breathed Molly, with confidence.

"Well, go ahead," bantered Morse. "All I ask for releasing you is that you'll help me rid myself of my beautiful niece, Virginia, at the same time ridding yourself, my lady, and give me my boy when we find him."

His tones in the first part of the speech were mocking, but Molly noted when he said "boy" his voice softened. She looked at him wonderingly. What a strange mixture of good and evil he was! When he got up to leave, she was not sorry. She watched him stride away with a deep sigh of relief.

She was still sitting in the summer house when Theodore King swung his motor through the gate and drew up before the porch. He jumped out, wiped his face, saw Molly, and smiled.

"Well, it's cool here," he said, walking toward her.

"Yes," said Molly. "Come and sit down a minute."

Theodore looked doubtfully at the house.

"I really ought to do some writing, but I'll sit a while if you like. I passed Jordan on the way home."

Molly nodded, and Theodore quizzed her with laughing eyes.

"Isn't he coming pretty often?" he asked. "Jordan's got prospects, Molly! If his niece isn't found, you know, he'll have a fortune.... Better set your cap for him."

Molly blushed under his words, trying not to show her resentment. Was Theodore a perfect fool? Couldn't he see she desired no one but himself, and him alone?

"Jordan doesn't care for me that way," she observed with dignity, "and I don't care for him."

Theodore flicked an ash from his cigar.

"I think you're mistaken, Molly—I mean as far as he is concerned."

"I'm not! Of course, I'm not! Oh, Theodore, I've been wanting to ask you something for a long time. I do want to go back home for a day.... Would you take me?"

Theodore eyed her through wreaths of blue smoke.

"Well, I might," he hesitated, "but hadn't you better ask Jordan? I'm afraid he wouldn't like me——"

Molly got up so quickly that Theodore, surprised, got up too.

"I don't want Jordan, and I do want you," she said emphatically. "Of course if you don't care to go——"

"On the contrary," interrupted Theodore, good-naturedly, "I would really like it.... Yes, I'll go all right.... I have a reason for going."

Molly's whole demeanor changed. She gave a musical laugh. He could have but one reason, and she felt she knew that reason! What a handsome dear he was, and how she loved the whole bigness of him!

As she turned to walk away, Theodore fell in at her side, suiting his steps to hers.

"Mind you, Molly, any day you say but Saturday."

"Why not Saturday?" asked Molly, pouting. "I might want you then!"

Unsuspecting, Mr. King explained.

"The fact is, Saturday I've planned to go on the hill. You remember Grandoken's niece? I want to find out how she's progressing in her music."

If Theodore had been watching Molly's face, he would have noted how its expression changed darkly. But, humming a tune, he went into the house unconcernedly, and Molly recognized the rhythm as one Jinnie had played that night long ago with Peg Grandoken's lace curtains draped about her.

Jinnie's youth, her bright blue eyes, her wonderful talent, Molly hated, and hated cordially. Then she decided Theodore should go with her Saturday.

That evening when Jordan Morse came in, Molly told him she would help him in any scheme to get Jinnie away from Bellaire.

"You're beginning to understand he likes her pretty much, eh?" asked the man rudely.

Molly wouldn't admit this, but she replied simply:

"I don't want her around. That's all! As long as she's in Bellaire, the Kings'll always have her here with her fiddle."

"Some fiddle," monotoned Jordan.

"It's the violin that attracts Theodore," hesitated Molly.

"And her blue eyes," interrupted Jordan, smiling widely.

"Her talent, you mean," corrected Molly.

"And her curls," laughed Morse. "I swear if she wasn't a relation of mine I'd marry the kid myself. She's a beauty!... She's got you skinned to death."

"You needn't be insulting, Jordan," admonished Molly, flushing.

"It's the truth, though. That's where the rub comes. You can't wool me, Molly. If she were hideous, you wouldn't worry at all.... Why, I know seven or eight girls right here in Bellaire who'd give their eye teeth and wear store ones to get Theodore to look at 'em crosseyed.... Lord, what fools women are!"

Molly left him angrily, and Morse, shrugging his shoulders, strolled on through the trees. Not far from the house he met Theodore, and they wandered on together, smoking in silence. Morse suddenly developed an idea. Why shouldn't he sound King about Jinnie? Accordingly, he began with:

"That's a wonderful girl, Grandoken's niece."

This topic was one Theodore loved to speak of, to dream so, so he said impetuously:

"She is indeed. I only wish I could get her away from Paradise Road."

Morse turned curious eyes on his friend.

"Why?"

"Well, I don't think it's any place for an impressionable young girl like her."

"She's living with Jews, too, isn't she?"

"Yes, but good people," Theodore replied. "I want her to go away to school. I'd be willing to pay her expenses——"

Morse flung around upon him.

"Send her away to school? You?"

"Yes. Why not? Wouldn't it be a good piece of charity work? She's the most talented girl I ever saw."

"And the prettiest," Jordan cut in.

"By far the prettiest," answered King without hesitation.

His voice was full of feeling, and Jordan Morse needed no more to tell him plainly that Theodore loved Jinnie Grandoken. A sudden chill clutched at his heart. If King ever took Jinnie under his protection, his own plans would count for nothing. He went home that night disgusted with himself for having stayed away from his home country so long, angry that Molly had not told him about the baby, and more than angry with Theodore King.



CHAPTER XXV

WHEN THEODORE FORGOT

For the next few days Jordan Morse turned over in his mind numerous plans to remove Jinnie from Grandoken's home, but none seemed feasible. As long as Lafe knew his past and stood like a rock beside the girl, as long as Theodore King was interested in her, he himself was powerless to do anything. How to get both the cobbler and his niece out of the way was a problem which continually worried him.

He mentioned his anxiety to Molly, asking her if by any means she could help him.

"I did tell her I'd write to you," said Molly.

Morse's face fell.

"She's a stubborn little piece," he declared presently. "Theo's in love with her all right."

"You don't really mean that!" stammered Molly, her heart thumping.

"Perhaps not very seriously, but such deep interest as his must come from something more than just the girl's talent. He spoke about sending her away to school."

"He shan't," cried Molly, infuriated.

Morse's rehearsal of Theodore's suggestion was like goads in her soul.

"If she'd go," went on the man, "nothing you or I could do would stop him. The only way——"

Molly whirled upon him abruptly.

"I'll help you, Jordan, I will.... Anything, any way to keep him from her."

They were both startled and confused when Theodore came upon them suddenly with his swinging stride, but before Morse went home, he whispered to Molly:

"I've thought of something—tell you to-morrow."

That night Molly scarcely slept. The vision of a black-haired girl in the arms of Theodore King haunted her through her restless dreams, and the agony was so intense that before the dawn broke over the hill she made up her mind to help her husband, even to the point of putting Jinnie out of existence.

That morning Morse approached her with this command:

"You try to get Jinnie to go with you to Mottville. You wouldn't have to stay but a day or so. There your responsibilities would end.... I'll be there at the same time.... Will you do it, Molly?"

"Yes," said Molly, and her heart began to sing and her eyes to shine. Her manner to Jordan as he left was more cordial than since his return from Europe.

At noon time, when Theodore King saw her walking, sweetly cool, under the trees, he joined her. Molly had donned the dress he had complimented most, and as he approached her, she lifted a shy gaze to his.

"You couldn't take me to-morrow, you're sure?" she begged, her voice low, deep and appealingly resonant.

Theodore hesitated. Being naturally chivalrous and kindly, he disliked to refuse, but he had already sent a note to Jinnie to meet him at the master's Saturday, and it went against his inclination to break that appointment.

"I don't see how I can," he replied thoughtfully, "but choose any day next week, and we'll make a real picnic of it."

"I'm so disappointed," Molly murmured sadly. "I wanted to go Saturday. But of course——"

"I'll see if I can arrange it," he assured her. "Possibly I might go up to hear her play to-day.... I'll see.... Later I'll 'phone you."

Leaving the house, he headed his car toward the lower end of the town. He was glad of an excuse to go to Paradise Road. Lafe smiled through the window at him, and he entered the shop at the cobbler's cordial, "Come in!"

"I suppose you want Jinnie, eh?" asked Lafe.

"Yes. I'll detain her only a moment."

Bobbie got up from the floor where he was playing soldiers with tacks and nails.

"Boy'll call Jinnie," said he, moving forward.

The two men watched the slender blind child feel his way to the door.

"Bobbie loves to take a part in things," explained Lafe. "Poor little fellow!"

"Is he hopelessly blind?" asked Theodore.

"Yes, yes," and Lafe sighed. "I sent him once by Peg to ask a big eye specialist. He's a good little shaver, but his heart's awful weak. You wouldn't think he's almost eleven, would you?"

Theodore shook his head, shocked.

"It isn't possible!" he exclaimed.

"He ain't growed much since he come here over two years ago. Jinnie can carry him in one arm."

"Poor child!" said Theodore sympathetically.

Just then Jinnie came into the room shyly. Bobbie had excitedly whispered to her that "the beautiful big man with the nice hands" wanted her. She hesitated at the sight of Mr. King, but advanced as Lafe held out his hand to her.

Before Theodore could explain, she had told him:

"The master isn't giving me a lesson to-day, but he will to-morrow because you're coming."

With pride in her voice, she said it radiantly, the color mantling high in her cheeks. Molly's importunate insistence escaped Theodore's mind. When with Jinnie, ordinary matters generally did fade away.

"I'm very glad," he replied. "I hope you've progressed a lot."

"She has, sir, she sure has," Lafe put in. "You'll be surprised! How long since you've heard her play?"

"A long time," answered Theodore, and still forgetting Molly, he went on, "I wonder if you'd like to come to the house to-morrow to dinner and play for us. My mother was speaking about how much she'd enjoy it only a short time ago."

Jinnie's eyes sparkled.

"I should love to come," she answered gladly.

He rose to go, taking her hand.

"Then I'll send the car for you," he promised her.

He was sitting at his office desk when Molly the Merry once more came into his mind. An ejaculation escaped his lips, and he made a wry face. Then, in comparison, Jinnie, with all her sparkling youth, rose triumphant before him. He loved the child, for a child she still seemed to him. To tell her now of his affection might harm her work. He would wait! She was so young, so very young.

For a long time he sat thinking and dreaming of the future, and into the quiet of his office he brought, in brilliant vision, a radiant, raven-haired woman—his ideal—his Jinnie. Suddenly again he remembered his promise to Molly and slowly took down the telephone. Then deliberately he replaced it. It would be easier to explain the circumstances face to face with her, and no doubt entered his mind but that the woman would be satisfied and very glad that Jinnie was coming with her violin to play for them. Molly wouldn't mind postponing her trip for a few days.

Molly was reclining as usual in the hammock with a book in her hand when he ran up the steps.

"Molly," he began, going to her quickly, "I want to confess."

"Confess?" she repeated, sitting up.

"Yes, it's this way: When I went out this morning I felt sure I could arrange about to-morrow.... But what do you think?"

Miss Merriweather put down the book, stood up, her hand over her heart.

"I can't guess," she breathed.

"Well, I went to Grandoken's——"

"You could have sent a note," Molly cut in.

Theodore looked at her curiously.

"I could, but I didn't. I wanted Jinnie to understand——"

His voice vibrated deeply when he spoke that name, and the listener's love-laden ears caught the change immediately.

"Well?" she murmured in question.

"When I got there and saw her, I forgot about Saturday. Before I had a chance, she told me she wasn't going to the master's to-day. Then without another thought——"

"Well?" interviewed Molly with widening eyes.

"Pardon me, Molly," Theodore said tactlessly, "for forgetting you—you will, won't you? I asked her to play here to-morrow night."

Molly felt the structure of her whole world tumbling down about her ears. He had forgotten her for that girl, that jade in Paradise Road, the girl who stood between her and all her hopes. She took one step forward and forgot, her dignity, forgot everything but his stinging insult.

"How dared you?" she uttered hoarsely. Her voice grew thin as it raised to the point of a question.

"Dare!" echoed Theodore, his expression changing.

Molly went nearer him with angry, sparkling eyes.

"Yes, how dared you ask that girl to come here when I dislike her? You know how I hate her——"

Mr. King tossed his cigar into the grass, gravity settling on his countenance.

"I hadn't the slightest idea you disliked her," he said.

Molly eagerly advanced into the space between them.

"She is trying to gain some sort of influence over you, Theo, just the same as she got over that Jewish cobbler."

Theodore King gazed in amazement at the reddening, beautiful face. Surely he had not heard aright. Had she really made vile charges against the girl? To implicate Jinnie with a thought of conspiracy brought hot blood about his temples. He wouldn't stand that even from an old-time friend. Of course he liked Molly very much, yes, very much indeed, but this new antagonistic spirit in her——

"What's the matter with you, Molly?" he demanded abruptly. "You haven't any reason to speak of the child that way."

"The child!" sneered Molly. "Why, she's a little river rat—a bold, nasty——"

Theodore King raised his great shoulders, throwing back his closely cropped head. Then he sprang to refute the terrible aspersion against the girl he loved.

"Stop!" he commanded in a harsh voice, leaning over the panting woman. "And now I'll ask you how you dare?" he finished.

Molly answered him bravely, catching her breath in a sob.

"I dare because I'm a woman.... I dare because I know what she's doing. If she hadn't played her cards well, you'd never've paid any attention to her at all.... No one can make me believe you would have been interested in a—in a——"

The man literally whirled from the porch, bounded into the motor, turned the wheel, and shot rapidly away.



CHAPTER XXVI

MOLLY ASKS TO BE FORGIVEN

All the evening Molly waited in despair. She dared not appear at dinner and arose the next morning after a sleepless night. For two or three hours she hovered about the telephone, hoping for word from Theodore. He would certainly 'phone her. He would tell her he was sorry for the way he had left her, for the way he had spoken to her. Even his mother noticed her pale face and extreme nervousness.

"What is it, dear?" asked Mrs. King, solicitously.

"Nothing, nothing—much," answered Molly evasively.

Mrs. King hesitated before she ventured, "I thought I heard you and Theo talking excitedly last night. Molly, you musn't quarrel with him.... You know the wish of my heart.... I need you, child, and so does he."

Miss Merriweather knelt beside the gentle woman.

"He doesn't care for me, dear!" she whispered.

For an instant she was impelled to speak of Jinnie, but realizing what a tremendous influence Theodore had over his mother, she dared not. Like her handsome son, Mrs. King worshipped genius, and Molly reluctantly admitted to herself that the girl possessed it.

"He's young yet," sighed the mother, "and he's always so sweet to you, Molly. Some day he'll wake up.... There, there, dearie, don't cry!"

"I'm so unhappy," sobbed Molly.

Mrs. King smoothed the golden head tenderly.

"Why, child, he can't help but love you," she insisted. "He knows how much I depend on you.... I'd have had you with me long before if your father hadn't needed you.... Shall I speak to Theodore?"

"No, no——" gasped Molly, and she ran from the room.

Under the tall trees she paced for many minutes. How could she wait until dinner—until he came home? She felt her pride ebbing away as she watched the sun cross the sky. The minutes seemed hours long. Molly went swiftly into the house. First assuring herself no one was within hearing distance, she paused before the telephone, longing, yet scarcely daring to use it. Then she took off the receiver and called Theodore's number. His voice, deep, low and thrilling, answered her.

"It's I, Theo," she said faintly.... "Molly."

"Yes," he answered, but that was all.

He gave her no encouragement, no opening, but in desperation she uttered,

"Theodore, I'm sorry!... Oh, I'm so sorry!... Won't you forgive me?"

There was silence on the wire for an appreciable length of time.

"Theodore?" murmured Molly once more.

"Yes."

"I want you to forgive me.... I couldn't wait until you came home."

She heard a slight cough, then came the reply.

"I can't control your thoughts, Molly, but I dislike to have my friends illy spoken of."

"I know! I know it, Theodore! But please forgive me, won't you?"

"Very well," answered Theodore, and he clicked off the 'phone.