“I haven’t seen any papers for three days, Molly. What’s become of them all?”

Theodore and Molly were sitting in the waning sunshine, the many-colored autumn leaves drifting silently past them to form a varied carpet over the grass.

All fear had now left the woman. She had Jinnie’s promise not to see Theodore, and he had apparently forgotten there ever was such a girl in the world.

“I’d really like to see the papers,” repeated Theodore. “Dear me, how glad I am to be so well!”

“We’re all glad,” whispered Molly, with bright eyes.

She had kept the papers from him purposely, playfully pretending she would rather give him an account of the court proceedings. When she described how another man had confessed to the shooting, Theodore felt a glad thrill that the cobbler was exonerated. Later Molly decided she would tell him about Morse, but never that she had married him. It was she who suggested, after a time of silence:

“Theodore, don’t you think a little trip would do us all good? Your mother’s been so worried over you––”

“Where would we go?” he asked, without interest.

“Anywhere to get away from Bellaire for a season.”

“We might consider it,” he replied reluctantly. Then he fell to thinking of a blue-eyed girl, of the letter,—that 347 puzzling letter she had sent him. When he could bear his thoughts no longer, he got up and walked away under the trees, and Molly allowed him to go. She watched him strolling slowly, and was happy. He had been so sweet, so kindly, almost thrilling to her of late. She would make him love her. It would be but a matter of a few weeks if she could get him away from Bellaire. Just at that moment Mrs. King’s bell rang, and she went into the house. When she came back, Theodore was sitting on the veranda reading a letter, with another one unopened on his knee. The sight of his white face brought an exclamation from her lips.

“Theodore!” she cried.

He reminded her she was standing by saying:

“Sit down!”

This she was glad to do, for her knees trembled. Her eyes caught the handwriting on the unopened letter, resting like a white menace on Theodore’s lap. She saw her own name upon it, but dared not, nor had she the strength, to ask for it.

At length, with a long breath, Theodore looked at her steadily.

“This letter is for you,” he said, picking up her own. “Open it and then—give it to me.”

Never had she heard such tones in his voice, nor had she ever been so thoroughly frightened. Mechanically she took the letter, tore open the flap, and read the contents:

“Dear Miss Merriweather:

“After you left the shop, I decided to do as you wanted me to. I shall go back to Mottville, and afterwards Peggy and Lafe will come to me. I’ll keep my promise and won’t see Theodore. I hope you will make him happy.

Jinnie Grandoken.“

Molly crushed the paper between her fingers.

“Don’t do that,” commanded Theodore sharply. “Give it to me.”

“It’s mine,” murmured Molly, lacking breath to speak aloud.

“Give it to me!” thundered Theodore.

And because she dared not disobey, she slowly extended the letter.

With deliberation the man spread out the crumpled page and read it through slowly. Then once more he took up his own letter and perused it.

“Dear Mr. King:

“I’m going back to my home in the hills to-morrow. I’m so glad you’re better. I thank you for all you’ve done for Lafe and Peggy, and hope you’ll always be happy. For what you did for me I can’t thank you enough, but as soon as I get my money, I’ll send back all you’ve advanced for my lessons and other things. I’m praying all the time for you.

“Jinnie Grandoken Singleton.”

Sudden tears almost blotted the signature from Theodore’s vision.

On the spur of the moment he picked up both letters and thrust them into his pocket.

“Come upstairs with me,” he ordered the woman staring at him with frozen features.

Molly followed him as in a dream, preceding him when he stepped aside to allow her to enter the little sitting-room, where of late she had passed so many pleasant hours. Then as he closed the door, he whirled upon her.

“Now I want the meaning of those letters. Have you seen Miss Grandoken?” 349

“Yes!” She could say no more.

“When?”

“Yesterday.”

“There’s something I don’t know. Ah! That’s why you kept the papers from me.” Quickly he turned to the bell.

“Theodore!” gasped Molly. “Wait! Wait! Don’t—don’t ring! I’ll tell you; I will!”

He pressed the bell button savagely.

“I wouldn’t believe you under oath,” he muttered.

“I want all this week’s papers, and I want ’em quick!” he snapped at the servant. “Every one! Last night’s too!”

He walked to the window, but turned again as a knock came upon the door.

“I can’t find the papers, sir,” excused the maid.

“Wait!” Theodore closed the door, exclaiming in white heat, “Molly, where are those papers?”

“In my room,” replied Molly sulkily.

Mr. King gave the order, and again they were behind closed doors. Molly made a sorry picture of shame when Theodore looked at her.

“I’ll get to the bottom of this if it kills me,” he said wearily.

“Theo, Theo, don’t read the papers!” she gasped. Then she fell forward at his feet. “I love you, dear; I love you.”

“You’ve lost your mind, Molly,” he said harshly. “You’re mad, completely mad.”

“No, I’m not. Listen, Theodore, I’m here at your feet, miserable, unhappy; I want to be forgiven––”

“Then tell me what you did to Jinnie Grandoken.”

“I can’t! I can’t!”

When another knock sounded on the door, Theodore 350 opened it and took the papers through the smallest imaginable crack. Molly crawled to a chair and leaned her head upon the seat. Without a word, Theodore sat down and began to turn the pages of the papers nervously. As he read both accounts of Lafe’s trial, bitter ejaculations fell from his lips. The story of Bobbie’s dramatic death and Morse’s suicide brought forth a groan. When he placed the papers slowly beside him on the floor, Molly raised her face, white and torn with grief.

“Now you know it all, forgive me!”

“Never, while I live!” he cried. “What ungodly wretchedness you’ve made that child suffer! And you were married all the time to Morse, and the mother of that poor little boy!”

“Yes,” sobbed Molly.

Then a sudden thought took possession of him.

“You and Morse made Jinnie write me that first letter.”

Molly nodded.

“May God forgive you both!” he stammered, and whirled out of the room.

An hour later, with new strength and purpose, Theodore threw a few clothes into a suitcase, ordered the fastest motor in the garage, and was standing on the porch when Molly came swiftly to him.

“Theodore,” she said, with twitching face, “if you go away now, you won’t find me here when you get back.”

He glanced her over with curling lip.

“As you please,” he returned indifferently. “You’ve done enough damage as it is. If you’ve any heart, stay here with the only person in the world who has any faith in you.”

Vacantly the woman watched the motor glide away over the smooth white road, and then limply slid to the floor in a dead faint. 351

All the distance from Bellaire to Mottville Theodore was tortured with doubt. He brought to mind Jinnie’s girlish embarrassment when they had been together; the fluttering white lids as his kisses brought a blue flash from the speaking love-lit eyes. She had loved him then; did she now? Of course she must love him! She had brought to him the freshness of spring—the love of the mating birds among the blossoms—the passionate desire of a heaven-wrought soul for its own, to whom could be entrusted all that was his dearest and best. He would follow her and win her,—yea, win the woman God had made for him and him alone, and into his eyes leapt the expression of the conquering male, the force God had created within him to reach for the woman sublime and cherish her.

When the car entered Mottville, rain was falling and the wind was mourning ceaselessly.

By inquiry, Theodore found the road to the Singleton farm, and again, as he impatiently sank back in the motor, he mentally vowed, with the vow of a strong man, that the girl should listen to him. He never realized, until they were climbing the rain-soaked hill, how starved was the very soul of him.

The road was running with water, but they ploughed on, until through the trees the farmhouse loomed up darkly. Bennett stopped the car at the gate and Theodore jumped out. A light twinkling in the upper part of the house told him she was there. Harmonious echoes were sounding and resounding in his ears. They were notes from Jinnie’s fiddle, and for a moment, as they sobbed out through the attic window, he leaned back against the wet fence, feeling almost faint. The wild, sweet, unearthly melody surged over him with memories of the past. 352

Then he passed under the thrashing pines, mounted the broken steps, and entered the house.

It took but a minute to find the stairs by which to reach her, and there he stood in the gloom of the attic door, watching the swaying young figure and noting the whole pitiful dejection of her. In the single little light her eyes were as blue as the wing of a royal bird, and oh, what suffering she must have gone through! Then Jinnie ceased playing, and, as if drawn by a presence she knew not of, she turned her eyes slowly toward the door, and when she saw him, she fell, huddled with her violin on the garret floor, staring upward with frightened eyes.

“If you’re there,” she panted, “if—if—speak to me!”

He bounded forward and gathered her up, and the light of an adoring love shone full upon him.

“My sweet, my sweet, my beautiful, my little wonder-woman!” he breathed. “Did you think I could live without you?”

She was leaning, half fainting, against his breast, like a wind-blown flower.

“I’ve come for you,” he said hoarsely. “Dearest, sweetest Jinnie!”

She pressed backward, loyalty for another woman rising within her.

“But Molly, Molly the Merry––” she breathed.

Theodore shook his head.

“I only know I love you, sweetheart, that I’ve come for you,” and as his lips met hers, Jinnie clung to him, a very sweet young thing, and between those warm, passionate kisses she heard him murmur:

“God made you mine, littlest love!”

And so they went forth from the lonely farmhouse, with none but the cobbler’s angels watching over them.

THE END