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. 164

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. 165

“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: 166

“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. 167

“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––” 168

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 169 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.” 170

“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.