Whenever Molly Merriweather was mentioned to Theodore King, that young man felt a twinge in his conscience. His mother had taken him gently to task. Out of respect for Molly’s wishes she refrained from speaking of the girl’s affection for him, but cautioned him to be careful not to offend her companion.

“She’s very sensitive, you know, Theodore dear, and very good to me. I really don’t know what I’d do without her.”

“I was thoughtless!... I’ll do better, mother mine,” he smiled. “I’ll go to her now and tell her so.”

Theodore found Molly writing a letter in the library. He sank into an easy chair and yawned good-naturedly. The woman was still furious with him, so merely lifted her eyes at his entrance, and went on writing. Theodore was quiet for a few moments, then with a laugh went to the desk and took the pen forcibly from Molly’s hand.

“Come and make up,” he said.

“Have we anything to make up?” she asked languidly, keeping her eyes on the paper.

“Of course we have. You know very well, Molly, you’re angry with me.... Now mother says––”

She caught his bantering tone, and resenting it, drew her fingers away haughtily.

“You learn good manners from your mother, it seems.” 197

Her tone was insolent and angered him. Theodore returned quickly to his chair.

“No, I don’t,” he denied. “You know I don’t! But before you asked me to go with you Saturday, I told you I had an appointment––”

“Yes, and you told me who it was with, too,” Molly thrust back in his teeth.

“Exactly, because there’s no reason why I shouldn’t. I’ve taken an extreme interest in the little girl.... You offended me by talking against her.”

Molly’s temper was rising by the minute. She had armored herself with a statement, the truth of which she would force upon him.

“I’m not sure I said anything that wasn’t true,” she returned discourteously.

Theodore leaned back in his chair.

“Then you didn’t mean it when you said you were sorry?” he demanded shortly.

“I wanted you to go with me, that’s all.”

“And you took that way to make me. Was that it?”

Molly picked up her pen and made a few marks with it.

“I’m not interested in Miss Grandoken,” she replied.

“So I notice,” retorted Theodore, provokingly.

She turned around upon him with angry, sparkling eyes.

“I think you’ve a lot of nerve to bring her into your home.”

She hazarded this without thought of consequences.

“What do you mean?” he asked presently, searching her face with an analytical gaze.

Molly was wrought up to the point of invention, perhaps because she was madly jealous.

“Men generally keep that sort of a woman to themselves,” she explained. “A home is usually sacred to the ordinary man.” 198

Theodore was stung to silence. It was a bitter fling, and his thoughts worked rapidly. It took a long moment for his tall figure to get up from the chair.

“Just what do you mean?” he demanded, thrusting his hands into his pockets.

“I don’t believe I need tell you any more,” she answered.

Theodore stood in the middle of the room as if turned to stone.

“I’m dense, I guess,” he admitted huskily.

Angered beyond reason or self-control, Molly pushed the letter away impatiently and stood up.

“Well, if you’re so terribly dense, then listen. No man is ever interested in a girl like that unless she is something more to him than a mere––” She broke off, because a dark red flush was spreading in hot waves over the man’s face. But bravely she proceeded, “Of course you wouldn’t insult your family and your friends by marrying her. Then what conclusion do you want them to draw?”

Theodore looked at her as if she’d suddenly lost her senses. She had cast an aspersion upon the best little soul in God’s created world.

“Well, of all the villainous insinuations I ever heard!” he thundered harshly. “My God, woman! Haven’t you any soul ... any decency about you?”

The question leaped out of a throat tense with uncontrollable rage. It was couched in language never used to her before, and caused the woman to stagger back. She was about to demand an apology, when Theodore flung out of the room and banged the door behind him.

Molly sat down quickly. Humiliating, angry tears flowed down her cheeks and she made no effort to restrain them. What cared she that Theodore had repudiated her accusation? She felt she had discovered the truth, and nothing more need be said about it. 199

After growing a little calmer, she saw that she’d made another mistake by enraging Theodore. He had not taken her insults against the girl as she had expected.

Half an hour later she called his office and was informed he was out.

Theodore left Molly more angry than he’d ever been in his life. Instead of making him think less of Jinnie, Molly’s aspersions drew him more tenderly toward the girl. As he strode through the road under the trees, his heart burned to see her. He looked at his watch—it was four o’clock. Jinnie had had her lesson in the morning, so he could not call for her at the master’s. Just then he saw her walking quickly along the street, and she lifted shy, glad eyes as he spoke her name. By this time his temper had cooled, yet there lingered in his heart the stabbing hurt brought there by Molly’s slurs. He felt as if in some way he owed an apology to Jinnie; as if he must make up for harm done her by a vile, gossiping tongue.

He fell into step beside her and gently took the violin box from her hand.

“And how is my little friend to-day?” he asked.

His voice, unusually musical, made Jinnie spontaneously draw a little nearer him.

“I’m very well,” she returned, demurely, “and I’ve learned some very lovely things. I went up twice to-day—sometimes the master makes me come back in the afternoon.”

It eased his offended dignity to see her so happy, so vividly lovely. He had gone to Molly with the intention of asking her to go with him some day soon to Mottville. He thought of this now with a grim setting of his teeth; but looking at Jinnie, an idea more to his liking came in its place. He would take her somewhere for a day. She needed just such a day to make her color a little brighter, 200 although as he glanced at her again, he had to admit she was rosy enough. Nevertheless a great desire came over him to ask her; so when they had almost reached the cobbler’s shop, he said:

“How would a nice holiday suit you?”

Jinnie looked up into his face, startled.

“What do you mean by a holiday? Not to take lessons?”

Theodore caught her thought, and laughed.

“Oh, no, not that! But I was thinking if you would go with me into the country––”

“For a whole day?” gasped Jinnie, stopping point blank.

“Yes, for a whole day,” replied Theodore, smiling.

“Oh, I couldn’t go. I couldn’t.”

“Why?... Don’t you want to?”

Of course she wanted to go. Jinnie felt that if she knew she was going with him, she’d fly to the sky and back again.

“Yes,” she murmured. “I’d like to go, but I couldn’t—for lots of reasons!... Lafe wouldn’t let me for one, and then Bobbie needs me awfully.”

They started on, and Jinnie could see Lafe’s window, but not the cobbler himself.

“But I’d bring you back at dusk,” Theodore assured her, “and you’d be happy––”

“Happy! Happy!” she breathed, with melting eyes. “I’d be more’n happy, but I can’t go.”

Theodore raised his hat quickly and left her without another word.