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 la.s.sie'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, la.s.sie. 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 ap.r.o.n 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 la.s.s."

"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 e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n.

"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?"