wind, made an impression upon him he would never forget. Sometimes as her fingers sped on, her eyes were penetrating; sometimes they darkened almost to melancholy. When the last wailing note had finally died away, Jinnie dropped the instrument to her side.

“It’s lonely on nights like this when the ghosts howl about,” she observed. “They love the fiddle, ghosts do.”

Theodore King came back to himself at the girl’s words. He drew a long breath.

“Child,” he ejaculated, “whoever taught you to play like that?”

“Why, I taught myself,” answered Jinnie.

“Please play again,” entreated Mr. King, and once more he sat enthralled with the wonder of the girl’s melodies. The last few soulful notes Mr. King likened to a sudden prayer, sent out with a sobbing breath.

“It’s wonderful,” he murmured slowly. “What is the piece you’ve just played?”

“It hasn’t any name yet,” replied the girl. “You see I only know pieces that’re in my head.”

Then all the misery of the past few hours swept over her, and Jinnie began to cry. A burden of doubt had clouded the usually clear young mind. What if the man 48 to whom she was going would not let her and the cats live with him? He might turn them away.

48

Mr. King spoke softly to her.

“Don’t cry,” said he. “You won’t be lonely when you get to your uncle’s.”

But she met his smiling glance with a feeling of constraint. He did not know the cause of her tears; she could not tell him. If she only knew,—if she only had one little inkling of the reception she would receive at the painter’s home. However, she did cheer up a little when Mr. King, in evident desire to be of some service, began to tell her of the city to which she was going.

In a short time he saw the dark head nodding, and he drew Jinnie down against his arm, whispering:

“Sleep a while, child; I’ll wake you up at Bellaire.”

49

CHAPTER V

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