“How can I ever thank you for the kindness you show me? I do love daisies. You are a good boy, Boaz, and a dear friend to me.”
“Yes, you bet I’m your friend all right, Genie, an’ don’t you fergit it,” piped Boaz. “Course I’m jist a boy an’ can’t help you like Mr. Waffington did when he was here.” He looked into the fire for a long time, turned over his quid of tobacco, spat in the ashes and gave a jerk at his head as he continued: “He’s gone agin now, though. But ef I wuz a man, though, I’d show them rowdies, Fen Green an’ them, how to impose on you, Genie. Has Fen Green bin up here lately, Genie?”
“No, I think not, Boaz,” she replied, and went on breaking and stringing the beans.
“Well, he’s acomin’! I hear him atellin’ the boys down to the shop yisterday, thet he was agoin’ to put on his new celloi’ collar and his new striped shirt and fix up an’ come upon the mountain tomorrow an’ see his future wife—Miss Genie Filson. The dang——”
“Oh, Boaz! You mustn’t! I didn’t think that you would——”
“Well, I didn’t. I didn’t cuss, Genie. Not hardly, I didn’t. Don’t count it this time. But you ain’t afixin’ to marry Fen Green, air you, Genie?”
“Why, no, Boaz, I’m not fixing to marry anybody,” she simply said.
“O—o—o—oh!” he said. His clenched fists relaxed and he stood looking into the fire. Stooping to the floor, he picked up the few beans that had been carelessly dropped to the floor, threw them into the pail and said, “It’s gettin’ dark—I got to go. I’ll see you at Sunday-skule nex’ Sunday. Good-bye, Genie,” and he disappeared through the door and went down the mountainside like a flash. She ran to the door and looked after him. Then presently there came to her ears from away off down the mountainside the familiar tune:
“Ho-de-o-do, ho-de o de; ho de o do, ho diddle de de.” Her cheeks flushed crimson as she smiled, went in and shut the door.
Gena Filson sits by her own fire in a speculative mood tonight. Was she not happy, she thought. She was now her own mistress in a sense, free to do in most things—as she chose. The house and corn patches were hers; her savage old master, Jase, was now behind prison walls making reparation in some degree for the stripes that he had laid upon her. But since her recent illness; since the lifting of the yoke from her neck; since the new era in Blood Camp life, there appeared a pain in her young heart not without a cause. Fen Green wanted to marry Gena Filson, and she was aware of the fact. Oh, no; she could never marry Fen Green. She knew not the reason why, but then, that could never be. Then there was another friend, one who had so befriended her. But she had never thought of marrying him—of marrying anybody. Why, she thought, Paul Waffington had never even hinted that he cared for her in the slightest—and much less thought of marrying her. But whose name was it that was on her lips most during those long hours of delirium? To whom did she then appeal constantly for help? Who was it that she pulled down over the bed and begged a hundred times over that he would not let old Jase beat her again? Had no one ventured to tell her that it was Paul Waffington? But now, as she sits looking into the fire, she thinks that she can faintly recall the gentle touch of soft hands and a sweet reassuring voice bending over her, constantly telling her that no harm should come nigh her. And as she reflects upon it all tonight, she allows her heart to half wish that Paul Waffington loved her. But perish the thought, she reasoned. Had he not returned to his native country to be with those who honor and love him? Perhaps tonight he sits at the festal board smiling upon her whom he loves and who he boasts as his equal. One who has many graces, refinement, culture and sterling character. But no matter, thought Gena Filson, he had befriended her, and she resolved now to ever be grateful at least for his friendship.