Maudlin Bates had warned her not to enter his territory or to trespass upon his part of the marshland, and for that reason she had in the past but turned longing eyes to the hillside besprinkled with handsome homes.
But Lafe replied, when she told him this, “No section belongs to Maudlin alone, honey.... Just go where you like.”
She now entered a large open gate into which an automobile had just disappeared, and walked toward the house.
She paused to admire the exterior of the mansion. On the front, the porches were furnished with rocking chairs and hammocks, but no person was in sight. She walked around to the back, but as she was about to knock, a voice arrested her action.
“Do you want to see somebody?”
She turned hastily. There before her was her King, the man she had met on that memorable night more than two years before. He doffed his cap smiling, recognizing her immediately, and Jinnie flushed to the roots of her hair, while the shortwood strap slipped slowly from her shoulders.
“Ah, you have something to sell?” he interrogated.
Jinnie’s tongue clove to the roof of her mouth. She had never completely forgotten him, and his smile was a delightful memory. Now as he watched her quizzically, all her former admiration returned.
“Well, well,” laughed the man, “if this isn’t my little violin girl. It’s a long time since I saw you last.... Do you love your music as much as ever?”
Her first glance at him brought the flushing consciousness that she was but a shortwood gatherer; the strap and its burden placed a great barrier between them. But his question about the fiddle, her fiddle, placed her again on equal footing with him. She permitted herself to smile. 124