“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 lassie’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.” 132
Lafe’s jaws dropped apart incredulously.
“Twenty-five dollars for playin’ your fiddle, child?”
Jinnie told all that had happened since leaving home.