“No, not to-night; don’t leave me yet. Sit down in the chair again; stay until I tell you.”
“All right,” murmured Virginia, walking away.
The father watched the fire a few minutes.
“I’ll give you a letter to Grandoken, Lafe Grandoken,” he said presently, looking up. “For your mother’s sake he’ll take you, and some day you can repay him. You see it’s this way: Your mother trusted your uncle more than she did me, or she’d never have given you into his care in case of my death. Well, he’s got me, and he’ll get you.” 25
With no thought of disobedience, Virginia slipped from the chair to her feet.
“He won’t get me if I run now, will he?” she questioned breathlessly; “not if I go to—what’d you say his name was?”
She was all excitement, ready to do whatever she was bidden. Slowly, as she stood there, the tremendous suspense left her.
“Why couldn’t we both go, you and me?” she entreated eagerly. “Let’s both go to-night. I’ll take care of you. I’ll see you don’t get wet.”
Her glance met and held his for a few seconds. The vibrant voice thrilled and stirred the father as if he had been dead and suddenly slipped back to life again. A brave smile, tenderly sweet, broke over Virginia’s lips.
“Come,” she said, holding out her hands. “Come, I’ll get my fiddle and we’ll go.”