“Yes,” replied Morse.
“Then tell me what to write, and I will.”
After he had gone and Jinnie was once more alone, she sat at the window, her eyes roving over the landscape. Her gaze wandered in melancholy sadness to the shadowy summit of the distant hills, in which the wild things of nature lived in freedom, as she herself had lived with Lafe Grandoken in Paradise Road, long before her uncle’s menacing shadow had crossed her life. Then her eyes lowered 292 to the rock-rimmed gorge, majestic in its eternal solitude. She was on the brink of some terrible disaster. She knew enough of her uncle’s character to realize that. She spent the entire day without even looking at her beloved fiddle, and after the night closed in, she lay down, thoroughly exhausted.
Peggy took a letter from the postman’s hand mechanically, but when she saw the well-known writing, she trembled so she nearly dropped the missive from her fingers. She went into the shop, where Bobbie lay face downward on the floor. At her entrance, he lifted a white face.
“Has Jinnie come yet?” he asked faintly.
“No,” said Peg, studying the postmark of the letter. Then she opened it. A five-dollar bill fell into her lap, and she thrust it into her bosom with a sigh.
“Peggy Darling,” she read with misty eyes.
“I’ve had to go away for a little while. Don’t worry. Here’s some money. Use it and I’ll send more. Kiss Bobbie for me and tell him Jinnie’ll come back soon. And the baby, oh, Peggy, hug him until he can’t be hugged any more. Don’t tell Lafe I’m away.
“With all my love,
“Jinnie.”