“I ain’t hungry like I was when I come in from the ferry. Won’t you set down and take supper with me?” invited the young man sincerely.
The mere suggestion sent Jeanne Sattory to the door. Their hands mingled upon the latch, and she slid hers away, loath to part from a touch which she yet eluded.
De Zhirley made the door pause while he looked down at her and said, with a shaking voice:—
“If it hadn’t been for you—there ain’t no tellin’.”
Jeanne had no reply to this acknowledgment of sympathy, but drew her shawl together under her chin. Chin and mouth corners were tempting even to a one-eyed man, but he continued with gentle courtesy:
“Spite of my fiddle’s gettin’ broke, I b’lieve this is the best day this cabin ever seen.”
“What makes you say that?”
“’Cause it’s the first time you ever come to the house.”
“I’m obleeged for your politeness,” trembled Jeanne, turning scarlet; and she lifted a laughing dark glance. “If you’ll be a little politer and let me out, I won’t come no more.”
“Then I’ll go where you are,” declared the Calhoun fiddler. “I’ll foller you from this time on.”