“The story,” Miss LeMar said lightly, “doesn’t amount to much. As I’ve told you, it may never get as far as a preview.”
“I must know,” Jeanne murmured.
“Oh, it’s just one of those mountain things.” Miss LeMar’s tone was light. “The side of Big Black Mountain; that’s the place, I think.”
“Big Black Mountain!” Jensie, who had listened quietly until now, exclaimed. “That’s my home!” Her cheek turned crimson.
“And down there somewhere Lincoln was born!” said Jeanne. There was a touch of reverence in her tone.
All this was lost on Lorena LeMar. “It’s a love story, of course,” she went on. “Boy and girl standing on the side of a mountain. Springtime. Trees in bloom. Apple trees, I guess.”
“Dogwood,” Jensie corrected. She was leaning forward eagerly.
“Well, anyway, there’s the girl, about sixteen, and a boy about eighteen. Lovers. Boy’s going away. They’re saying good-bye. No clinches. Too bashful for that. Just a touch of the hand. Girl throws her apron over her eyes after he’s gone—that sort of thing.
“The girl—her name’s Zola Setser—hears some one singing. She listens. She looks. A donkey appears around the rough path. An Italian, with big brown eyes and all that, rides the donkey bareback. He is singing ‘O Sole Mio.’
“She listens and watches. A horse comes into view. A downcast sort of woman is riding the horse; two ragged children are hanging on behind.