Father and Daughter

"Did you tell my daughter I wanted to see her?" questioned the man.

"No, sah, I didn't. When you got here she wasn't in. Then she slid to the garret afore I saw 'er. Now she's got to finish her fiddlin' afore I tell 'er you're here. I never bother Miss Jinnie when she's fiddlin', sah." The old woman bowed obsequiously, as if pleading pardon.

The man made a threatening gesture.

"Go immediately and send her to me," said he.

For perhaps twenty minutes he sat there, his ears straining to catch, through the whistling wind, the sounds of that wild, unearthly tune,--a tune different from any he had ever heard. Then at length it stopped, and he sank back into his chair.

He turned expectantly toward the door. Footsteps, bounding with life, with strength, were bearing down upon him. Suddenly a girl's face,--a rosy, lovely face,--with rapturous eyes, was turned up to his. At the sight of her stern father, the girl stopped, bringing her feet together at the heels, and bowed. Then they two,--Thomas Singleton the second and Virginia, his daughter,--looked at each other squarely.

"Ah, come in!" said the man. "I want to talk with you. I believe you're called Virginia."

"Yes, sir; Jinnie, for short, sir," answered the girl, with a slight inclination of her head.

Awkwardly, and with almost an embarrassed manner, she walked in front of the grate to the chair pointed out to her. The man glanced sharply at the strongly-knit young figure, vibrant with that vital thing called "life." He sighed and dropped back limply. There followed a lengthy silence, until at last Thomas Singleton shifted his feet and spoke slowly, with a grim setting of his teeth.