What The Fiddle Told Theodore

Jinnie looked very sweet when she bade farewell to Peg and Lafe the next morning. Mr. King's car was at the door, and the cobbler watched him as he stepped from it with a monosyllabic greeting to the girl and helped her to the seat next to his. Peggy, too, was craning her neck for a better view.

"They're thick as thieves," she said, with a dubious shake of her head.

"I guess he likes 'er," chuckled Lafe. "To make a long story short, wife, a sight like that does my eyes good!"

Mrs. Grandoken shrugged her shoulders, growled deep in her throat, and opined they were all fools.

"An' quit doin' yourself proud, Lafe!" she grumbled. "You're grinnin' like a Cheshire cat. 'Tain't nothin' to your credit she's goin' to have the time of her life."

"No, 'tain't to my credit, Peggy," retorted the cobbler, "but 'tis to yours, wife."

By the time Lafe finished this statement, Mr. King and Jinnie Grandoken were bowling along a white road toward a hill bounding the west side of the lake.

"See that basket down here?" said the man after a long silence.

"Yes."

"That's our picnic dinner! I brought everything I thought a little girl with a sweet tooth might like."

Jinnie had forgotten about food. Her mind had dwelt only upon the fact she was going to be with him all day, one of those long, beautiful days taken from Heaven's cycle for dear friends. The country, too, stretched in majestic splendor miles ahead of them, trees rimming the road on each side and making a thick woodland as far as one could see.