And she wanted the life of her cobbler, the man who had taken her, with such generosity, into his heart and meagre home. She slipped the fiddle from the case and stooped and whispered in Bobbie's ear: "Grab the back of my dress, dearie, and don't let go!" She moved into the aisle, making ready to start on her life mission. She lifted the bow, and with a long sweep, drew an intense minor note from the strings. A sea of faces swung in her direction. Jinnie forgot every one but the cobbler--she was playing for his life--improvising on the fiddle strings a wild, pleading, imploring melody. On and on she went, with Blind Bobbie, in trembling confusion, clinging to her skirts, and Happy Pete with sagging head at their heels. At the first sound of the fiddle Lafe tried to rise, and did rise. He stood for a moment on his shaking legs, and there, to the amazement of the gaping crowd of his townsfolk, he swayed to and fro, watching and listening as the wonderful music filled and thrilled through the room. A heavenly light shone on the wrinkled face. Jordan Morse got to his feet, chalk white. Molly the Merry was looking at Jinnie as if she saw a ghost. The onlookers saw Lafe's unsteady steps as he tottered toward the lovely girl and blind child. When he was within touching distance, she put the instrument and bow under one arm and took Lafe's hand in hers. Her voice rang out like the tone of a bell. "I've come for you, Lafe. I've come to take you back." Then Molly's eyes dropped from Jinnie to the boy, and a cry broke from her. Before her was the child for whom, in spite of the evidence of her smiling lips, she had truly mourned. The wan, blind face was turned upward, the golden hair lying in damp curls on the lovely head. Spontaneously the woman reached forward and took the little hand in hers. All the mother within her leaped up, like a brilliant flash of lightning. "My baby!" was all she said; and Bobbie, white, trembling and palpitating, cried in a weird, high voice: "I've found my mother!" Then Jordan Morse understood. The hot blood was tearing to his ear drums. The blind boy he had persecuted and tortured, the boy he had made suffer, was his own son. That wonderful quality in the man, the fatherhood within him, rose in surging insistence. Instant remorse attacked him, as an oak is attacked by fierce winter storms. He saw the boy's angelic face grow the color of death; saw Molly the Merry gather him up. Then a stab of jealousy cut his heart like a knife. He bent over with set jaws. "Give him to me," he cried. "He's mine!" Molly surrendered the child with reluctance, but terror and fright were depicted upon Bobbie's face. "Jinnie! Lafe! Peggy!" he screamed. "He'll hurt me! The black man's goin' to kill me! Jinnie, pretty Jinnie----"