THE SHEPHERD OF THE HILLS
resting quietly now inside the hickory shirt near his left arm pit. The big man's face went white beneath the tan, his eyes wavered and shifted, he hung his head and shuffled his feet uneasily, like an overgrown school-boy brought sharply to task by the master.
Then Jim, his hand still inside his shirt, drawled, softly, but with a queer metallic ring in his voice, "Do you reckon it's a goin' t' storm again?"
At the commonplace question, the bully drew a long breath and looked around. "We might have a spell o' weather," he muttered; "but I don't guess it'll be t'night."
Then Sammy returned and they had supper.
Next to his daughter, Jim Lane loved his violin, and with good reason, for the instrument had once belonged to his great-grandfather, who, tradition says, was a musician of no mean ability.
Preachin' Bill "’lowed there was a heap o' difference between a playin' a violin an' jest fiddlin'. You wouldn't know some fellers was a makin' music, if you didn't see 'em a pattin' their foot; but hit ain't that a way with Jim Lane. He sure do make music, real music." As no one ever questioned Bill's judgment, it is safe to conclude that Mr. Lane inherited something of his great-grandfather's ability; along with his treasured instrument.
When supper was over, and Wash Gibbs had gone
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