Molly dropped her face into her hands.

"He hung the receiver up in my ear," she muttered. "How cruel, how terrible of him!"

It was a wan, beautiful face that turned up to Theodore King when he came home to dinner. Too kindly by nature to hurt any one, he smiled at Molly. Then he stopped and held out his hand. The woman took it, saying earnestly:

"I'm sorry, Theo.... I'm very sorry. I think I'm a little cat, don't you?" and she laughed, the tension lifted from her by his cordiality.

There was a wholesomeness in her manner that made Theodore's heart glad.

"Of course not, Molly!... You couldn't be that!... And next week we will have a lovely day in the country."

Molly turned away sadly. She had hoped he would do as she wanted him to in spite of his appointment with Jinnie Grandoken.

That evening Jinnie wore a beautiful new dress when she started for the Kings. Of course she didn't know that Theodore had arranged with Peggy to purchase it, and when Mrs. Grandoken had told her to come along and buy the gown, Jinnie's eyes sparkled, but she shook her head.

"I'd rather you'd spend the money on Lafe and Bobbie," she said.

But Peggy replied, "No," and that's how it came that Jinnie stepped quite proudly from the motor car at the stone steps.

Molly Merriweather met her with a forced smile, and Jinnie felt strained until Theodore King's genial greeting dissipated the affront. After the dinner, through which she sat very much embarrassed, she played until, to the man watching her, it seemed as if the very roof would lift from the house and sail off into the Heavens.

When Jinnie was ready to go home, standing blushing under the bright light, she had never looked more lovely. Molly hoped Theo would send the girl alone in the car with Bennett, but as she saw him put on his hat, she said, with hesitancy:

"Mayn't I go along?"

She asked the question of Theodore, and realized instantly that he did not want her.

Jinnie came forward impetuously.

"Oh, do come, Miss Merriweather! It'll be so nice."

And Molly hated the girl more cordially than ever.

On arriving home Jinnie beamed out her happiness to the cobbler and his wife.

"And the fiddle, Peggy, they loved the fiddle," she told the woman.

"Did you make it, Jinnie?" asked Peggy gruffly.

"What, the fiddle?" demanded Jinnie.

Peggy nodded.

"No," faltered Jinnie in surprise.

"Then don't brag about it," warned Peggy. "If you'd a glued them boards together, it'd a been something, but as long as you didn't, it ain't no credit to you."

Lafe laughed, and Jinnie, too, uttered a low, rueful sound. How funny Peg was! And when Mrs. Grandoken had gone to prepare for the night, Lafe insisted that Jinnie tell him over and over all the happenings of the evening. For a long time afterwards she sat dreaming, reminiscing in sweet fancy every word and smile Theodore had given her.



CHAPTER XXVII

"HAVEN'T YOU ANY SOUL?"

Whenever Molly Merriweather was mentioned to Theodore King, that young man felt a twinge in his conscience. His mother had taken him gently to task. Out of respect for Molly's wishes she refrained from speaking of the girl's affection for him, but cautioned him to be careful not to offend her companion.

"She's very sensitive, you know, Theodore dear, and very good to me. I really don't know what I'd do without her."

"I was thoughtless!... I'll do better, mother mine," he smiled. "I'll go to her now and tell her so."

Theodore found Molly writing a letter in the library. He sank into an easy chair and yawned good-naturedly. The woman was still furious with him, so merely lifted her eyes at his entrance, and went on writing. Theodore was quiet for a few moments, then with a laugh went to the desk and took the pen forcibly from Molly's hand.

"Come and make up," he said.

"Have we anything to make up?" she asked languidly, keeping her eyes on the paper.

"Of course we have. You know very well, Molly, you're angry with me.... Now mother says——"

She caught his bantering tone, and resenting it, drew her fingers away haughtily.

"You learn good manners from your mother, it seems."

Her tone was insolent and angered him. Theodore returned quickly to his chair.

"No, I don't," he denied. "You know I don't! But before you asked me to go with you Saturday, I told you I had an appointment——"

"Yes, and you told me who it was with, too," Molly thrust back in his teeth.

"Exactly, because there's no reason why I shouldn't. I've taken an extreme interest in the little girl.... You offended me by talking against her."

Molly's temper was rising by the minute. She had armored herself with a statement, the truth of which she would force upon him.

"I'm not sure I said anything that wasn't true," she returned discourteously.

Theodore leaned back in his chair.

"Then you didn't mean it when you said you were sorry?" he demanded shortly.

"I wanted you to go with me, that's all."

"And you took that way to make me. Was that it?"

Molly picked up her pen and made a few marks with it.

"I'm not interested in Miss Grandoken," she replied.

"So I notice," retorted Theodore, provokingly.

She turned around upon him with angry, sparkling eyes.

"I think you've a lot of nerve to bring her into your home."

She hazarded this without thought of consequences.

"What do you mean?" he asked presently, searching her face with an analytical gaze.

Molly was wrought up to the point of invention, perhaps because she was madly jealous.

"Men generally keep that sort of a woman to themselves," she explained. "A home is usually sacred to the ordinary man."

Theodore was stung to silence. It was a bitter fling, and his thoughts worked rapidly. It took a long moment for his tall figure to get up from the chair.

"Just what do you mean?" he demanded, thrusting his hands into his pockets.

"I don't believe I need tell you any more," she answered.

Theodore stood in the middle of the room as if turned to stone.

"I'm dense, I guess," he admitted huskily.

Angered beyond reason or self-control, Molly pushed the letter away impatiently and stood up.

"Well, if you're so terribly dense, then listen. No man is ever interested in a girl like that unless she is something more to him than a mere——" She broke off, because a dark red flush was spreading in hot waves over the man's face. But bravely she proceeded, "Of course you wouldn't insult your family and your friends by marrying her. Then what conclusion do you want them to draw?"

Theodore looked at her as if she'd suddenly lost her senses. She had cast an aspersion upon the best little soul in God's created world.

"Well, of all the villainous insinuations I ever heard!" he thundered harshly. "My God, woman! Haven't you any soul ... any decency about you?"

The question leaped out of a throat tense with uncontrollable rage. It was couched in language never used to her before, and caused the woman to stagger back. She was about to demand an apology, when Theodore flung out of the room and banged the door behind him.

Molly sat down quickly. Humiliating, angry tears flowed down her cheeks and she made no effort to restrain them. What cared she that Theodore had repudiated her accusation? She felt she had discovered the truth, and nothing more need be said about it.

After growing a little calmer, she saw that she'd made another mistake by enraging Theodore. He had not taken her insults against the girl as she had expected.

Half an hour later she called his office and was informed he was out.

Theodore left Molly more angry than he'd ever been in his life. Instead of making him think less of Jinnie, Molly's aspersions drew him more tenderly toward the girl. As he strode through the road under the trees, his heart burned to see her. He looked at his watch—it was four o'clock. Jinnie had had her lesson in the morning, so he could not call for her at the master's. Just then he saw her walking quickly along the street, and she lifted shy, glad eyes as he spoke her name. By this time his temper had cooled, yet there lingered in his heart the stabbing hurt brought there by Molly's slurs. He felt as if in some way he owed an apology to Jinnie; as if he must make up for harm done her by a vile, gossiping tongue.

He fell into step beside her and gently took the violin box from her hand.

"And how is my little friend to-day?" he asked.

His voice, unusually musical, made Jinnie spontaneously draw a little nearer him.

"I'm very well," she returned, demurely, "and I've learned some very lovely things. I went up twice to-day—sometimes the master makes me come back in the afternoon."

It eased his offended dignity to see her so happy, so vividly lovely. He had gone to Molly with the intention of asking her to go with him some day soon to Mottville. He thought of this now with a grim setting of his teeth; but looking at Jinnie, an idea more to his liking came in its place. He would take her somewhere for a day. She needed just such a day to make her color a little brighter, although as he glanced at her again, he had to admit she was rosy enough. Nevertheless a great desire came over him to ask her; so when they had almost reached the cobbler's shop, he said:

"How would a nice holiday suit you?"

Jinnie looked up into his face, startled.

"What do you mean by a holiday? Not to take lessons?"

Theodore caught her thought, and laughed.

"Oh, no, not that! But I was thinking if you would go with me into the country——"

"For a whole day?" gasped Jinnie, stopping point blank.

"Yes, for a whole day," replied Theodore, smiling.

"Oh, I couldn't go. I couldn't."

"Why?... Don't you want to?"

Of course she wanted to go. Jinnie felt that if she knew she was going with him, she'd fly to the sky and back again.

"Yes," she murmured. "I'd like to go, but I couldn't—for lots of reasons!... Lafe wouldn't let me for one, and then Bobbie needs me awfully."

They started on, and Jinnie could see Lafe's window, but not the cobbler himself.

"But I'd bring you back at dusk," Theodore assured her, "and you'd be happy——"

"Happy! Happy!" she breathed, with melting eyes. "I'd be more'n happy, but I can't go."

Theodore raised his hat quickly and left her without another word.



CHAPTER XXVIII

JINNIE DECIDES AGAINST THEODORE

Now for a few days Theodore King had had in mind a plan which, as he contemplated it, gave him great delight. He had decided to send Jinnie Grandoken away to school, to a school where she would learn the many things he considered necessary.

So one morning at Jinnie's lesson hour he appeared at the cobbler's shop and was received by Lafe with his usual grave smile.

"Jinnie's at the master's," said Mr. Grandoken, excusing the girl's absence.

"Yes, I know. The fact is, I wanted to talk with you and Mrs. Grandoken."

Lafe looked at him critically.

"Bobsie," said he to the blind boy, "call Peggy, will you?"

When the woman and child came in hand in hand, Peggy bowed awkwardly to Mr. King. Somehow, when this young man appeared with his aristocratic manner and his genial, friendly advances, she was always embarrassed.

Theodore cleared his throat.

"For some time," he began, "I've had in mind a little plan for Miss Jinnie, and I do hope you'll concur with me in it."

He glanced from the cobbler to his wife, and Lafe replied,

"You've been too kind already, Mr. King——"

"It isn't a question of kindness, my dear Mr. Grandoken. As I've told you before, I'm very much interested in your niece."

Bobbie slipped from Mrs. Grandoken and went close to the speaker.

"She's my Jinnie," breathed the boy with a saintly smile.

Theodore laughed.

"Yes, I know that, my lad, but you want her to be happy, don't you?"

"She is happy," interjected Lafe, trembling.

"You might tell us your plan," broke in Peg sourly, who always desired to get the worst over quickly.

"Well, it is to send her away to school for a few years."

Bobbie gave a little cry and staggered to Peg, holding out his hands. She picked him up, with bitterness depicted in her face. But when she looked at her husband she was shocked, for he was leaning against the wall, breathing deeply.

"I knew the thought of letting her go would affect you, Mr. Grandoken," soothed Theodore. "That's why I came alone. Jinnie's so tender-hearted I feared the sight of your first grief might cause her to refuse."

"Does she know you was goin' to ask us this?" demanded Peg suspiciously.

Mr. King shook his head.

"Of course not! If she had, she and I would have asked it together."

"God bless 'er!" murmured Lafe. "You see it's like this, sir: Peg and me don't want to stand in her light."

"I won't let my Jinnie go," sighed Bobbie. "I haven't any stars when she's gone."

"The poor child's devoted to her," excused Lafe. "That's what makes him act so about it."

Theodore's sympathy forced him to his feet.

"So I see," said he. "Come here, young man! I want to talk to you a minute."

Reluctantly Bobbie left Mrs. Grandoken, and Theodore, sitting again, took him on his knee.

"Now, Bobbie, look at me."

Bobbie turned up a wry, tearful face.

"I've got my eyes on you, sir," he wriggled.

"That's right! Don't you want your Jinnie to learn a lot of things and be a fine young lady?"

"She is a fine young lady now," mumbled Bobbie stubbornly, "and she's awful pretty."

"True," acquiesced Theodore, much amused, "but she must study a lot more."

"Lafe could learn her things," argued Bobbie, sitting up very straight. "Lafe knows everything."

Mr. King smiled and glanced at the cobbler, but Lafe's face was so drawn and white that Theodore looked away again. He couldn't make it seem right that he should bring about such sorrow as this, yet the thought of Jinnie and what he wanted her to be proved a greater argument with him than the grief of her family.

"I've told you, sir," Lafe repeated, "and I say again, my wife and me don't want to stand in our girl's light. She'll decide when she comes home."

Theodore got up, placing Bobbie on his feet beside him.

"I hope she'll think favorably of my idea, then," said he, "and to-morrow I'll see her and make some final arrangements."

After he had gone, Peggy and Lafe sat for a long time without a word.

"Go to the kitchen, Bobbie," said Mrs. Grandoken presently, "and give Happy Pete a bit of meat."

The boy paused in his stumbling way to the kitchen.

"I don't want my Jinnie to go away," he mumbled.

When the door closed on the blind child, Peggy shook her shoulders disdainfully.

"She'll go, of course," she sneered.

"An' we can't blame 'er if she does, Peg," answered Lafe sadly. "She's young yet, an' such a chance ain't comin' every day."

The woman got heavily to her feet.

"I hate 'er, but the house's dead when she ain't in it," and she went rapidly into the other room.

Jinnie came into the shop wearily, but one look at the cobbler brought her to a standstill. She didn't wait to take off her hat before going directly to him.

"Lafe—Lafe dear, you're sick. Why, honey dear——"

"I ain't very well, Jinnie darlin'. Would you mind askin' Peggy to come in a minute?"

Mrs. Grandoken looked up as the girl came in.

"Lafe wants you, Peg. He's sick, isn't he? What happened to him, Peggy?"

Bobbie uttered a whining cry.

"Jinnie," he called, "Jinnie, come here!"

Peg pushed the girl back into the little hall.

"You shut up, Bobbie," she ordered, "and sit there! Jinnie'll come back in a minute."

Then the speaker shoved the girl ahead of her into the shop and stood with her arms folded, austerely silent.

"I want to know what's the matter," insisted Jinnie.

"You tell 'er, Peg. I just couldn't," whispered Lafe.

Mrs. Grandoken drew a deep breath and ground her teeth.

"You've got to go away, kid," she began tersely, dropping into a chair.

Jinnie blanched in fright.

"My uncle!" she exclaimed, growing weak-kneed.

"No such thing," snapped Peg. "You're goin' to a fine school an' learn how to be a elegant young lady."

"Who said so?" flashed Jinnie.

"Mr. King," cut in Lafe.

Then Jinnie understood, and she laughed hysterically. For one blessed single moment her woman's heart told her that Theodore would not be so eager for her welfare if he didn't love her.

"Was that what made your tears, Lafe?"

Her eyes glistened as she uttered the question.

Lafe nodded.

"And what made Bobbie cry so loud?"

"Yes."

"Was Mr. King here?"

"Sure," said Peg.

"And he said I was to go away to school, eh?"

"Yes," repeated Peg, "an' of course you'll go."

Jinnie went forward and placed a slender hand on Lafe's shoulder. Then she faced Mrs. Grandoken.

"Didn't you both know me well enough to tell him I wouldn't go for anything in the world?"

If a bomb had been placed under Mrs. Grandoken's chair, she wouldn't have jumped up any more quickly, and she flung out of the door before Jinnie could stop her. Then the girl wound her arms about the cobbler's neck.

"I wouldn't leave you, dear, not for any school on earth," she whispered. "Now I'm going to tell Mr. King so."

Jinnie sped along Paradise Road and into the nearest drug store. It took her a few minutes to find Theodore's number, and when she took off the receiver, she had not the remotest idea how to word her refusal. She only remembered Lafe's sad face and Bobbie's sharp, agonizing calling of her name.

"I want to speak to Mr. King," she said in answer to a strange voice at the other end of the wire.

Her voice was so low that a sharp reply came back.

"Who'd you want?"

"Theodore King."

She waited a minute and then another voice, a voice she knew and loved, said,

"This is Mr. King!"

"I'm Jinnie Grandoken," Theodore heard. "I wanted to tell you I wouldn't go away from home ever; no, never! I wouldn't; I couldn't!"

"Don't you want to study?" Mr. King asked eagerly.

Jinnie shook her head as if she were face to face with him.

"I'm studying all the time," she said brokenly, "and I can't go away now. If they couldn't spare me one day, they couldn't all the time."

"Then I suppose that settles it," was the reluctant reply. "I hoped you'd be pleased, but never mind! I'll see you very soon."

"I told him!" said Jinnie, facing the cobbler. "Now, Lafe, don't ever think I'm going away, because I'm not. I've got some plans of my own for us all when I'm eighteen. Till then I stay right here."

At dinner Peg cut off a very large piece of meat and flung it on Jinnie's plate.

"I suppose you're plumin' yourself because you didn't go to school; but you needn't, 'cause nothin' could drag you from this shop, an' there's my word for it." Then she glanced at Lafe, and ended, "If 'er leg was nailed to your bench, she wouldn't be any tighter here. Now eat, all of you, an' keep your mouths shut."



CHAPTER XXIX

PEG'S VISIT

One morning Bobbie sat down gravely some distance from Lafe, took up one of Milly Ann's kittens, and fell into troubled thought. After permitting him to be silent a few moments, the cobbler remarked,

"Anything on your mind, comrade?"

"Yes," said Bobbie, sighing.

"Can't you tell a feller what it is?"

Bobbie pushed the kitten from his lap. He crept to the cobbler's side slowly. Then, as he leaned his golden head against his friend, Lafe's arm fell about him.

"Tell me, laddie," insisted Mr. Grandoken.

"My stars're all gone out," faltered the boy sadly.

"What made 'em go out, Bob?... Can you tell?"

"Yes," blubbered Bobbie. "I guess Jinnie's sick, that's what's the matter."

"Sick?" asked Lafe, in a startled voice. "Who said so?... Did she?"

Bobbie shook his head.

"No, but I know!... She cried last night, and other nights too."

Lafe considered a moment.

"I'm glad you told me, Bob," he said, knocking the ashes from his pipe.

Jinnie left the master's home with lagging footsteps. The idea of going away to school had not appealed to her, but never in all her life had she been so tempted to do anything as to go with Theodore for one blessed day in the country—but a whole day from home could not be thought of.

The cobbler saw her crossing the tracks, and after the daily salute, she came on with bent head. He watched her closely during the evening meal and gave Bobbie credit for discovering the truth. After Peg had wheeled him back to the shop and he was alone with Jinnie, Lafe called her to him.

"Bring the stool," said he, "an' sit here."

Languidly she sank down, resting against him. She was very tired besides being very unhappy. Lafe placed two fingers under her chin, lifting her face to his. Her eyes were full of tears, and she no longer tried to conceal her suffering. The cobbler remained quiet while she cried softly. At last:

"It's Maudlin Bates, ain't it, darlin'?" he asked.

"No, Lafe."

"Can't you tell your friend what 'tis?"

"I guess I'm crying because I'm foolish, dear," she replied.

"No, that's not true, Jinnie. I feel as bad seeing you cry's if 'twas Peggy."

This was a compliment, and Jinnie tried to sit up bravely, but a friendly hand held her close.

"Just begin, an' the rest'll come easy," Lafe insisted.

Jinnie's tongue refused to talk, and of a sudden she grew ashamed and dropped her scarlet face.

"I don't believe I can tell it, Lafe dear," she got out.

"Something about a man?"

Jinnie nodded.

"Then I got to know! Tell me!" he directed.

His insistence drew forth a tearful confession.

"Before Mr. King spoke about the school, he asked me to go a day in the country with my fiddle, and I couldn't."

After the telling, she caught her breath and hid her face.

"Why?" Lafe demanded. "Why couldn't you?"

Jinnie raised startled eyes to the cobbler's for the better part of a minute. What did he mean? Was it possible——

"I thought you wouldn't let me——"

"You didn't ask me, did you, Jinnie?"

"No, because—because——"

"Because why?" Lafe intended to get at the root of the matter.

"Too long from the shop! Bobbie needs me," replied Jinnie.

"I don't think so, child.... The kid'd be all right with me and Peg."

"Lafe?" cried Jinnie, standing up and throwing her arms around him.

"You ought to a told me when he spoke of it, Jinnie. I could a fixed it."

The cobbler smiled, and then laughed.

Once more on the stool in front of him, Jinnie said:

"I'm afraid Mr. King was a little offended."

"It would a done you a lot of good to get out in the fields——" chided Lafe.

"And the woods, Lafe. I'd taken my fiddle. He asked me to."

"Sure," replied Lafe.... "Call Peggy."

Mrs. Grandoken, looking from one to the other, noticed Lafe's gravity and signs of Jinnie's tears.

"What's the matter?" she inquired.

Lafe told her quietly, and finished with his hand on Jinnie's head.

"Our little helper ought to have some fun, Peggy."

Jinnie glanced up. What would Peggy think? But for a few minutes Peg didn't tell them. Then she said:

"She ought a went, I think, Lafe."

Jinnie got up so quickly that Happy Pete and Milly Ann stirred in their sleep.

"Oh, Peg, I do want to—but how can I, now I've said I wouldn't?... How can I?"

"You can't," decided Peg gruffly, and Jinnie dropped down once more at Lafe's feet.

"I guess you'll have to forget about it, child, an' be 'Happy in Spite'," said Lafe, with a sigh.

The next day Peggy took Lafe into her confidence.

"I think it could be did," she ended, looking at her husband.

"Mebbe," said Mr. Grandoken thoughtfully.

"I'll do it," snapped Peg, "but I hate 'er, an' you can bang me if that ain't a fact, but—but I'll go, I said."

About ten o'clock Peggy dressed and went out.

Theodore King was in his office, trying to keep his mind on a line of figures. Of late work palled on him. He sighed and leaned back thoughtfully, striking and touching a match to his cigar. Memories of blue-eyed Jinnie enveloped him in a mental maze. She stood radiant and beckoning, her exquisite face smiling into his at every turn.

He realized now how much he desired Jinnie Grandoken—and were she with him at that moment, life could offer him nothing half so sweet.

"I want her always," he said grimly, aloud to himself.

A boy's head appeared at the door.

"Woman to see you, sir," said he.

"Who?"

"Mrs. Grandoken."

"Show her in," and Theodore stood up.

Peggy came in embarrassedly. She had a mission to perform which she very much disliked.

"Good morning, Mrs. Grandoken," said Theodore, holding out his hand.

"Good morning, sir," said Peg, flushing darkly.

Her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth. How could she state her errand to this dignified, handsome young man? He was looking at her questioningly; but that wasn't all—he was smiling encouragingly also.

"Won't you sit down?" said he.

Peggy coughed, smoothed her mouth with her hand, pulled the thin shawl more closely about her shoulders, and took the indicated seat. Taking no time to reflect on the best way to present her case, she blurted out,

"Lafe didn't know till last night about your askin' Jinnie to go for a holiday?"

"Oh!"

The man was at a loss to say more than that one word in question.

"No," replied Peggy, "and she's been cryin'——"

"Crying?" ejaculated Theodore. "Crying, you say?"

"Yes," nodded Peggy.

"What'd she cry for?" asked Theodore. "She positively refused to go with me."

"I know it, but she thought me an' Lafe wouldn't let 'er."

Theodore moved uneasily about the office.

"And would you?" he asked presently.

"Sure," responded Peggy, nodding vigorously. "Sure! Jinnie's been workin' awful hard for years, an' Lafe'd like you to take 'er. But you musn't tell 'er I come here."

Saying this, Peggy rose to her feet. She had finished what she had come to say and was ready to go. Theodore King laughingly thanked her and shook her heartily by the hand. Then he escorted her to the door, and she returned to Lafe a little less grim.

It was nearly noon when Jinnie left the master's music room, carrying her fiddle box. Her teacher noticed she played with less spirit than usual, but had refrained from mentioning it.

She was coming down the steps when King's car dashed up to the door. Her meetings with him were always unexpected and found her quite unprepared for the shock to her emotions.

"I've come to take you home, Jinnie," said Theodore, jumping out.

Jinnie's throat filled, and silently she allowed him to help her to the seat. They were in the flat of the town before he turned to her.

"I haven't given up my plan to take you away for a day," he said gently.

Jinnie gulped with joy. He was going to ask her again! Lafe and Peg had said she could go. She waited for him to proceed, which he did more gravely.

"When I make up my mind to do a thing, I generally do it. Now which day shall it be, Jinnie?"

"I guess I'll have to let you tell," whispered Jinnie, which whisper Theo caught despite the noise of the chugging motor.

"Then, to-morrow," he decided, driving up to the cobbler's shop. "I'll come for you at nine o'clock.... Look at me, Jinnie."

Slowly she dragged a pair of unfathomable blue eyes to his.

"We're going to be happy for one whole beautiful day, Jinnie," said he hoarsely.

He helped her out, and neither one spoke again. The motor started away, and the girl rushed into the shop.

Lafe had just said to Peggy, "There they be! He's been after 'er!"

"Lafe, Lafe dear," Jinnie gurgled. "I'm going with 'im to-morrow. All day with the birds and flowers! Oh, Peggy dear, I'm so happy!"

Mrs. Grandoken glared at her.

"Ugh! 'S if it matters to me whether you're happy or not!"

Jinnie stooped and smothered Bobbie with caresses. With his arms tightly about her neck, he purred contentedly,

"My stars're all shinin' bright, Jinnie."

"Kiss me, both of you kids!" was all Lafe said.



CHAPTER XXX

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.

"I'm glad I brought my fiddle," Jinnie remarked presently.

"I am, too," said Theodore.

The place he chose for their outing was far back from the highway, and leaving the car at one side of the road, they threaded their way together to it. The sky above was very blue, the lake quietly reflecting its sapphire shades. Off in the distance the high hills gazed down upon the smaller ones, guarding them in quietude.

Theodore spread one of the auto robes on the ground, and shyly Jinnie accepted his invitation to be seated.

"Oh, it's lovely," she said in soft monotone, glancing at the lake.

"Yes," replied Theodore dreamily.

His eyes were upon the placid water, his thoughts upon the girl at his side. Jinnie was thinking of him, too, and there they both sat, with passionate longing in their young hearts, watching nature's great life go silently by.

"Play for me," Theodore said at length, without taking his eyes from the water. "Stand by that big tree so I can look at you."

Flushed, palpitating, and beautiful, Jinnie took the position he directed. She had come to play for him, to mimic the natural world for his pleasure.

"Shall I play about the fairies?" she asked bashfully.

"Yes," assented King.

As on that night in his home when first she came into his life in full sway, the man now imagined he saw creeping from under the flower petals and from behind the tall trees, the tiny inhabitants of Jinnie's fairyland. Then he turned his eyes toward her, and as he watched the lithe young figure, the pensive face lost and rapt in the lullaby, Theodore came to the greatest decision of his life. He couldn't live without Jinnie Grandoken! No matter if she was the niece of a cobbler, no matter who her antecedents were—she was born into the world for him, and all that was delicate and womanly in her called out to the manhood in him; and all that was strong, masterful, and aggressive in him clamored to protect and shield her, and in that fleeting moment the brilliant young bachelor suddenly lost his hold on bachelordom, as a boy loses his hold on a kite. There are times in every human life when such a decision as Theodore then made seemed the beginning of everything. It was as if the past had wrapped him around like the grey shell of a cocoon.

A loose lock of hair fell coquettishly from the girl's dark head low upon the fiddle, and Theodore loved and wanted to kiss it, and when the instrument dropped from under the dimpled chin, he held out his hand.

"Come here, Jinnie," he said softly. "Come sit beside me."

She came directly, as she always did when he asked anything of her. He drew her down close to his side, and for a long time they remained quiet. Jinnie was facing the acme of joy. The day had only begun, and she was with the object of her dreams. Just as when she had lived in the hills the fiddle had held the center of her soul, so now Theodore King occupied that sacred place. The morning light rose in her eyes, the blue fire transforming her face.



Theodore turned, saw, and realized at that moment. He discovered in her what he had long desired. She loved him! All the old longing, all the strength and passion within him broke loose at the nearness of her. Suddenly he stretched out his arms and drew her still nearer. Jinnie felt every muscle of his strongly fibered body grow tense at her touch. She tried to draw away from his encircling arms, but the rise and fall of her bosom, girlishly curved—the small-girl shyness that caused her to endeavor to unloose his strong hands, only goaded him to press her closer.

"Don't leave me, my dearest, my sweet," he breathed, kissing her lids and hair. "I love you! I love you!"

She gasped once, twice, and her head fell upon his breast, and for a moment she lay wrapped in her youthful modesty as in a mantle.

"Kiss me, Jinnie," Theodore murmured entreatingly.

She buried her head closer against him.

"Kiss me," he insisted, drawing her face upward. His lips fell upon hers, and Jinnie's eyes closed under the magic of her first kiss.

The master-passion of the man brought to sudden life corresponding emotions in the girl—emotions that hurt and frightened her. She put her hand to his face, and touched it. He drew back, looking into her eyes.

"Don't," she breathed. "Don't kiss me any more like—like that."

"But you love me, my girlie, sweet?" he murmured, his lips roving over her face in dear freedom. "You do!... You do!"

Jinnie's arms went about him, but her tongue refused to speak.

"Kiss me again!" Theodore insisted.

Oh, how she wanted to kiss him once more! How she gloried in the strong arms, and the handsome face strung tense with his love for her! Then their lips met in the wonders of a second kiss. Jinnie had thought the first one could never be equaled, but as she lay limply in his arms, his lips upon hers, she lost count of everything.

It might have been the weird effect of the shadows, or the deep, sudden silence about them that drew the girl slowly from his arms.

"I want my fiddle," she whispered. "Let me go!"

Faint were the inflections of the words; insistent the drawing back of the dear warm body.

Theodore permitted her to get up, and with staggering step she took her position at the tree trunk.

Then he sank down, hot blood coursing through his veins. Long ago he had realized in Jinnie and the fiddle essentials—essentials to his future and his happiness, and to-day her kisses and divine, womanly yielding had only strengthened that realization. Nothing now was of any importance to him save this vibrant, temperamental girl. There was something so delightfully young—so pricelessly dear in the way she had surrendered herself to him. The outside world faded from his memory as Jinnie closed her eyes, and with a very white face began to play. For that day she had finished with the song of the fairies, the babbling of the brook, and the nodding rhythm of the flowers in the summer's breeze. All that she considered now was Theodore and his kisses. The bow came down over a string with one long, vibrating, passionate call. It expressed the awakening of the girl's soul—awakened by the touch of a man's turbulent lips—Jinnie's God-given man. Her fiddle knew it—felt it—expressed it!

With that first seductive kiss the soul-stirring melody was full born within her, as a world is called into the firmament by one spoken word of God. And as she played, Theodore moved silently toward her, for the fiddle was flashing out the fervor of the kisses she had given him.

He was close at her feet before he spoke, and simultaneously the white lids opened in one blue, blue glance.

"Jinnie!" breathed Theodore, getting up and holding out his arms. "Come to me! Come to me, my love! I can't live another moment without you."

The bow and fiddle remained unnoticed for the next half hour, while the two, the new woman and the new man, were but conscious of one another, nothing else.

At length Theodore spoke.

"Jinnie, look up and say, 'Theodore, I love you'."

It was hard at first, because her mind had never reached the point of speaking aloud her passionate love for him, but Theodore heard the halting words, and droned them over to himself, as a music lover delights in his favorite strains.

"And you love me well enough to marry me some day?" he murmured.

Marry him! This, too, was a new thought. Jinnie's heart fluttered like a bird in her breast. To be with him always? To have him for her own? Of course, he was hers, and she was his! Then into her mind came the thought of Lafe, Peggy, and Bobbie, and the arms around him relaxed.

"I love you better'n anybody in the world," she told him, pathetically, "but I can't ever leave the cobbler.... They need me there."

"They can't keep you," he cried passionately. "I want you myself."

His vehemence subdued her utterly. She glanced into his face. In his flashing eyes, Jinnie read a power inimitable and unsurpassed.

"I couldn't ever leave 'em," she repeated, quivering, "but couldn't they live——"

"We'd take the little blind boy," promised Theodore.

Jinnie remained pensive. To bring the shine in her eyes once more, he said:

"Wouldn't you like Bobbie to live with us?"

"Yes, of course; but I couldn't leave Lafe and Peg in Paradise Road."

Theodore surrounded the entreating, uplifted face with two strong hands.

"I know that. We'll take care of them all——"

Still Jinnie held back her full surrender.

"Can I take Happy Pete, too? And the cats? There's an awful lot of 'em.... Milly Ann does have so many kitties," she ended naively.

Theodore laughed delightedly.

"Dearest little heart! Of course we'll take them all, every one you love!"

"Will you tell Lafe about—about us?" Jinnie asked shyly, "I—I——" but she had no more time to finish.

"I'll tell him to-morrow, Jinnie!" exclaimed Theodore. "Are you happy, dearest?"

"So happy," she sighed, with loving assurance.

The rest of the day they were like two frolicking children, eating their luncheon under the tall trees. When the shadows fell, they left their trysting place, and with their arms about each other, went slowly back to the automobile.



CHAPTER XXXI

WHAT THEODORE TOLD HIS FRIEND

"He's been gone all day," mourned Molly miserably to Jordan Morse. They had finished dinner; Molly had put Mrs. King to bed, and the two were seated in chairs on the lawn. Every minute that passed and found Theodore still away was like an eternity to the woman. She had always hated the office hours which took him from the house, hated the business friends who dropped in now and then and changed the conversation from the delicate personal things she always managed to dwell upon.

During the years she had been companion to Mrs. King, Theo's dinner and luncheon hours were ones of joy to her. Now this day had passed without him.

"He'll show up before long," Morse said presently. "What a lot of worry you have over that man!... Now if you had a problem on your hands like mine——"

The soft chug of a motor cut off his ejaculation.

"He's coming, now," he said, getting up.

Molly responded coldly to Theodore's friendly salute from the car.

As Mr. King walked quickly toward them, Morse called laughingly,

"We had just decided you'd been kidnapped."

"Nothing like that," answered Theodore, "I've been in the country.... Sit down, Jordan; no use standing up!" And Theodore seated himself on the grass.

"It's been a fine day," he went on boyishly, scarcely knowing what to say.

"Lovely," agreed Molly, and Jordan supplemented this by asking:

"Have a—pleasant ride?"

"Yes, delightful! One doesn't realize how murky the city is until he goes in the country for a day."

After a time, during which he looked up through the enfolding green of the trees, he proceeded calmly,

"I took Miss Grandoken on a picnic."

Morse's sudden glance at Molly warned her to control herself.

"She's an odd child," continued Theodore, "but, then, all geniuses are. I don't know when I've so thoroughly enjoyed myself."

Morse's "That's good," was closely followed by Molly's curt question, "Where'd you go?"

"Just up the lake a ways. We took some picnic stuff——"

"And her fiddle, I suppose?" cut in Molly sarcastically.

"Of course. Jinnie's not Jinnie without her fiddle."

"She does play well," admitted Jordan.

"More than well," interpolated Theodore. "She plays divinely."

Then again they fell into an oppressive silence.

Molly was so curious to know the events of the day she could scarcely control her impatience.

Suddenly Mr. King announced:

"I'm going to marry Jinnie Grandoken."

Molly and Morse slowly got to their feet. They stood looking down upon the young millionaire with jaws apart and startled eyes.

"Well, you needn't look as if I were about to commit some crime," he said, quizzing them with laughing eyes. "I suppose a chap can get married if he wants to; can't he?"

"It's ridiculous," blurted Miss Merriweather.

A drawn, helpless expression had crept into her eyes, making her appear like an old woman.

Theodore got to his feet.

"What's ridiculous?" he demanded, immediately on the defensive. "My wanting to be happy?"

"Not that quite," replied the woman, "but surely you can't——"

"I can and I will!" exclaimed Theodore decidedly. "I couldn't be happy without her, and mother——"

"It'll kill 'er," warned Molly significantly.

"Not at all," denied Theodore. "My mother's a woman of sense! When she knows her big boy's madly in love with the sweetest girl in the world, she'll take it as a matter of course."

Miss Merriweather turned toward the house.

"I think I'll go," she said in strained tones.

She had almost reached the veranda when Theodore called her.

"Molly!" he shouted.

"Yes?"

"Don't tell mother. I want to surprise her."

"Very well," and the woman went on again, trembling from the blow which had struck her in the face.

The two men, lolling under the trees, said but little more, and with burning heart and unsettled mind, Jordan Morse went back to his apartment.

He had scarcely settled himself before his telephone tinkled. Taking down the receiver, he said,

"Well?"

A faint voice answered him.

"It's Molly, Jordan!... Listen! I'm down at the foot of the hill. Do come here! I'm nearly frantic.... Yes, I'll wait."

Very soon Molly saw Jordan crossing the street, and she went to meet him.

"Let's walk," she said fretfully. "I can't breathe."

"If you feel like I do," replied Morse moodily, "I pity you."

He led her to a small park where they sat down upon one of the wooden benches.

"I'm shocked beyond expression," said Molly wearily.

"So am I," replied Morse. Then picking up the thread of thought which had troubled him all the evening, he went on, "I need my boy! Every night I'm haunted by dreams. I'd give up my plans about Jinnie if I had him...."

"Well, I never!" ejaculated Molly.

"The trouble with you is you haven't any heart," went on Jordan. "How you put your mind on anything but finding that child I don't know. But I notice you manage to keep close on Theo's heels every minute."

"I love him," admitted Molly.

"Don't you love your son, your poor little lost son?"

"Of course, Jordan! Don't be stupid!... Of course I do, but I don't know where he is."

"And you're making very little effort to find him, that's evident. You've seen him, and I haven't, yet I'd give half my life to get my hands on him." He paused, drew a long breath, and proceeded, "I'll warn you of this much, Molly. When I do find him—and find him I will—you won't get a chance to even see him."

"Oh, Jordan!" gasped Molly.

"That's right," he insisted, with an ugly shrug. "I tell you, Molly, I've always been impressed with the idea mothers cared more for their children than fathers, but I'm over that now since knowing you."

"Oh, Jordan!" repeated Molly faintly once more.

Not heeding her appealing voice, he rushed on, "I'd be willing to strangle half the world for money to hire detectives to search for him. But as I've said before, I'd let Jinnie alone if I had him—and work for him with my two hands—if I had to dig graves."

Molly turned her startled eyes upon the excited man. She had never known the depths of his nature.

"You make me tired," he proceeded with sarcasm. "What in hell do you think Theodore could see in you when a girl like Jinnie cares for him?"

"Why, Jordan Morse!" stammered the woman. "How dare you talk to me like that?"

"Because it's true," replied Jordan hotly. "You're like a lot of women—if a man looks sidewise at you, you think he's bowled over with your charms. Good Heavens! It's sickening!"

"I didn't ask you here to talk like this," said Molly.

"What if you didn't?" snapped Jordan. "You can talk now if you want to! I'm going home in five minutes, and I want some money before I go, too."

"I'll give you some to-morrow. Now what're you going to do about Theodore?"

"Well, he won't marry Jinnie," replied Morse slowly.

"How can you help it?"

"That's what I'm going to figure out. If I can get her away from Grandoken's, she won't get back, I can tell you that. But that damn cobbler and Theo'll make such a devilish row——"

"You needn't be profane," chided Molly.

"A woman like you's enough to make any man swear.... Now listen to me. The very fact that Jinnie ran away from home shows me that Tom Singleton told her I put 'im in a mad house! Jinnie, of course, told Grandoken. I've got to get that cobbler—and—you've got to help me get Jinnie——"

"Haven't I done all I could?" gasped Molly. "I can't go down there and take her by the nape of the neck, can I?"

"No, but I will! Now let's go! I want to do some pretty tall thinking before morning. Once let those two people be married and I'm lost."

"So am I," muttered Molly, swaying at his vehement words.

They threaded their way back to the hill, and Morse left Molly at her gate. As she walked slowly up the road, she could see the light in Theodore's window, and his shadow thrown on the curtain.



CHAPTER XXXII

JORDAN MORSE'S PLAN

The next morning Jordan Morse rose after a sleepless night, his face drawn in long, deep-set lines. The hours had been spent in futile planning. To save himself from the dire consequences of his misdeeds, to procure the money which would come to Jinnie when she was eighteen years old, was the one idea that dinned constantly at his brain. She and the cobbler would have to be put out of the way, and this must be done before Theodore announced publicly his intention of marrying the girl. Jordan had no wish to break his friendship with Theodore, so he could do nothing openly. If it were a mere case of filching what little he could from Jinnie's estate before she became of age, it would be an easy matter, but the girl must disappear. How? Where? There was finality in one of his decisions that moment. He must get possession of her that very day. Theodore would let no grass grow under his feet. He would marry her offhand, and educate her afterwards.

Jordan wondered vaguely if the Jewish cobbler had an enemy among the shortwood gatherers. If so, and the man could be found, it would bring his own salvation.

With this desire uppermost in his mind, Jordan wended his way to the lower part of the town, passed into Paradise Road, and paused a second in front of Lafe Grandoken's shop to read the sign:

"Lafe Grandoken: Cobbler of Folks' and Children's Shoes and Boots."

His lips curled at the crude printing, and he went on past the remaining shanties to the entrance to the marsh. At the path where Jinnie had so many times brought forth her load of wood, he paused again and glanced about. As far north as he could see, the marsh stretched out in misty greenness. The place seemed to be without a human being, until Jordan suddenly heard the crackling of branches, and there appeared before him a young man with deep-set, evil eyes, and large, pouting mouth. Upon his shoulders was a shortwood strap.

At the sight of Mr. Morse, the wood gatherer hesitated, made a sort of obeisance, and proceeded to move on. Jordan stopped him with a motion of his hand.

"In a hurry?" he asked good-naturedly.

"Got to sell my wood," growled the man.

Morse appraised him with an analytical glance.

"What's your name?" he demanded.

"Maudlin Bates. What's yours?"

"Jordan Morse.... Just wait a minute. I want to talk to you."

Down came the shortwood strap on the ground. Maudlin scented something interesting.

"I got to sell my wood," he repeated, surly-toned. However, he nodded his head when Jordan explained that it might be to his advantage to tarry a while.

"I'll pay you for your time," agreed Morse eagerly.

Side by side they seated themselves on a fallen tree. The young wood gatherer looked wicked enough to do anything that might be requested of him.

"Are you married?" asked Morse.

Maudlin's face darkened.

"No," he grunted moodily.

"Ha! In love? I see!" laughed the other.

Maudlin turned sheepish eyes on his interrogator; then looked down, flushed, and finished:

"I'd a been married all right if it hadn't been for a damn bloke along Paradise Road," he explained.

"Yes? Tell me about it."

"Oh, what's the use! Everybody's stickin' their noses in my business, and it ain't nothin' to do with 'em uther."

"I might help you," suggested Jordan, seemingly interested.

"Ain't anybody c'n help me," sulked Maudlin. "Got the richest man in town 'gainst me, and money's what makes the mare go."

The words "richest man" startled Morse, but he only said, "That's so! But tell me just the same."

"Aw, it's only a wench I wanted! A mutt by the name of King butted in on me."

Jordan Morse mentally congratulated himself that he had struck the right nail on the head the very first whack.

To gain possession of Jinnie's money meant finding his boy, and that was the dearest wish of his heart.

"You might tell me about it," he reiterated slowly. "I ought to be able to help you."

"Naw, you can't!" scoffed Maudlin. "My pa and me's tried for a long time, but there ain't nothin' doin' with Jinnie. She's a sure devil, Jinnie is."

Jordan's blood tingled in anticipation.

"Is that the girl's name?" he queried.

"Yes, she's a niece of a cobbler up the track yonder, and as pretty a little minx as walks Paradise Road. If I had 'er I'd fix her. I'd beat her till she minded me, I c'n tell y' that!"

"I believe beating's the way to subdue most women," said Morse, lighting a cigarette. But as he said this, a slight smile passed over his face. He thought of Molly Merriweather in connection with the man's logic.

"It's the way pa done to my stepmother," observed Maudlin presently. "She was a onery woman as ever you see, but pa one day just licked her, and then licked 'er every day till now she don't dast but mind 'im.... I'd do that with Jinnie if I had 'er."

Morse watched rings of smoke curl upward in the summer air, breaking among the branches of the trees.

"Why don't you steal 'er?" he demanded at length.

Bates' lower jaw fell down, showing discolored teeth. He stared at his inquisitor in consternation. Then he dropped back into his former slovenly attitude.

"I never thought o' that," said he.

"I'll help you," offered Morse, carelessly, brushing ashes from his coat lapel.

Maudlin turned his eyes slowly from their straight ahead position until they came directly upon the handsome face of the other man. Then the two looked long and steadily at each other.

"What're you drivin' at?" blurted Bates.

"Only that I'm also interested in getting Jinnie away from Grandoken. The fact is I hate King, and I think it's a good way to get even with him."

He refrained, however, from mentioning he was Jinnie's relative.

"D'you have me in mind when you come here?" questioned Bates.

"No! But I felt sure there'd be some young buck round here who'd fallen in love with the girl before this. And I found you without asking——"

"I'd make her beg me to marry her after I'd had 'er a week or two," interrupted Maudlin, with dilating pupils. "How could we steal 'er?"

"Just steal 'er, I said," replied Morse.

"And I said, 'How?'"

Morse waited a minute until Bates repeated once more, "How, mister?" then he asked:

"Can you run a motor car?"

"No, but my pa can."

"My God! You musn't mention this to any one, not even your father. I'll run the car myself. You go to the cobbler and by some excuse get the girl in the car—after that I'll see to her."

Bates narrowed his eyes.

"No, you won't see to nothin'," he growled surlily. "I don't take a step till I know I get 'er. I'll marry 'er all right, but she's got to want to marry me first."

"I don't care what you do with 'er," replied Morse morosely. "Marry 'er or not, just get her, that's all!"

"The cobbler's got a vixen of a wife," complained Maudlin at length.

"Persuade her to go somewhere, can't you?" snapped Morse.

"Yes, that's easy," drawled Maudlin, wobbling his head.

For a long time they sat talking and planning, until at length Morse put his hand in his pocket and handed the other man some money. Maudlin tucked it away with a grin.

"Easy cash, eh? What'd you say the dame's name was?"

"Merriweather—Molly Merriweather. She's companion to Mr. King's mother."

"Jinnie fiddles all the afternoon.... Mebbe she won't go."

"Yes, she will. Tell her Miss Merriweather wants her to arrange a surprise for Theodore King. Tell 'er Miss Merriweather wants her to play."

Bates laughed evilly.

"That'll fix the huzzy. Anything about that damn fiddle'll fetch 'er every time! When I get 'er I'll bust it up for kindlin' wood."

"Then it's settled," said Morse, rising. "You go this afternoon at three o'clock to Grandoken's, tell Jinnie what I told you to, get the cobbler into an argument, and I'll do the rest."

"You'll be sure to be there?"

"Of course! What'd you think I am? Keep your mouth shut! Be sure of that."

"Three o'clock, then," said Maudlin, getting up. "So long!" and lifting his wood, he went on his way rejoicing.



CHAPTER XXXIII

THE MURDER

At half past one that afternoon a messenger appeared at Grandoken's with a letter for Jinnie.

Peggy called the girl to the shop.

"Boy's got something for you," she declared. "It's a letter, I guess."

Jinnie held out her hand with thumping pulses, took the extended pencil, and signed her name to a blank page. Then the boy held out the missive. Of course it was from Theodore, thought Jinnie. She had scarcely slept the night before, fitfully dreaming of him. Throwing a shy smile at Peg, she went into her bedroom and shut the door. With a long, ecstatic breath, she set herself to the delightful task of slowly perusing the beloved epistle.

"My darling," Jinnie read, and she kissed those two words, each one separately. Then she whispered them again, "My darling," and read on:

"I'm coming this afternoon at three to see your uncle, and I thought you might like me to talk with him alone. It will be a simple matter for you to take the little blind boy and go away for an hour or so, but be sure and return at four. By that time I'll have our arrangements all made, but I won't go until I see you.

"I send all my love to you, my sweetheart.

"Your own,

"THEODORE."

Jinnie kissed the words "my sweetheart" too, and then joyfully slipped the letter inside her dress. She daren't speak of his coming, for how could she conceal her happiness from Lafe?

At two o'clock, she said to Peggy:

"May I take Bobbie for a little walk, dear?"

The blind child heard the request and scrambled up.

"Can I go, Peggy?" he pleaded.

Peg glared at the girl.

"I thought you always fiddled in the afternoon," she queried.

"I do generally," acquiesced Jinnie, "but—to-day——"

"Well, go 'long," said Peg, not very graciously. "I'm goin' over to Miss Bates' a while. Maudlin come by just now, an' said would I come over.... Get back early!"

Jinnie dressed Bobbie with trembling fingers. The boy noticed she could scarcely button his jacket.

"What's the matter, Jinnie dear?" he whispered.

Jinnie was just slipping on his cap as he spoke. She bent and kissed him passionately.

"Nothing, honey, only Jinnie's happy, very happy."

"I'm so glad," sighed Bobbie, with a smiling wag. "I'm happy too. Let's go on the hill, and take Petey."

"It'd be lovely, dear," replied the girl.

A few minutes later, with the little dog at their heels, they were wending their way up the board walk to the hill.

Mr. Grandoken, alone in his shop, worked with contented vigor. The days, those beautiful summer days, were bringing untold joy to him. Peggy seemed in brighter spirits, and Jinnie's radiant face made Lafe rejoice. Little Bobbie's stars were always shining nowadays, so what more could the dear man want? As he sat tip-tapping, he took himself in fancy to that day ahead when Heaven would unfold another blessing for Peg—for him. He put down his hammer and glanced out of the window, and suddenly Maudlin Bates loomed up, with all his hulking swagger obliterating the shoemaker's mental bliss.

Lafe nodded as Maudlin stepped into the shop. There was an unusually aggressive expression upon the young wood gatherer's face, and Mr. Grandoken refrained from asking him to sit down. Instead he questioned:

"Brought some cobblin'?"

"No," said Bates. "Wanted to talk to you; that's all."

"Hurry up, then, 'cause I'm busy."

"Where's Jinnie?" queried Maudlin.

Swift anger changed the cobbler's face.

"What's that to you?" he demanded. "And you needn't be drippin' tobacco juice around my shop."

"Won't hurt it, I guess," answered Maudlin insolently, sitting down heavily.

With every passing minute, Lafe was growing more and more enraged.

"Yap me your business and get out," he ordered, picking up his hammer.

He settled his eyes on the sodden face before him, and for a minute or two each plumbed the strength of the other.

"I'm goin' to marry Jinnie," announced Maudlin, drawing his large feet together and clasping his fingers over his knees.

The cobbler deliberately placed the hammer beside him once more and leaned back against the wall.

"Who said so?" he asked.

"I do," defied Maudlin, swaggering.

"Is that what you come to say to me?"

"Yep."

"Well, now you're done with your braggin', get out, an' get out quick."

But Maudlin didn't move.

"I said to scoot," said Lafe presently, in suppressed tones. He was magnificent in his ferocity.

"I heard you!" observed Maudlin, still sitting, though a little cowed in his former egotistical spirit.

Lafe picked up the hammer and pounded frantically on the sole of a shoe.

"I'm goin' to have money," muttered Maudlin when the cobbler paused for a few nails.

As Lafe proceeded with his work silently, Maudlin said:

"I'll marry Jinnie and take the empty shack next to pa's. I got money, I said."

Lafe's lips were moving rapidly, but the other could not hear what he was saying. The fact was, the cobbler was asking for strength and self-control.

"Where's Jinnie?" demanded Maudlin again.

"She ain't here," said Lafe, "an' I want you to get out before she comes."

He said this more gently, because his muttered prayers had somewhat assuaged his rage.

Just then a motor car dashed into the little lane at the side of the house, and Maudlin knew that Morse had arrived.

"I'll go when I see Jinnie," he insisted, sinking deeper into his chair, "I want to tell 'er somethin' about a party."

"Ain't no show o' your seein' 'er to-day," replied Lafe. "I bargained with your pa about you lettin' my girl alone, and that's all there is to it."

"Pa's cobblin' ain't nothin' to do with me," observed Maudlin darkly. "I'll wait for 'er!"

At that minute Theodore King's car drew up in front of the shop, and he stepped out. Maudlin caught a glimpse of him and set his teeth sharply. He'd have it out with this man, too. They might as well all understand what his intentions were. He wondered if Morse, from his point of vantage, had seen Mr. King arrive.

When Theodore swung into the shop, he paused at the sight of Bates and frowned. He brought to mind the chastening he had given the fellow, and how Jinnie had suffered through his brutality.

Lafe smiled cordially at the young man and asked him to be seated.

"Jinnie's out," stated the cobbler.

"I know it!" responded Theodore, taking a chair. "I've come to have a talk with you." Then looking from Mr. Grandoken to Maudlin, he queried, "Will you soon be disengaged?"

Lafe nodded.

"I hope so," he said disinterestedly.

Lafe always disciplined himself after a siege with his temper.

"He won't be alone till I get through with 'im," grunted Maudlin, with an ugly expression. "I been tellin' 'im I'm goin' to marry Jinnie."

Lafe straightened with a throat sound that boded no good for the speaker, and Theodore got swiftly to his feet.

"Don't repeat what you've just said," the latter gritted between his teeth, whirling on Maudlin.

Bates shot out of his chair at this command.

"My tongue's my own," he roared, "and Jinnie'll be glad to marry me before——"

Theodore's big fist swept out, striking the man full in the face, and Maudlin dropped like an ox hit with an axe, but he was on his feet in another minute. His rapidly swelling face was blanched with rage.

"Damn you, twicet and three times damn you——"

Lafe made an ejaculation, and neither one of the three men noticed that the door to the little hall at the back had opened a trifle.

Jordan Morse was peering in upon the enraged trio. He saw the man he'd hired to help him take the first knock down and get up swiftly. He saw Theodore King make another dive at the wood gatherer. The cobbler was in direct range of Jordan's vision, and he slipped his hand into his pocket, from which he took a revolver. Two quick, short cracks, and the pistol came flying through the room and landed near the cobbler's bench. Then the kitchen door slammed suddenly. Theodore staggered forward and sank slowly to the floor, while Maudlin fell headlong without a cry.

As in a maze Lafe heard a motor leap away like a mad thing. Through the window he could see Theodore's car where the young man had left it. He made a desperate effort to rise, but sank back with a shuddering groan. He forced his eyes to Bates, who was close to the shop door, then dragged them backward to Mr. King, whose head was almost under his bench. Each had received a bullet, and both lay breathing unconsciously. The cobbler stooped over and placed his hand under Theodore's head to straighten it a little. For a full minute nothing was heard but the loud rattling in Maudlin's throat and the steady, laborious breath of the man at his feet.

Sudden tears diffused the cobbler's eyes, and he leaned over and tenderly touched the damp forehead of Jinnie's friend.

"He's given His angels charge over thee, boy," he murmured, just as Jinnie, leading Bobbie by the hand, walked in.

The girl took one impetuous step forward and noted Lafe's white, agonized face. Then she caught a glimpse of the stricken men on the floor. Her tongue refused its office, and dropping the blind child's fingers, she came quickly forward.

"Call help! Hurry! Get a doctor!" gasped Lafe, and Jinnie, without saying a word, rushed out.

Afterward she could not measure with accuracy the events of that afternoon. Peggy came home and put the terrified Bobbie in bed, telling him curtly to stay there until she allowed him to get up. Several doctors rushed in and examined both Theodore and Maudlin. Not one word had escaped Jinnie's pale lips until the wounded men were removed from the shop. Then she sank at the cobbler's feet.

"Will he die?" she whispered, in awe-stricken tones.

"Maudlin's dyin'," replied the cobbler, with bowed head, "an' Mr. King's awful bad off, the doctor says."

Jinnie went to Lafe's side and put her arm about his neck, and as if it had never been, their joy was blotted out by the hand of a bloody tragedy.



CHAPTER XXXIV

THE COBBLER'S ARREST

Tearing away from Paradise Road, Jordan Morse drove madly up the hill. No one had seen him come; no one had seen him go. He must get in touch with Molly immediately. In his nervous state he had to confide in some one.

Molly had settled Mrs. King in an easy chair and was on the lawn, pacing restlessly to and fro, when Jordan swiftly drove his machine through the gate and up to the veranda. Catching one hasty glimpse of his haggard face, the woman knew something extraordinary had happened.

"I've put my foot in it, all right," he ejaculated, jumping to the soft grass. "My God! I don't know what I have done!"

Molly's face blanched.

"Tell me quickly," she implored.

Jordan repeated his conversation with Maudlin Bates, stating how his plans had suddenly matured on hearing the wood gatherer denounce King and Grandoken.

Then he proceeded a little more calmly.

"It seems I hadn't been at the side door of Grandoken's shack a minute before Theodore drove up."

Molly's hands came together.

"Theodore?" she repeated breathlessly.

"Yes, and the Bates man was with Grandoken. I heard loud talking, stole into the little hall, and found the back part of the house empty. Jinnie wasn't there; at least I didn't see her. Bates had already inveigled Mrs. Grandoken away. I opened the door into the cobbler's shop just as Theo was striking Bates in the face. I waited a minute, and as Theo struck out again, I fired——"

"Fired!" gasped Molly.

"Yes, at Grandoken. I wanted to kill him——"

"But Theo—you might have hit Theodore, Jordan."

"But I didn't, I tell you! I'm sure I didn't. If I hit any one, 'twas Bates or the cobbler.... Get back near the veranda for fear Theodore 'phones."

No sooner had the words left his lips than a bell sounded from the house. Molly ran up the steps. As she took down the receiver, she dropped it, but picked it up again.

"Halloa," she called faintly.

"Is this Theodore King's home?" shouted a voice.

"Yes."

"Mr. King's had an accident. He's in the hospital. Break the news carefully to his mother, please."

Dazedly, Molly slipped the receiver back to its hook. She stumbled to the porch and down the steps, her face ashen with anguish.

"You shot Theo, Jordan," she cried hysterically.

"Shut your head," growled Morse, glancing furtively about. "Don't talk so loud.... Now then, listen! There'll be hell to pay for this. But Bates won't peach, and I'm sure I clipped the cobbler's wings. Keep quiet till you hear from me."

He sprang again into the machine and was gone before the woman could gather her wits together.

She turned and went slowly up the steps. It was her duty to break the news to Theodore's mother—she who knew so much, but dared to tell so little! How to open the conversation with the gentle sufferer she knew not.

Mrs. King smiled a greeting as she entered, but at the sight of Molly's face, her book dropped to the floor.

"What is it?" she stammered.

Molly knelt down beside her.

"Probably very little," she said hastily. "Don't get excited—please—but—but——"

"It's Theodore!" gasped the mother, intuitively.

"He's hurt a little, just a little, and they've taken him to the hospital."

Mrs. King tried to rise, but dropped back weakly.

"He's badly hurt or he'd come home."

"I'll find out," offered Molly eagerly. Then as an afterthought, "I'll go if you'll promise me to stay very quiet until I get back."

"I promise," said Mrs. King, sobbing, "but go quickly! I simply can't be still when I'm uncertain."

In another house of lesser proportions, a girl was huddled in a chair, gazing at Lafe Grandoken.

"An' they told you over the telephone he was dyin'?" he demanded, looking at Jinnie.

"Yes," gulped Jinnie, "and Maudlin's dead. The hospital people say Mr. King can't live." The last words were stammered and scarcely audible. "Lafe, who shot him?"

"I dunno," said Lafe.

"Didn't you see who had the gun?" persisted the girl, wiping her eyes.

"Mr. King didn't have it; nuther did Maudlin. It came from over there, an' I heard a car drive away right after."

Jinnie shook her head hopelessly. It was all so mysterious that her heart was gripped with fright. A short time before, an officer had been there cross-questioning Lafe suspiciously. Then he had gone away with the pistol in his pocket. She stared out of the window, fear-shadowed. In a twinkling her whole love world had tumbled about her ears, and she listened as the cobbler told her once more the story of the hour she'd been away with Bobbie.

"There're two men coming here right now," she said suddenly, getting up. "Lafe, there's Burns, the cop on this beat."

"They're wantin' to find out more, I presume," replied Lafe wearily.

As the men entered the shop, Jinnie backed away and stood with rigid muscles. She was dizzily frightened at the sight of the gruff officers, who had not even saluted Lafe.

The foremost man was a stranger to them both.

"Are you Lafe Grandoken?" he demanded, looking at the cobbler.

"Yes," affirmed Lafe.

The man flourished a paper with staid importance.

"I'm the sheriff of this county, an' I've a warrant for your arrest for murderin' Maudlin Bates," he sing-songed.

Jinnie sprang forward.

"Lafe didn't shoot 'im," she cried desperately.

The man eyed her critically.

"Did you do it, kid?" he asked, smiling.

"No, I wasn't here!" answered Jinnie, short-breathed.

"Then how'd you know he didn't do it?"

For a moment Jinnie was nonplussed. Then she came valiantly to her friend's aid.

"I know he didn't. Of course he didn't, you wicked, wicked men! Don't you dare touch 'im, don't you dare!"

"Well, he's got to go with me," affirmed the man in ugly, sneering tones. "Whistle for the patrol, Burns, and we'll wheel the Jew in!"

Jinnie heard, as in a hideous dream, the shrill, trilling whistle; heard the galloping of horses and saw a long black wagon draw up to the steps.

When the two sullen men laid violent hold of the wheelchair, Jinnie's terrified fingers reached toward the cobbler, and the sheriff gave her hand a sharp blow. Lafe uttered an inarticulate cry, and at that moment Jinnie forgot "Happy in Spite," forgot Lafe's angels and the glory of them, and sprang like a tiger at the man who had struck her. She flung one arm about his neck and fought him with tooth and nails. So surprised was Policeman Burns that he stood with staring eyes, making no move to rescue his mate from the tigerish girl.

"Damn you! Damn you!" screamed Jinnie. "I'll kill you before you take 'im."

Lafe cried out again, calling her name gently, imploringly, and tenderly. When his senses returned, Burns grasped Jinnie in his arms and held her firmly. There she stood panting, trying to break away from the policeman's detaining fingers. She looked half crazed in the dimming late afternoon light.

"Merciful God, but you're a tartar, miss!" said the sheriff ruefully. "Well, if she ain't clawed the blood clean through my skin!"

"She comes of bad stock," exclaimed Burns. "You can't expect any more of Jews. Go on; I'll hold 'er till you and Mike get the chair out."

Hearing this, Jinnie began to sob hysterically and make more desperate efforts to free herself. The viselike fingers pressed deeper into her tender flesh.

"Here, huzzy, you needn't be tryin' none of your muck on me," said Burns. "Keep still or I'll break your arm."

Jinnie sickened with pain, and her eyes sought Lafe's. If he'd been in his coffin, he couldn't have been whiter.

"Jinnie," he chided brokenly, "you've forgot what I told you, ain't you, lass?"

Through the suffering, tender mind flashed the words he'd taught her.

"There aren't any angels, Lafe," she sobbed. "There aren't any."

Then, as another man entered the shop, she cried: "Don't take 'im, oh, please don't take 'im, not now, not just yet, not till Peggy gets back."

Turning around in his chair, Lafe looked up at the men.

"Could—I—say—good-bye—to my—wife?" he asked brokenly.

"Where is she?" demanded the officer.

"Gone to the store," answered Lafe. "She'll be here in a minute."

"Let 'er come to the jail," snapped the angry sheriff. "She'll have plenty of time to say good-bye there."

At that they tugged the chair through the narrow door. Then two boards were found upon which to roll it into the patrol.

Inside the shop Jinnie was quiet now, save for the convulsions that rent her body. She looked up at the man holding her.

"Let me go," she implored. "I'll be good, awful good."

Perhaps it was the pleading blue eyes that made the officer release her arms. Jinnie sprang to the door, and as Lafe saw her, he smiled, oh such a smile! The girl ran madly to him.

"Lafe! Lafe!" she screamed. "Lafe dear!"

Lafe bent, touched the shining black curls, and a glorified expression spread over his face.

"He's given His angels charge over you, lass," he murmured, "an' it's a fact you're not to forget."

Then they rolled him up the planks and into the wagon. With clouded eyes Jinnie watched the black patrol bowl along toward the bridge, and as it halted a moment on Paradise Road to allow an engine to pass, the cobbler leaned far out of his wheel chair and waved a thin white hand at her. Then like a deer she ran ahead until she came within speaking distance of him. The engine passed with a shrieking whistle, and the horses received a sharp crack and galloped off. Jinnie flung out her arms.

"Lafe!" she screamed. "I'll stay with Peg till you come."

He heard the words, waved once more, and the wagon disappeared over the bridge.

For full ten minutes after Lafe was taken away, Jinnie sat in the shop like one turned to stone. The thing that roused her was the side door opening and shutting. She got up quickly and went into the little hall, closing the shop door behind her. Mrs. Grandoken, with bundles in her hands, was entering the kitchen. Jinnie staggered after her.

"Peggy," murmured Jinnie, throwing her arms about the stooped shoulders. "You'll be good——"

It was as if she had said it to Bobbie, tenderly, low-pitched, and imploring. Peg seemed so miserable and thin.

"What's the matter with you, kid?" growled Mrs. Grandoken.

"The town folks," groaned Jinnie, "the town folks've made a mistake, an awful mistake."

Mrs. Grandoken turned sunken eyes upon the speaker.

"What mistake've they made?"

Jinnie's throat hurt so she couldn't say any more.

"What mistake?" asked Peg again.

"They think Lafe shot——"

Peggy wheeled on the hesitating speaker. Shoving her to one side, she stalked through the door. Jinnie flew after her.

"Peggy, Peg, he'll come back!"

Mrs. Grandoken opened the shop door and the empty room with overturned chairs and scattered tools told its silent, eloquent tale.

"Honey," whispered Jinnie. "Honey dear——"

"God's Jesus," muttered Peg, with roving eyes, "God's Jesus, save my man!"

Then she slid to the floor, and when she once more opened her eyes, Jinnie was throwing water in her face.



CHAPTER XXXV

ALONE IN THE SHOP

Later in the day Jordan Morse and Molly Merriweather met at the hospital. They looked into each other's eyes, not daring to mention the terrible consternation that possessed them.

"Have you heard anything?" murmured Molly, glancing about before speaking.

Jordan nodded his head.

"It's awful," he said. "Bates is dead—if you say a word, I'm lost."

"Depend on me," Molly assured him. "Oh, how dreadful it all is! Theodore must get well," she continued in agitation.

"Well, he won't!" snarled Morse. Then he went on passionately. "Molly, I swear I didn't intend to shoot him. I was mad clear through and aimed at the cobbler."

"Hush!" warned Molly. "Some one's coming."

A young doctor approached them with gravity.

"Mr. King?" murmured Molly.

"Is slowly failing. The bullet found a vital spot——"

"And the other man—Bates? Is it true he's dead?" interjected Morse eagerly.

"Yes, he died shortly after the tragedy. It's all a mystery, but I think they've arrested the guilty man."

Both listeners stared at the speaker as if he'd told them the world had come to an end. It was Morse who managed to mutter:

"What man?"

"Haven't you heard? They've arrested Lafe Grandoken. The shooting occurred in his cobbling shop, and the gun was found as proof of his crime. Of course, like all Jews, he's trying to invent a story in his own favor.... He's undoubtedly the criminal."

Not until they were in the street did Jordan express himself to Molly.

"What heavenly luck! So they've arrested Grandoken. If Theodore lives——"

Molly clutched his arm.

"Oh, he must! He must! Jordan! I shall die myself if he doesn't."

Jordan Morse turned sharply upon her.

"Don't throw a fit right here. You're not the only one suffering. My atmosphere is cleared a little with Grandoken's arrest, though."

"But you've still to reckon with Jinnie," ventured Molly.

"Easy now," returned the man. "I'll get her before Theodore is well."

"Take me home," pleaded Molly wearily. "Such a day as this is enough to ruin all the good looks a woman ever had."

Disgustedly, Jordan flung open the motor door.

"Well, my God, you've got about as much brains and heart as a chipmunk. Climb in!"

Later, as the two separated, Morse said, with low-pitched voice:

"Now, then, I'm going to plan to get Jinnie. Might's well be hung for a sheep's a lamb——I'm just as well satisfied that Bates is dead. After I secure Jinnie—then for my boy. God! I can scarcely wait until I have him."

Miss Merriweather went into the house in utter exhaustion, nor did she pause to take off her hat before telling Theodore's mother the little she could to encourage her.

If Molly was suffering over the crime which had sent the man she loved to the hospital, Jinnie was going through thrice that agony for the same man. He had almost met his death in coming to tell Lafe of their love, and had been struck down in his mission by an unknown hand. Jinnie knew it was an unknown hand, because just as sure as she lived, so sure was she that Lafe had not committed the crime. The cobbler had explained it all to her, and she believed him. Peggy was dreadfully ill! After her fainting spell, the girl put Mrs. Grandoken to bed, and then went to comfort Bobbie. She found him huddled on his pillow, clasping Happy Pete in his arms. The small face was streaked with tears and half buried from sight.

"Bobbie," called Jinnie softly.

The yellow head came up with a jerk, the flashing grey eyes begging in mute helplessness an explanation for these unusual happenings.

"I'm here, Jinnie. What's the matter with everybody?"

Jinnie lay down beside him.

"Peggy's sick," she said, not daring to say more.

"Where's Lafe?"

An impulsive arm went across the child's body.

"He's gone away for a little while, dear, just for a few days!"

Something in her tones made Bobbie writhe. With the acuteness of one with his affliction, his ears had caught the commotion in the shop.

"But he can't walk, Jinnie. Did he walk?" he demanded.

"No."

"How'd he go, in a motor car?"

"No," repeated the girl.

"Some one took him, then?" demanded Bobbie.

"Yes."

"In a wagon?"

By this time she could feel the tip-tap of his anguished heart against hers.

"Yes," she admitted, but that was all. She felt that to tell the truth then would be fatal to the throbbing young life in her arms.

"Bobbie," she whispered, cuddling him. "Lafe's coming home soon. Be a good boy and lie still and rest. Jinnie'll come back in a few minutes."

She crawled off the bed, and went to the shop door. By main force she had to drag her unwilling feet over the threshold. She stood for two tense minutes scanning the room with pathetic keenness. Then she walked forward and stood beside the bench. It seemed to be sentiently alive with the magnetism of the man who had lately occupied it. Jinnie sat on it, a cry bursting from her white lips. She wanted to be with him, but she had promised to take care of Peggy, and she would rather die than betray that trust. Her eyes fell upon two dark spots upon the floor, one near the door and one almost under her feet. She shuddered as she realized it was blood. Then she went to the kitchen for water and washed it away. This done, she gathered up Lafe's tools, reverently kissing each one as she laid it in the box under the bench. How lonely the shop looked in the gathering gloom! To dissipate the lengthening shadows in the corners, she lighted the lamp. The flickering flame brought back keenly the hours she had spent with Lafe—hours in which she had learned so much. The whole horror that had fallen on the household rushed over her being like a tidal wave over a city. Misery of the most exquisite kind was tearing her heart in pieces, stabbing her throat with long, forklike pains. Tense throat muscles caught and clung together, choking back her breath until she lay down, full length, upon the cobbler's bench.

In poignant grief she thought of the expression of Lafe's face when he had been wheeled from the room. His voice came back through the faint light.

"He has given His angels charge over thee, lassie."

But how could she believe in the angels, with Lafe in prison and Theodore dying? She got up, spent and worn with weeping, and went in to Peggy, sitting for a few minutes beside the agonized woman, but she could not say one word to make that agony less. In losing the two strong friends, she had lost her faith too. Peg's face was turned to the wall, and as she didn't answer when the girl laid her hand on her shoulder, Jinnie tiptoed out. In her own room she lay for seemingly century-long hours with Bobbie pressed tightly to her breast.



CHAPTER XXXVI

JINNIE EXPLAINS THE DEATH CHAIR TO BOBBIE

Seven days had dragged their seemingly slow length from seconds to minutes, from minutes to hours, from hours to days. In the cobbler's shop Jinnie and Bobbie waited in breathless anxiety for Peg's return. She had gone to the district attorney for permission to visit her husband in his cell. Nearly three hours had passed since her departure, and few other thoughts were in the mind of the girl save the passionate wish for news of her two beloved friends. She was standing by the window looking out upon the tracks, and as a heavy train steamed past she counted the cars with melancholy rhythm. There came to her mind the day she had found Bobbie on the hill, and all the sweet moments since when the cobbler had been with them. She choked back a sob that made a little noise in her tightened throat.

Bobbie stumbled his unseeing way to her and shoved a small, cold hand into hers.

"Jinnie's sad," he murmured. "Bobbie's stars're blinkin' out."

Mrs. Grandoken and Jinnie had come to an understanding that Bobbie should not know of the cobbler's trouble, so the strong fingers closed over the little ones, but the girl did not speak. At length she caught a glimpse of Peg, who, with bent head, was stumbling across the tracks. Peggy had failed in her mission! Jinnie knew it because the woman did not look up as she came within sight of the house.

As Mrs. Grandoken entered slowly, Jinnie turned to her.

"You didn't see him?" she said in a tone half exclamation, half question.

"No," responded Peg, wearily, sitting down. "I waited 'most two hours for the lawyer, an' when he come, I begged harder'n anything, but it didn't do no good. He says I can't see my man for a long time. I guess they're tryin' to make him confess he killed Maudlin."

Jinnie's hand clutched frantically at the other's arm. Both women had forgotten the presence of the blind child.

"He wouldn't do that," cried Jinnie, panic-stricken. "A man can't own up to doing a thing he didn't do."

"Course not," whispered Bobbie, in an awed whisper, and the girl sat down, drawing him to her lap. She could no longer guard her tongue nor hide her feelings. She took the afternoon paper from Mrs. Grandoken's hand.

"Read about it aloud," implored the woman.

"It says," began Jinnie, "Mr. King's dying."

The paper fluttered from her hand, and she sat like a small graven image. To see those words so cruelly set in black and white, staring at her with frightful truth, harrowed the very soul of her. A sobbing outburst from Bobbie mingled with the soft chug, chug of the engine outside on the track. Happy Pete, too, felt the tragedy in the air. He wriggled nearer his young mistress and rested his pointed nose on one of her knees, while his twinkling yellow eyes demanded, in their eloquent way, to know the cause of his loved ones' sorrow.

Peggy broke a painful pause.

"Everybody in town says Lafe done it," she groaned, "an'——" she caught her breath. "Oh, God! it seems I can't stand it much longer!"

Jinnie got up, putting the limp boy in her chair. She was making a masterful effort to be brave, to restrain the rush of emotion demanding utterance. Some beating thing in her side ached as if it were about to burst. But she stood still until Peg spoke again.

"It's all bad business, Jinnie! an' I can't see no help comin' from anywhere."

If Peg's head hadn't fallen suddenly into her hands, perhaps Jinnie wouldn't have collapsed just then. As it was, her knees gave way, and she fell forward beside the cobbler's wife. Bobbie, in his helpless way, knelt too.

Since Lafe's arrest the girl had not prayed, nor could she recall the promises Lafe had taught her were made for the troubled in spirit. Could she now say anything to make Peg's suffering less, even if she did not believe it all herself?

"Peg," she pleaded, "don't shiver so!... Hold up your head.... I want to tell you something."

Peggy made a negative gesture.

"It ain't to be bore, Jinnie," she moaned hoarsely.

"Lafe ain't no chance. They'll put him in the chair."

Such awful words! The import was pressed deeper into two young hearts by Peg's wild weeping.

Jinnie staggered to her feet. Blind Bobbie broke into a prolonged wail.

"Lafe ain't never done nothin' bad in all his life," went on the woman, from the shelter of her hands. "He's the best man in the world. He's worked an' worked for everybody, an' most times never got no pay. An' now——"

"Don't say it again, Peggy!" Jinnie's voice rang out. "Don't think such things. They couldn't put Lafe in a wicked death chair—they couldn't."

Bobbie's upraised eyes were trying to pierce through their veil of darkness to seek the speaker's meaning.

"What chair, Jinnie?" he quivered. "What kind of a chair're they goin' to put my beautiful Lafe in?"

Jinnie's mind went back to the teachings of the cobbler, and the slow, sweet, painful smile intermingled with her agony. Again and again the memory of the words, "He hath given his angels charge over thee," swelled her heart to the breaking point. She wanted to believe, to feel again that ecstatic faith which had suffused her as Maudlin Bates pulled her curls in the marsh, when she had called unto the Infinite and Theodore had answered.

Peg needed Lafe's angels at that moment. They all needed the comfort of the cobbler's faith.

"Peg," she began, "your man'd tell you something sweet if he could see you now."

Peg ceased writhing, but didn't lift her face. Jinnie knew she was listening, and continued:

"Haven't you heard him many a time, when there wasn't any wood in the house or any bread to eat, tell you about—about——"

Down dropped the woman's hands, and she lifted a woebegone face to her young questioner.

"Yes, I've heard him, Jinnie," she quavered, "but I ain't never believed it!"

"But you can, Peggy! You can, sure! Lots of times Lafe'd say, 'Now, Jinnie, watch God and me!' And I watched, and sure right on the minute came the money." She paused a moment, ruminating. "That money we got the day he went away came because he prayed for it."

The girl was reverently earnest.

"Lafe's got a chance, all right," she pursued, keeping Peg's eye. "More'n a chance, if—if—if——Oh, Peggy, we've got to pray!"

"I don't know how," said Peg, in stifled tones.

Jinnie's face lighted with a mental argument Lafe had thrown at her in her moments of distrust. She was deep in despondency, but something had to be done.

"Peg, you don't need to know anything about it. I didn't when I came here. Lafe says——"

"What'd Lafe say?" cut in Peggy.

"That you must just tell God about it——" Jinnie lifted a white, lovely face. "He's everywhere—not away off," she proceeded. "Talk to Him just like you would to Lafe or me."

Mrs. Grandoken sunk lower in her chair.

"I wisht I'd learnt when Lafe was here. Now I dunno how."

"But will you try?" Jinnie pleaded after a little.

"You know 'em better'n I do, Jinnie," Peg muttered, dejectedly. "You ask if it'll do any good."

Jinnie cleared her throat, coughed, and murmured:

"Close your eyes, Bobbie."

Bobbie shut his lids with a gulping sob, and so did Peg.

Then Jinnie began in a low, constrained voice:

"God and your angels hovering about Lafe, please send him back to the shop. Get him out of jail, and don't let anybody hurt him. Amen."

"Don't let any chair hurt my beautiful cobbler," wailed Bobbie, in a new paroxysm of grief. "Gimme Lafe an' my stars."

In another instant Peggy staggered out of the room, leaving the blind boy and Jinnie alone.

As the door closed, Bobbie's voice rose in louder appeal. Happy Pete touched him tenderly with a cold, wet nose, crawling into his arms with a little whine.

Jinnie looked at her two charges hopelessly. She knew not how to comfort them, nor could she frame words that would still the agony of the child. Yet she lifted Bobbie and Happy Pete and sat down with them on her lap.

"Don't cry, honey," she stammered. "There! There! Jinnie'll rock you."

Her face was ashen with anxiety, and perspiration stood in large drops upon her brow. Mechanically she drew her sleeve across her face.

"I'm going to ask you to be awful good, Bobbie," she pleaded presently. "Lafe's being arrested is hard on Peg—and she's sick."

Bobbie burst in on her words.

"But they'll sit my cobbler in a wicked chair, and kill him, Jinnie. Peggy said they would."

"You remember, Bobbie," soothed the girl, "what Lafe said about God's angels, don't you?"

The yellow head bent forward in assent.

"And how they're stronger'n a whole bunch of men?"

"Yes," breathed Bobbie; "but the chair—the men've got that, an' mebbe the angels'll be busy when they're puttin' the cobbler in it."

This idea made him shriek out louder than before: "They'll kill Lafe! Oh, Jinnie, they will!"

"They can't!" denied Jinnie, rigidly. "They can't! Listen, Bobbie."

The wan, unsmiling blind face brought the girl's lips hard upon it.

"I want to know all about the death chair," he whimpered stubbornly.

"Bobbie," she breathed, "will you believe me if I tell you about it?"

"Yes," promised Bobbie, snuggling nearer.

"Hang on to Pete, and I will tell you," said Jinnie.

"I'm hangin' to 'im," sighed Bobbie, touching Pete's shaggy forelock. "Tell me about the chair."

Jinnie was searching her brain for an argument to satisfy him. She wouldn't have lied for her own welfare—but for Bobbie—she could feel the weak, small heart palpitating against her arm.

"Well, in the first place," she began deliberately, "Peg doesn't know everything about murders. Why, Bobbie, they don't do anything at all to men like Lafe. Why, a cobbler, dear, a cobbler could kill everybody in the whole world if he liked."

Bobbie's breath was sent out in one long exclamation of wonder.

"A cobbler," went on Jinnie impressively, "could steal loaves of bread right under a great judge's nose and he couldn't do anything to him."

Jinnie had made a daring speech, such a splendid one; she wanted to believe it herself.

"Tell me more," chirped Bobbie. "What about the death chair, Jinnie?"

She had nursed the hope that the boy would be satisfied with what she had already told him, but she proceeded in triumphant tones:

"Oh, you mean the chair Peg was speaking about, huh? Sure I know all about that.... There isn't anything I don't know about it.... I know more'n all the judges and preachers put together."

A small, trustful smile appeared at the corners of Bobbie's mouth.

"I know you do, Jinnie," he agreed. "Tell it to me."

Jinnie pressed her lips on his hair.

"And if I tell you, kiddie, you'll not cry any more or worry Peggy?"

"I'll be awful good, and not cry once," promised the boy, settling himself expectantly.

"Now, then, listen hard!"

Accordingly, after a dramatic pause, to give stress to her next statement, she continued:

"There isn't a death chair in the whole world can kill a cobbler."

Bobbie braced himself against her and sat up. His blind eyes were roving over her with an expression of disbelief. Jinnie knew he was doubting her veracity, so she hurried on.

"Of course they got an electric chair that'll kill other kinds of men," she explained volubly, "but if you'll believe me, Bobbie, no cobbler could ever sit in it."

Bobbie dropped back again. There was a ring of truth in Jinnie's words, and he began to believe her.

"And another thing, Bobbie, there's something in the Bible better'n what I've told you. You believe the Bible, don't you?"

"Lafe's Bible?" asked Bobbie, scarcely audible.

"Sure! There isn't but one."

"Yes, Jinnie, I believe that," said the boy.

"Well," and Jinnie glanced up at the ceiling, "there's just about a hundred pages in that book tells how once some men tried to put a cobbler in one of those chairs, and the lightning jumped out and set 'em all on fire——"

Bobbie straightened up so quickly that Happy Pete fell to the floor.

"Yes, yes, Jinnie dear," he breathed. "Go on!"

Jinnie hesitated. She didn't want to fabricate further.

"It's just so awful I hate to tell you," she objected.

"I'd be happier if you would," whispered Bobbie.

"Then I will! The fire, jumping out, didn't hurt the cobbler one wee bit, but it burned the wicked men——" Jinnie paused, gathered a deep breath, and brought to mind Lafe's droning voice when he had used the same words, "Burned 'em root and branch," declared she.

Bobbie's face shone with happiness.

"Is that all?" he begged.

"Isn't it enough?" asked Jinnie, with tender chiding.

"Aren't there nothin' in it about Lafe?"

"Oh, sure!" Again she was at loss for ideas, but somehow words of their own volition seemed to spring from her lips. "Sure there is! There's another hundred pages in that blessed book that says good men like Lafe won't ever go into one of those chairs, never, never.... The Lord God Almighty ordered all those death chairs to be chopped up for kindling wood," she ended triumphantly.

"Shortwood?" broke out Bobbie.

Unheeding the interruption, Jinnie pursued: "They just left a chair for wicked men, that's all."

Bobbie slipped to the floor and raised his hands.

"Jinnie, pretty Jinnie. I'm goin' to believe every word you've said, every word, and my stars're all shinin' so bright they're just like them in the sky."

Jinnie kissed the eager little face and left the child sitting on the floor, crooning contentedly to Happy Pete.

"Lafe told me once," Jinnie whispered to herself on the way to the kitchen, "when a lie does a lot of good, it's better than the truth if telling facts hurts some one."

She joined Peggy, sighing, "I'm an awful liar, all right, but Bobbie's happy."



CHAPTER XXXVII

WHAT THE THUNDER STORM BROUGHT

In the past few weeks Jinnie Grandoken had been driven blindly into unknown places, forced to face conditions which but a short time before would have seemed unbearable. However, there was much with which Jinnie could occupy her time. Blind Bobbie was not well. He was mourning for the cobbler with all his boyish young soul, and every day Peggy grew more taciturn and ill. The funds left by Theodore were nearly gone, and Jinnie had given up her lessons. She was using the remaining money for their meagre necessities.

So slowly did the days drag by that the girl had grown to believe that the authorities would never bring Lafe to trial, exonerate him, and send him home. Then, too, Theodore was still in the hospital, and she thought of him ever with a sense of terrific loss. But the daily papers brought her news of him, and now printed that his splendid constitution might pull him through. It never occurred to her that her loved one would believe Lafe had shot him and Maudlin Bates. Theodore was too wise, too kindly, for such suspicions.

For a while after receiving permission from the county attorney, she visited Lafe every day. Peggy had seen him only once, being too miserable to stand the strain of going to the jail. But Mrs. Grandoken never neglected sending by the girl some little remembrance to her husband. Perhaps it was only a written message, but mostly a favorite dish of food or an article of his wearing apparel.

One afternoon Bobbie sat by the window with his small, pale face pressed close to the pane. Outside a great storm was raging, and from one end of Paradise Road to the other, rivulets of water rushed down to the lake. Several times that day, when the boy had addressed Mrs. Grandoken, she had answered him even more gruffly than of yore. He knew by her voice she was ill, and his palpitating heart was wrung so agonizingly that he was constantly in tears. Now he was waiting for Jinnie, and the sound of the buffeting rain and the booming roar of heavy thunder thrilled him dismally. To hear Jinnie's footsteps at that moment would be the panacea for all his grief.

Peg came into the shop, and Bobbie turned slightly.

"Jinnie's stayin' awful long at the jail to-day," said the woman fretfully. "Do you hear her comin', Bobbie?"

"No," said Bobbie, "I've been stretchin' my ears almost to the hill to hear her. If she doesn't come soon, I'll die—my stars've been gone a long time."

"I wish she'd come," sighed Mrs. Grandoken.

"Bend over here, Peg," entreated Bobbie, "I want to touch your eyes!"

Without comment the woman leaned over, and the boy's fingers wavered over her wrinkled countenance.

"You're awful sick, dearie," he grieved, pressing against her. "Can Blind Bobbie do anything?"

Peg dropped her arm around him.

"I'm afraid," she whispered. "I wish Lafe and Jinnie was here."

One long shiver shook Bobbie's slender body. That Peg could ever be afraid was a new idea to him. It terrified him even to contemplate it. He began to sob wistfully, but in another instant raised his head.