"Yes," said he hesitatingly. "Me and Peggy had a boy--a little fellow with curly hair--a Jew baby. Peggy always let me call him a Jew baby, though he was part Irish."

"Oh!" gasped Jinnie, radiantly.

"I was a big fellow then, kid, with fine, strong legs, an' nights, when I'd come home, I'd carry the little chap about."

The cobbler's eyes glistened with the memory, but shadowed almost instantly.

"But one day----" he hesitated.

The pause brought an exclamation from the girl.

"And one day--what?" she demanded.

"He died; that's all," and Lafe gazed unseeingly at the snow-covered tracks.

"And you buried him?" asked Virginia, softly.

"Yes, an' the fault was mostly mine, Jinnie. I ain't had no way to make it up to Peggy, but there's lots of to-morrows."

"You'll make her happy then?" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the girl.

"Yes," said Lafe, "an' I might a done it then, but I wouldn't listen to the voices."

A look of bewildered surprise crossed the girl's face. Were they spirit voices, the voices in the pines, of which Lafe was speaking?

She'd ask him.

"G.o.d's voices out of Heaven," said he, in answer to her query. "They come every night, but I wouldn't listen, till one day my boy was took.

Then I heard another voice, demandin' me to tell folks what was what about G.o.d. But I was afraid an' a--coward."

The cobbler lapsed into serious thought, while Virginia moved a small nail back and forth on the floor with the toe of her shoe. She wouldn't cry again, but something in the low, sad voice made her throat ache. After the man had been quiet for a long time, she pressed him with:

"After that, Lafe, what then?"

"After that," repeated the cobbler, straightening his shoulders, "after that my legs went bad an' then--an' then----"

Virginia, very pale, went to the cobbler, and laid her head against his shoulder.

"An' then, child," he breathed huskily, "I believed, an' I know, as well as I'm livin', G.o.d sent his Christ for everybody; that in the lovin' father"--Lafe raised his eyes--"there's no line drawed 'tween Jews an' Gentiles. They're all alike to Him. Only some're goin' one road an' some another to get to Him, that's all."

These were quite new ideas to Virginia. In all her young life no one had ever conversed with her of such things. True, from her hill home on clear Sunday mornings she could hear the church bells ding-dong their hoa.r.s.e welcome to the farmers, but she had never been inside the church doors. Now she regretted the lost opportunity. She wished to grasp the cobbler's meaning. Noting her tense expression, Grandoken continued:

"It was only a misunderstandin' 'tween a few Jews when they nailed the Christ to the cross. Why, a lot of Israelites back there believed in 'im. I'm one of them believin' Jews, Jinnie."

"I wish I was a Jew, cobbler," sighed Jinnie. "I'd think the same as you then, wouldn't I?"

"Oh, you don't have to be a Jew to believe," returned Lafe. "It's as easy to do as 'tis to roll off'n a log."

This lame man filled her young heart with a deep longing to help him and to have him help her.

"You're going to teach me all about it, ain't you, Lafe?" she entreated presently.

"Sure! Sure! You see, it's this way: Common, everyday folks--them with narrer minds--ain't much use for my kind of Jews. I'm livin' here in a mess of 'em. Most of 'em's shortwood gatherers. When I found out about the man on the cross, I told it right out loud to 'em all. ... You're one of 'em. You're a Gentile, Jinnie."

"I'm sorry," said the girl sadly.

"Oh, you needn't be. Peg's one, too, but she's got G.o.d's mark on her soul as big as any of them women belongin' to Abraham, Isaac and Jacob----I ain't sure but it's a mite bigger."

The speaker worked a while, bringing the nails from his lips in rapid, even succession. Peg was the one bright spot that shone out of his wonderful yesterdays. She was the one link that fastened him securely to a useful to-morrow.

Virginia counted the nails mechanically as they were driven into the leather, and as the last one disappeared, she said:

"Are you always happy, Lafe, when you're smiling? Why, you smile--when--even when--" she stammered, caught her breath, and finished, "even when Mrs. Peggy barks."

An amused laugh came from the cobbler's lips.

"That's 'cause I know her, la.s.s," said he. "Why, when I first found out about the good G.o.d takin' charge of Jews an' Gentiles alike, I told it to Peg, an', my, how she did hop up an' down, right in the middle of the floor. She said I was meddlin' into things that had took men of brains a million years to fix up.

"But I knew it as well as anything," he continued. "G.o.d's love is right in your heart, right there----" He bent over and gently touched the girl.

She looked up surprised.

"I heard He was setting on a great high throne up in Heaven," she whispered, glancing up, "and he scowled dead mad when folks were wicked."

Lafe smiled, shook his head, and picked up his hammer.

"No," said he. "No, no! He's right around me, an' He's right around you, an' everything a feller does or has comes from Him."

Virginia's thoughts went back to an episode of the country.

"Does He help a kid knock h.e.l.l out of another kid when that kid is beating a littler kid?"

Her eyes were so earnest, so deep in question, that the cobbler lowered his head. Not for the world would he have smiled at Virginia's original question. He scarcely knew how to answer, but presently said:

"Well, I guess it's all right to help them who ain't as big as yourself, but it ain't the best thing in the world to gad any one."

"Oh, I never licked any of 'em," Jinnie a.s.sured him. "I just wanted to find out, that's all."

"What'd you do when other kids beat the littler ones?" demanded the cobbler.

"Just shoved 'em down on the ground and set on 'em, d.a.m.n 'em!"

answered Jinnie.

Lafe raised his eyes slowly.

"I was wonderin' if I dared give you a lesson, la.s.s," he began in a low voice.

"I wish you would," replied Virginia, eagerly. "I'd love anything you'd tell me."