"Well, I was wonderin' if you knew it was wicked to swear?"

Like a shot came a pang through her breast. She had offended her friend.

"Wicked? Wicked?" she gasped. "You say it's wicked to swear, cobbler?"

Lafe nodded. "Sure, awful wicked," he affirmed.

Virginia took a long breath.

"I didn't know it," she murmured. "Father said it wasn't polite, but that's nothing. How is it wicked, cobbler?"

Lafe put two nails into position in the leather sole and drove them deep; then he laid down the hammer again.

"You remember my tellin' you this morning of the man with angels, white angels, hoverin' about the earth helpin' folks?"

"Yes," answered Virginia.

"Well, He said it was wicked."

An awe-stricken glance fell upon the speaker.

"Did He tell you so, Lafe?"

"Yes," said Lafe. "It ain't a question of politeness at all, but just bein' downright wicked. See, kid?"

"Yes, cobbler, I do now," Jinnie answered, hanging her head. "n.o.body but Matty ever told me nothing before. I guess she didn't know much about angels, though."

"Well," continued Lafe, going back to his story, "G.o.d give his little boy Jesus to a mighty good man an' a fine woman--as fine as Peg--to bring up. An' Joseph trundled the little feller about just as I did my little Lafe, an' bye-an'-bye when the boy grew, He worked as his Father in Heaven wanted him to. The good G.o.d helped Joseph an' Mary to bring the Christ down face to face with us--Jews an' Gentiles alike."

"With you and me?" breathed Virginia, solemnly.

"With you an' me, child," repeated the cobbler in subdued tones.

Virginia walked to the window and drummed on the pane. Through mere force of habit the cobbler bent his head and caught the tacks between his teeth. He did it mechanically; he was thinking of the future. In the plan of events which Lafe had worked out for himself and Peg, there was but one helper, and each day some new demonstration came to make his faith the brighter. In the midst of his meditation, Jinnie returned to her seat.

"Cobbler, will you do something I ask you?"

"Sure," a.s.sented Lafe.

"Get busy trusting Peg'll get the two dollars to-night."

"I have long ago, child, an' she's goin' to get it, too. That's one blessin' about believin'. No one nor n.o.body can keep you from gettin'

what's your own."

"Mrs. Peggy doesn't think that way," remarked Virginia, with keen memories of Mrs. Grandoken's snapping teeth.

"No, not yet, but I'm trustin' she will. You see how 'tis in this shop. Folks is poor around here. I trust 'em all, Jews and Gentiles alike, but Peg thinks I ought to have the money the minute the work's done. But I know no man can keep my money from me, so I soothe her down till she don't whine any more. That's how I know her bark's worser'n her bite. Didn't I tell you about the biscuit?"

"Yes," replied Virginia, "and I hope it'll only be bark about the money; what if she didn't get it?"

"She'll get it," a.s.sured Lafe, positively.

Just before bed time Lafe whispered in Jinnie's ear, "Peggy got the two! I told you she would. G.o.d's good, child, and we've all got Him in us alike."

And that night, as the air waxed colder and colder, Virginia Singleton, daughter of the rich, slept her tired sleep amid the fighters of the world.

CHAPTER VIII

"EVERY HAND SHALL DO ITS SHARE," QUOTH PEG.

The fifth day of Jinnie's stay in the cobbler's home crept out of the cold night accompanied by the worst blizzard ever known along the lake. Many times, if it had not been for the protecting overhanging hills, the wood gatherers' huts would have been swept quite away. As it was, Jinnie felt the shack tremble and sway, and doubted its ability to withstand the onslaught.

After breakfast found Lafe and Jinnie conversing interestedly in the shop. The cobbler allowed several bright nails to fall into his palm before he answered the question which was worrying the girl.

"There ain't no use troublin' about it, child," commented he. "We can't starve."

"If I could only work," said Jinnie gloomily, "I bet Peg'd soon like me, because she wouldn't have to go out in the cold at all. But you think it'd be bad for me, eh, Lafe?"

"Well, you couldn't go around to the factories or stores very well,"

replied Lafe. "You see your uncle's tryin' to trace you. I showed you that this mornin' in the paper, didn't I, where he mourned over you as lost after findin' your father dead?"

Jinnie nodded.

"Yes, I read it," she said.

"An' he can't get your money for seven years. That makes him madder'n a hatter, of course."

"If he'd let me alone, I'd just as soon give him the money," Jinnie said mournfully.

Lafe shook his head.

"The law wouldn't let you, till you was of age. No, sir, you'd either have to die a natural death or--another kind, an' you're a pretty husky young kid to die natural."

"I don't want to die at all," shivered Jinnie.

Lafe encouraged her with a smile.

"If he finds you," pursued Lafe, "I'd have to give you up. I couldn't do anything else. We might pray 'bout it."

A wistful expression came over Jinnie's face.

"Is praying anything like wishing, cobbler?"

"Somethin' the same," replied Mr. Grandoken, "with this difference--wishin' is askin' somethin' out of somewhere of some one you don't know; prayin' is just talkin' to some one you're acquainted with! See?"