floor, and he sat eyeing the speaker speechlessly. Then he slowly lifted his arms and held them forth.

“Come here! Lass, come here!” he said huskily. “I’d come to you, but I can’t.”

In her mental state it took Jinnie a few seconds to gather the import of the cobbler’s words. Then she sprang up and went forward with parted, smiling lips, tears trembling thick on her dark lashes. When Jinnie felt a pair of warm, welcoming arms about her strong 52 young shoulders, she shivered in sudden joy. The sensation was delightful, and while a thin hand patted her back, she choked down a hard sob. However, she pressed backward and looked down into Lafe Grandoken’s eyes.

52

“I thought I’d never cry again as long as I lived,” she whispered, “but—but I guess it’s your loving me that’s done it.”

It came like a small confession—as a relief to the overburdened little soul.

“I guess I’ve rode a hundred miles to get here,” she went on, half sobbing, “and you’re awful glad to see me, ain’t you?”

It didn’t need Lafe’s, “You bet your boots,” to satisfy Jinnie. The warmth of his arms, the shining, misty eyes, set her to shivering convulsively and shaking with happiness.

“Set here on the bench,” invited the cobbler, softly, “an’ tell me about your pa an’ ma.”

“They’re both dead,” said Jinnie, sitting down, but she still kept her hand on the cobbler’s arm as if she were afraid he would vanish from her sight.

The man made a dash at his eyes with his free hand.

“Both dead!” he repeated with effort, “an’ you’re their girl!”

“Yes, and I’ve come to live with you, if you’ll let me.”

She drew forth the letters written the night before.

“Here’s two letters,” she ended, handing them over, and sinking down again into the chair.

She sat very quietly as the cobbler stumbled through the finely written sheets.

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