The cobbler looked over his spectacles and smiled.

“A Jew, just a plain Jew.”

“I don’t know what a Jew is either,” confessed Jinnie.

Lafe groped for words to explain his meaning.

“A Jew,” he ventured presently, “is one of God’s––chosen––folks. I mean one of them chose by Him to believe.”

“Believe what?”

“All that God said would be,” explained Lafe, reverently.

“And you believe it, cobbler?” 63

63

“Sure, kid; sure.”

The shoemaker saw a question mirrored in the depths of the violet eyes.

“And thinking that way makes you happy, eh, Mr. Lafe? Does it make you smile the way you do at girls without homes?”

As she put this question sincerely to him, Jinnie reminded the cobbler of a beautiful flower lifting its proud head to the sun. In his experience with young people, he had never seen a girl like this one.

“It makes me happier’n anything!” he replied, cheerfully. “The wonderful part is I wouldn’t know about it if I hadn’t lost my legs. I’ll tell you about it, lass.”

Jinnie settled back contentedly.

“A long time ago,” began Mr. Grandoken, “God led a bunch of Jews out of a town where a king was torturin’ ’em––”

The listener’s eyes darkened in sympathy.

“They was made to do a lot of things that hurt ’em; their babies and women, too.”

Jinnie leaned forward and covered the horny hand with her slender fingers.

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