“Have you ever had any babies, Lafe?” she ventured.

A perceptible shadow crossed the man’s face.

“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. 64

64

“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?” ejaculated 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.

“God’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 God. 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 

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