"HE'S COME TO LIVE WITH US, PEGGY"
They trailed along in silence, the girl watching the birds as flock
after flock disappeared in the north woods. Now and then, when Jinnie
looked at the boy, she felt the pride which comes only with
possession. She was going to work for him, to intercede with Peg, to
allow the foundling to join that precious home circle where the
cobbler and his wife reigned supreme.
As they reached the plank walk, the boy lagged back.
"I'm tired, girl," he panted. "I've walked till I'm just near dead."
He cried quietly as Jinnie led him into the shadow of a tree.
"Sit here with me," she invited. "Lay your head on my arm."
And this time he snuggled to her till the blind eyes and the pursed
delicate mouth were hidden against her arm.
"I told you, Bobbie," Jinnie resumed presently, "I'd let you be Lafe's
little boy, didn't I?"
"Yes, girl," replied the boy, sleepily.
"Now wasn't that awful good of me?"
"Awful good," was the dreamy answer. "My stars're glory bright now."
"And most likely Lafe'll help you see with your eyes, just like Happy
Pete and me!" Jinnie went on eagerly. "All the trees and hundreds of
birds, some of 'em yellow and some of 'em red, an' some of 'em so
little and cunning they could jump through the knothole in Peg's
kitchen.... Don't you wish to see all that?"
The small face brightened and the unseeing eyes flashed upward.
"I'd find my mother, then," breathed Bobbie.
"And you'd see a big high tree, with a robin making his nest in it!...
Have y' ever seen that?"
Jinnie was becoming almost aggressive, for, womanlike, with a point to
make, each argument was driven home with more power.
"No," Bobbie admitted, and his voice held a certain tragic little
note.
"And you've never seen the red running along the edge of the sky, just
when the sun's going down?"
Again his answer was a simple negative.
"And hasn't anybody tried to show you a cow and her calf in the
country, nipping the grass all day, in the yellow sunshine?"
Jinnie was waxing eloquent, and her words held high-sounding hope. The
interest in the child's face invited her to go on.
"Now I've said I'd let my folks be yours, and didn't I find you, and
have you got any one else? If you don't let me help you to Lafe's, how
you going to see any of 'em?" She paused before delivering her best
point, which was addressed quite indifferently to the sky. "And just
think of that hot soup!"
This was enough. Bobbie struggled up, flushed and agitated.
"Put your arm around me, girl," which invitation Jinnie quickly
accepted.
Then they two, so unlike, went slowly down the walk toward the tracks
to Lafe Grandoken's home.
Jinnie's heart vied with a trip-hammer as they turned into Paradise
Road. She did not fear the cobbler, but the thought of Peggy's harsh
voice, her ruthless catechizing, worried her not a little.
Nevertheless, she kept her arm about the boy, steadily drawing him on.
When they came to the side door of the house, the girl turned the
handle and walked in, leading her weary companion.
Resolutely she passed on to the kitchen, for she wanted the
disagreeable part over first. She fumbled in hesitation with the knob
of the door, and Peg, hearing her, opened it. At first, the woman saw
only Jinnie, with Happy Pete by her side. Then her gaze fell upon the
other child, whose blind, entreating eyes were turned upward in
supplication.
"This is Bobbie," announced Jinnie, "and he's come to live with us,
Peggy."
Poor Peggy stared, surprised to silence. She could find no words to
fit the occasion.
"He hasn't any home!" Jinnie gasped for breath in her excitement.
"Mag, a woman somewhere, beat him and he ran away and I found 'im. So
he belongs to us now."
She was gaining assurance every moment. She hoped that Peggy was
silently acquiescing, for the woman hadn't uttered a word; she was
merely looking from one to the other with her characteristically blank
expression.
"I'm going to give him half of Lafe, too," confided Jinnie, nodding
her head toward the waiting child.
Then Peggy burst forth in righteous indignation. She demanded to know
how another mouth was to be fed, and clothes washed and mended; where
the brat was to sleep, and what good he was anyway.
"Do you think, kid," she stormed at Jinnie, "you're so good yourself
we're wantin' to take another one worser off'n you are? Don't believe
it! He can't stay here!"
Jinnie held her ground bravely.
"Oh, I'll start right out and sell wood all day long, if you'll let
him stay, Peg."
A tousled lock of yellow hair hung over Bobbie's eyes.
"Oh, Peggy, dear, Mrs. Good Peggy, let me stay!" he moaned, swaying.
"I'm so tired, s'awful tired. I can't find my mother, nor no place,
and my stars're all out!"
Sobbing plaintively, he sank to the floor, and there the childish
heart laid bare its misery. Then Jinnie, too, became quite limp, and
forgetting all about "Happy in Spite," she knelt alongside of her
newly acquired friend, and the two despairing young voices rose to the
woman standing over them. Jinnie thrust her arms around the little
boy.
"Don't cry, my Bobbie," she sobbed. "I'll go back to the hills with
you, because you need me. We'll live with the birds and squirrels, and
I'll sell wood so we c'n eat."
When she raised her reproachful eyes to Peg, and finished with a swipe
at her offending nose with her sleeve, she had never looked more
beautiful, and Peggy glanced away, fearing she might weaken.
"Tell Lafe I love him, and I love you, too, Peggy. I'll come every day
and see you both, and bring you some money."
If she had been ten years older or had spent months framing a speech
to fit the need of this occasion, Jinnie could not have been more
effective, for Peg's rage entirely ebbed at these words.
"Get up, you brats," she ordered grimly. "An' you listen to me, Jinnie
Grandoken. Your Bobbie c'n stay, but if you ever, so long as you live,
bring another maimed, lame or blind creature to this house, I'll kick
it out in the street. Now both of you climb up to that table an' eat
some hot soup."
Jinnie drew a long breath of happiness. She had cried a little, she
was sorry for that. She had broken her resolve always to smile--to be
"Happy in Spite."
"I'll _never_ bring any one else in, Peg," she averred gratefully.
Then she remembered how sweeping was her promise and changed it a
trifle.
"Of course if a kid was awful sick in the street and didn't have a
home, I'd have to fetch it in, wouldn't I?"
Peggy flounced over to the table, speechless, followed by the two
children.