Over the bridge into Paradise Road went the lithe, buoyant figure of a girl, a loose strap hanging from one straight shoulder. Jinnie was radiantly happy, for her first day had netted the family twenty cents, and if Paradise Road had been covered with eggs, she would not have broken many in her flight homeward. If she had been more used to Mrs. Grandoken, she would have understood the peculiar tightening at the corners of the woman’s thin lips when she delivered the precious pittance. Virginia searched the other’s face for the least sign of approbation. She wished Peg would kiss her, but, of course, she dared not suggest it. To have a little show of affection seemed to Jinnie just then the most desirable thing in the world, but the cobbler’s wife merely muttered as she went away to the kitchen, and Virginia, sighing, sat down.

“Now suppose you tell me all about it, Jinnie,” Lafe suggested smilingly; “just where you went an’ how you earned all the money.”

Fatigued almost beyond the point of rehearsing her experiences, Jinnie took Milly Ann on her lap and curled up in the chair.

“I guess I’ve walked fifteen miles,” she began. “You know most folks don’t want wood.”

Lafe took one sidewise glance at the beautiful face. He remembered a picture he had once seen of an angel. Jinnie’s face was like that picture. 80

“Well, first, Lafe,” she recounted, “I gathered the wood in the marsh, then I went straight across the back field through the swamp. It’s froze over harder’n hell––”

Lafe uttered a little, “Sh!” and Jinnie, with scarlet face, supplemented,

“I mean harder’n anything.”

“Sure,” replied Lafe, nodding.

“Mr. Bates and his kids were there, but he c’n carry a pile three times bigger’n I can!”

“Well, you’re only a child. Sometimes Bates can’t sell all he gets, though.”

“I sold all mine,” asserted Jinnie, brightening.

The cobbler recalled the history of Jinnie’s lonely little life—of how during those first fifteen years no kindly soul had given her counsel, and now his heart glowed with thanksgiving as he realized that she was growing in faith and womanliness. He wanted Jinnie to give credit where credit was due, so he said,

“You sold your wood because you had a helpin’ hand.”

Jinnie was about to protest.

“I mean––” breathed Lafe.

“Oh, angels! Eh?” interrupted the girl. “Yes, I sold my last two cents’ worth by saying what you told me—‘He gives His angels charge over thee’—and, zip! a woman bought the last bundle and gave me a cent more’n I charged her.”

“Good!” Lafe was highly pleased. “It’ll work every time, an’ to make a long story short, it works on boots an’ shoes, too.”

“Wood’s awful heavy,” Jinnie decided, irrelevantly.

“Sure,” soothed Lafe again. He hesitated a minute, drew his hand across his eyes, and continued, “An’, by the way, Jinnie––”

Jinnie’s receptive face caused the cobbler to proceed: 81

“I wouldn’t have nothin’ to do with Bates’ son Maudlin, if I was you.... He’s a bad lot.”

Jinnie’s head drooped. She flushed to her hair.

“I saw him to-day,” she replied. “He’s got wicked eyes. I hate boys who wink!”

A look of desperation clouded the fair young face, and the cobbler, looking at the slender girlish figure, and thinking the while of Maudlin Bates, suddenly put out his hand.

“Come here, lassie,” he said.

Another flame of color mounted to Jinnie’s tousled hair. With hanging head, she pushed Milly Ann from her lap and walked to the cobbler’s side.

“What did Maudlin say to you?” he demanded.

“He said he’d—he’d crack my twigs for me if—if I’d kiss him, and he pinched me when I wouldn’t.”

Anger and deep resentment displayed themselves on Lafe’s pale face.

“Jinnie, lass,” he breathed. “I c’n trust you, child. Can’t I trust you? You wouldn’t––”

Jinnie drew away from Lafe’s embrace.

“I guess I’d rather be killed’n have Maudlin kiss me,” she cried passionately.

Just then Peg came to the door.

“Run to the butcher’s for a bit of chopped steak, Jinnie,” she ordered, “an’ make your head save your heels by bringin’ in some bread.”

Jinnie jumped up quickly.

“Please use some of my money to buy ’em, Peggy,” she begged. “Oh, please do.”

Peggy eyed her sternly.

“Kid,” she warned. “I want to tell you something before you go any farther in life. You may be smart, but ’tain’t no credit to you, ’cause you didn’t make yourself. I’m tellin’ you this for fear makin’ so much money’ll turn 82 your head.... Here’s your ten cents.... Now go along.”

After Jinnie had gone, Mrs. Grandoken sat down opposite her husband.

“The girl looks awful tired,” she offered, after a moment’s silence.

“She’s been earnin’ her livin’ by the sweat of her brow,” replied Lafe, with a wan smile.

“Mebbe she’ll get used to it,” growled Peg. “Of course I don’t like her, but I don’t want her hurt. ’Twon’t make her sick, will it?”

“No, she’s as strong as a little ox. She’s got enough strength in her body to work ten times harder, but Peg––” Here Lafe stopped and looked out to the hill beyond the tracks, “but, Peggy, perhaps we c’n find her somethin’ else after a while, when there ain’t so much fear of her uncle. To make a long story short, Peg, danger of him’s the only thing that’ll keep the kid luggin’ wood.”

“I was wonderin’,” returned Peg, “if we couldn’t get some one interested in ’er—the Kings, mebbe. They’re a good sort, with lots of money, an’ are more’n smart.”

Lafe’s eyes brightened visibly, but saddened again. He shook his head.

“We can’t get the Kings ’cause I read in the paper last night they’re gone away West, to be gone for a year or more.... It’s a good idea, though. Some one’ll turn up, sure.”

“When they do, my man,” Peg said quickly, “don’t be takin’ any credit to yourself, ’cause you hadn’t ought to take credit for the plannin’ your sharp brains do.”

As he shook his head, smiling, she left him quickly and shut the door.