Jinnie Singleton watched Theodore King leave the train at the little private station situated on his own estate. As she drew nearer the city depot, her heart beat with uncertainty, for that day would decide her fate, her future; she would know by night whether or not she possessed a friend in the world.

For some hours she sat in the station on one of the hard benches, waiting for daylight, at which time she and Milly Ann would steal forth into the city to find Lafe Grandoken, her mother’s friend.

A reluctant, stormy dawn was pushing its way from the horizon as she picked up the pail and fiddle and stepped out into the falling snow.

Stopping a moment, she asked the station master about the Grandokens, but as he had only that week arrived in Bellaire, he politely, with admiration in his eyes, told her he could not give her any information. But on the railroad tracks Virginia saw a man standing with his hands thrust deep into his pockets.

“What’d you want of Lafe Grandoken?” asked the fellow in reply to her question.

“I’ve come to see him,” answered Jinnie evasively.

“He’s a cobbler and lives down with the shortwood gatherers there on Paradise Road. Littlest shack of the bunch! He ain’t far from my folks. My name’s Maudlin Bates.” 50

He went very near her.

“Now I’ve told you, you c’n gimme a kiss,” said he.

“I’ll give you a bat,” flung back Jinnie, walking away.

Some distance off she stood looking down the tracks, her blue eyes noting the row of huts strung along the road and extending toward the hills. At the back of them was a marshland, dense with trees and underbrush.

“My father told me Mr. Grandoken was a painter of houses!” Jinnie ruminated: “But that damn duffer back there says he’s changed his work to cobbling. I’ll go and see! I hope it won’t be long before I’m as warm as can be. Wonder if he’ll be glad to see me!”

“It’s the smallest house among ’em,” she cogitated further, walking very fast. “Well! There ain’t any of ’em very big.”

She traveled on through heavy snow, glancing at every hut until, coming to a standstill, she read aloud:

“Lafe Grandoken, Cobbler of Folks’ and Children’s Shoes and Boots.”

Jinnie turned and, going down a short flight of steps, hesitated a moment before she knocked timidly on the front door. During the moment of waiting she glanced over what she hoped was to be her future home. It was so small in comparison with the huge, lonely farmhouse she had left the night before that her heart grew warm in anticipation. Then in answer to a man’s voice, calling “Come in!” she lifted the latch and opened the door.

The room was small and cheerless, although a fire was struggling for life in a miniature stove. In one corner was a table strewn with papers. Back from the window which faced the tracks was a man, a kit of cobbler’s tools, in the disarray of daily use, on the bench beside him. He halted, with his hammer in the air, at the sight of the newcomer. 51

“Come in and shut the door,” said he, and the girl did as she was bidden. “Cold, ain’t it?”

“Yes,” replied Jinnie, placing the pail and fiddle on the floor.

The girl looked the man over with her steady blue eyes. Then her heart gave one great bound. The grey face had lighted with a sweet, sad smile; the faded eyes, under the bushy brows, twinkled welcome. A sense of wonderful security and friendship rushed over her.

“Well, what’s your business? Got some shoes to mend?” asked the man. “Better sit down.”

Jinnie took a chair in silence, a passionate wish suffusing her being that this small home might be hers. She was so lonely, so homesick. The little room seemed radiant with the smile of the cobbler. She only felt the wonderful content that flowed from the man on the bench to herself; she wanted to stay with him; never before had she been face to face with a desire so great.

“I’ve come to live with you,” she gulped, at length.

The cobbler gave a quick whack at the little shoe he held in the vise.

“I’m Jinnie Singleton, kid of Thomas Singleton, the second,” the girl explained, almost mechanically, “and I haven’t any home, so I’ve come to you.”

During this statement the cobbler’s hammer rattled to the 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.

“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.

“Mottville Corners, N. Y.

“Dear Mr. Grandoken,” whispered Lafe.

“My girl will bring you this, and, in excuse for sending 53 her, I will briefly state: I’m very near the grave, and she’s in great danger. I want to tell you that her Uncle Jordan Morse has conquered me and will her, if she’s not looked after. For her mother’s sake, I ask you to take her if you can. She will repay you when she’s of age, but until then, after I’m gone, she can’t get any money unless through her uncle, and that would be too dangerous. When I say that my child’s life isn’t worth this paper if she is given over to Morse, you’ll see the necessity of helping her. I don’t know another soul I could trust as I am trusting you. The other letter Virginia will explain. Keep it to use against Morse if you need to.

“I can’t tell you whether my girl is good or not, but I hope so. I’ve woefully neglected her, but now I wish I had a chance to live the past few years over. She’ll tell you all she knows, which isn’t much. What you do for her will be greatly appreciated by me, and would be by her mother, too, if she could understand her daughter’s danger. ”Gratefully yours,

“Thomas G. Singleton.”

The cobbler put down the paper, and the rattling of it made Jinnie raise her head.

“Come over here again,” said the shoemaker, kindly. “Now tell me all about it.”

“Didn’t the letter tell you?”

“Some of it, yes. But tell me about yourself.”

Lafe Grandoken listened as the girl recounted her past life with Matty, and when at the finish she remarked,

“I had to bring Milly Ann––”

Grandoken by a look interrupted her explanation.

“Milly Ann?” he repeated.

Then came the story of the mother-cat and her babies. Jinnie lifted the towel, and the almost smothered kittens 54 scrambled over the top of the pail. Milly Ann stretched her cramped legs, then proceeded vigorously to wash the faces of her numerous children.

“She wouldn’t ’ve had a place to live if I hadn’t brought her,” explained Jinnie, looking at the kittens. “I guess they won’t eat much, because Milly Ann catches all kinds of live things. I don’t like ’er to do that, but I heard she was born that way and can’t help it.”

“I guess she’ll find enough to eat around here,” he said softly.

“I brought my fiddle, too,” Jinnie went on lovingly. “I couldn’t live without it any more’n I could without Milly Ann.”

The cobbler nodded.

“You play?” he questioned.

“A little,” replied the girl.

Mr. Grandoken eyed the instrument on the floor beside the pail.

“You oughter have a box to put it in,” he suggested. “It might get wet.”

Virginia acquiesced by bowing her head.

“I know it,” she assented, “but I carried it in that old wrap.... Did Father tell you about my uncle?”

“Yes,” replied the cobbler.

“And that he was made to die for something my uncle did?”

“Yes, an’ that he might harm you.... I knew your mother well, lass, when she was young like you.”

An expression of sadness pursed Jinnie’s pretty mouth.

“I don’t remember her, you see,” she murmured sadly. “I wish I had her now.”

And she heard the cobbler murmur, “What must your uncle be to want to hurt a little, sweet girl like you?”

They did not speak again for a few moments. 55

“Go call Peg,” the cobbler then said.

At a loss, Virginia glanced about.

“Peg’s my woman—my wife,” explained Lafe. “Go through that door there. Just call Peg an’ she’ll come.”

In answer to the summons a woman appeared, with hands on hips and arms akimbo. Her almost colorless hair, streaked a little with grey, was drawn back from a sallow, thin face out of which gleamed a pair of light blue eyes. Jinnie in one quick glance noted how tall and angular she was. The cobbler looked from his wife to her.

“You’ve heard me speak about Singleton, who married Miss Virginia Burton in Mottville, Peggy, ain’t you?” he asked.

“Yes,” answered the woman.

“His kid’s come to live with us. She calls herself Jinnie.” He threw his eyes with a kindly smile to the girl, standing hesitant, longing for recognition from the tall, gaunt woman. “I guess she’d better go to the other room and warm her hands, eh?”

Mrs. Grandoken, dark-faced, with drooping lips, ordered the girl into the kitchen.

Alone with his wife, Lafe read Singleton’s letter aloud.

“I’ve heard as much of her yarn as I can get,” he said, glancing up. “I just wanted to tell you she was here.”

“We ain’t got a cent to bless ourselves with,” grumbled Mrs. Grandoken, “an’ times is so hard I can’t get more work than what I’m doin’.”

A patient, resigned look crossed the cobbler’s pain-worn face.

“That’s so, Peg, that’s so,” he agreed heartily. “But there’s always to-morrow, an’ after that another to-morrow. With every new day there’s always a chance. We’ve got a chance, an’ so’s the girl.” 56

The woman dropped into a chair, noticing the cobbler’s smile, which was born to give her hope.

“There ain’t much chance for a bit of a brat like her,” she snarled crossly, and the man answered this statement with eagerness, because the rising inflection in his wife’s voice made it a question.

“Yes, there is, Peg,” he insisted; “yes, there is! Didn’t you say there was hope for me when my legs went bad—that I had a chance for a livin’? Now didn’t you, Peggy? An’ ain’t I got the nattiest little shop this side of way up town?”

Peg paused a moment. Then, “That you have, Lafe; you sure have,” came slowly.

“An’ didn’t I make full sixty cents yesterday?”

“You did, Lafe; you sure did.”

“An’ sixty cents is better’n nothin’, ain’t it, Peg?”

Mrs. Grandoken arose hastily.

“Course ’tis, Lafe! But don’t brag ’cause you made sixty cents. You might a lost your hands same’s your feet. ’Tain’t no credit to you you didn’t. Here, let me wrap you up better! You’ll freeze all that’s left of your legs, if you don’t.”

“Them legs ain’t much good,” sighed the cobbler. “They might as well be off; mightn’t they, Peg?”

Peggy wrapped a worn blanket tightly about her husband.

“You oughter be ashamed,” she growled darkly. “Ain’t you every day sayin’ there’s always to-morrow?”

This time her voice was toned with finality, and she turned and went out.

“I GUESS THEY WON’T EAT MUCH, BECAUSE MILLY ANN CATCHES ALL KIND OF LIVE THINGS. I DON’T LIKE HER TO DO THAT, BUT I HEARD SHE WAS BORN THAT WAY AND CAN’T HELP IT.”