Lafe’s homecoming was one of solemn rejoicing. The only shadow hanging over the happy family was the absence of Blind Bobbie, who now lay by the side of his dead father.

After the first greetings, Lafe took his boy baby and pressed him gratefully to his heart.

“He’s beautiful, Peggy dear, ain’t he?” he implored, drinking in with affectionate, fatherly eyes the rosy little face. “Wife darlin’, make a long story short an’ tell me he’s beautiful.”

Mrs. Grandoken eyed her husband sternly.

“Lafe,” she admonished, “you’re as full of brag as a egg is of meat, and salt won’t save you. All your life you’ve boasted till I thought the world’d come to an end, an’ I ain’t never said a word against it. Now you can’t teach me none of your bad habits, because I won’t learn ’em, so don’t try.” She paused, her lips lifting a little at the corners, and went on: “But I’m tellin’ you with my own lips there ain’t a beautifuller baby in this county’n this little feller, nor one half so beautiful! So there’s my mind, sir.”

“’Tis so, dear,” murmured the cobbler, rejoicing.

About five o’clock in the afternoon, while Peggy was uptown replenishing the slender larder and Lafe and Jinnie were alone with the baby, there came a timid knock. 335

Jinnie went to the door and there stood Molly Merriweather. The woman’s face was white and drawn, her eyes darkly circled underneath.

One glance at her and Jinnie lost her own color.

“I want to speak with you just a moment,” the woman said beseechingly. “May I come in?”

Without answering, Jinnie backed into the room, which action Molly took as a signal to enter.

She inclined her head haughtily to the cobbler.

“Would you mind if I spoke to Miss Grandoken alone?”

Lafe looked to Jinnie for acquiescence.

“If Jinnie’ll help me to the kitchen,” he replied, “you can talk here. I’m a little unsteady on my feet yet, miss!”

It took some time for the tottering legs to bear him away, but the strong, confident girl helped him most patiently.

“You might just slip me the baby, Jinnie,” said Lafe, after he was seated in the kitchen. “I could be lookin’ at ’im while you’re talkin’. You ain’t mindin’ the woman, honey lass, be you?”

“No, dear,” answered Jinnie.

This done, the girl returned to Molly, who stood at the window staring out upon the tracks. She turned quickly, and Jinnie noticed her eyes were full of tears.

“I suppose you won’t refuse to tell me something of my—my little boy?” she pleaded.

Tears welled over Jinnie’s lids too. Bobbie’s presence and adoration were still fresh in her mind.

“He’s dead,” she mourned. “My little Bobbie! Poor little hurt Bobbie!”

Molly made a passionate gesture with her gloved hands.

“Don’t, please don’t say those things! I’m so miserable I can’t think of him. I only wanted to know how you got him.” 336

“I just found him,” stated Jinnie. Then, because Molly looked so white, she forgot the anguish the woman had caused her, and rehearsed the story of Bobbie’s life from the time she had discovered him on the hill.

“I guess he was always unhappy till he came to us.”

“And I helped to hurt him,” cried Molly, shivering.

“But you didn’t know he was yours,” soothed Jinnie.

The woman shook her head.

“No, of course I didn’t know,” she replied, and then went on rapidly:

“I was so young when I married your uncle, I didn’t know anything. When I lost my baby, I knew no way to search for him.”

“Won’t you sit down?” Jinnie had forgotten that they were both standing. “Sit in that little rocker; it’s Bobbie’s,” she finished.

Molly looked at the little chair and turned away.

“Lafe bought it for him,” Jinnie explained eagerly. “He was too sick with his heart to get around much like other boys.”

Miss Merriweather wrung her hands.

“Don’t tell me any more,” she begged piteously. “He’s dead and nothing can help him now. I’ve—something else to say to you.” Jinnie wiped her eyes.

“Mr. King is quite well now, and––”

“Oh, I’m glad!” cried Jinnie. “Does he—he ever speak of me?”

Molly shook her head mutely.

“I don’t want him to see you!” she cried, her eyes growing hard and bright.

“Why?” Jinnie said the one word in bewilderment.

“He doesn’t know yet what Jordan and I did to you, nor about—about—Bobbie. I don’t want him to, either, just yet. I fear if he does, he won’t care for me.” 337

Jinnie’s eyes drew down at the corners.

“Of course he wouldn’t if he knew,” she said, with tightly gripped fingers.

Molly paid no heed to this, but went on rapidly:

“Well, first, you don’t love him as I do––”

“I love him very much,” interjected Jinnie, “and he used to love me.”

The woman’s lips drew linelike over her teeth.

“But you see he doesn’t any longer,” she got out, “and if you go away––”

“Go away?” gasped Jinnie.

“Yes, from Bellaire. You won’t stay here, now that you’re rich.” She threw a contemptuous glance about the shop. Jinnie caught the inflection of the cutting voice and noted the expression in the dark eyes.

“I’ll stay wherever Lafe and Peggy are,” she said stubbornly.

“Perhaps, but that doesn’t say you’re going to live in this street all your life.... I want you to go back to Mottville.”

Jinnie still looked a cold, silent refusal.

Molly grew even whiter than before, but remembering Jinnie’s kindly heart, she turned her tactics.

“I’m very miserable,” she wept, “and I love Theodore better than any one in the world.”

“So do I,” sighed Jinnie, bowing her head.

“But he doesn’t love you, child, and he does love me.”

Jinnie’s eyes fixed their gaze steadily on the other woman.

“Then why’re you afraid for him to see me?” she demanded.

Molly got to her feet. She saw her flimsily constructed love world shattered by the girl before her. She knew Theodore still loved her, and that if he knew all her own 338 wickedness, his devotion would increase a hundredfold. He must not see Jinnie! Jinnie must not see him! Rapidly she reviewed the quarrels she and Theodore had had, remembered how punctiliously he always carried out his honorable intentions, and then—Molly went very near the girl, staring at her with terror in her eyes.

“Jinnie,” she said softly, “pretty Jinnie!”

Those words were Bobbie’s last earthly appeal to her, and Jinnie’s face blanched in recollection.

“Didn’t you love my baby?” Molly hurried on.

A memory of fluttering fingers traveling over her face left Jinnie’s heart cold. Next to Lafe and Theodore she had loved Bobbie best.

“I loved him, oh, very much indeed!” she whispered.

“And he often told you he loved—his—his—mother?”

“Yes.”

Molly was slowly drawing the girl’s hands into hers.

“He’d want me to be happy, Jinnie dear. Oh, please let me have the only little happiness left me!”

Jinnie drew away, almost hypnotized.

“I can’t be a—a good woman unless I have Theodore,” Molly moaned. “You’re very young––”

Her eyes sought the girl’s, who was struggling to her feet.

“For Bobbie’s sake, Jinnie, for—for––”

Jinnie brought to mind the blind boy, his winsome ways, his desire for his beautiful mother, her own love for Theodore, and turning away, said with a groan:

“I want Theodore to be happy, and I want you to be happy, too, for—for Bobbie’s sake. I—I promise not to see him, but I’ll always believe he loves me—that—that––”

“You’re a good girl,” interrupted Molly with a sigh of relief. 339

Jinnie went to the door.

“Go now,” she said, with proudly lifted head, “and I hope I’ll never see you again as long as I live.”

Then Molly went away, and for a long time the girl stood, with her back to the door, weeping out the sorrow of a torn young soul. She had promised to give up Theodore completely. She had lost her love, her friend, her sweetheart. Once more she had surrendered to Bobbie Grandoken the best she had to give.

Later, when the cobbler and his wife were crooning over their little son, Jinnie, with breaking heart, decided she would leave Bellaire at once, as Molly had asked her. She must never think of Theodore again. She’d renounced him, firmly believing he still loved her; she’d promised to depart without seeing him, but surely, oh, a little farewell note, with the assurances of her gratitude, would not be breaking that promise.

So, until Peggy carried the baby away to bed, the girl composed a letter to Theodore, pathetic in its terseness. She also wrote to Molly, telling her she had decided to go back to Mottville immediately.

When she had finished the letters, she took her usual place on the stool at the cobbler’s feet.

“Lafe,” she ventured, wearily, “some time I’m going to tell you everything that’s happened since I last saw you, but not to-night!”

“Whenever you’re ready, honey,” acquiesced Lafe.

“And I’ve been thinking of something else, dear. I want to go to Mottville.”

Lafe’s face paled.

“I don’t see how Peg an’ me’ll live without you, Jinnie.”

Jinnie touched the hand smoothing her curls.

“I couldn’t live without you either, Lafe, and I won’t try––” 340

The cobbler bent and kissed her.

“I won’t try, dear,” she repeated. “You must all live with me, although I’ll go first to arrange things a little. We’ll never worry about money any more, dearest.”

“And Mr. King,” Lafe faltered, quite disturbed, “what about him?”

“I shan’t ever see him again,” Jinnie stated sadly. “I’ve just written him, and he’ll understand.”

Lafe knew by the finality of her tones that she did not care to discuss Theodore that night.