he law wouldn't let you, till you was of age. No, sir, you'd either
have to die a natural death or--another kind, an' you're a pretty
husky young kid to die natural."

"I don't want to die at all," shivered Jinnie.

Lafe encouraged her with a smile.

"If he finds you," pursued Lafe, "I'd have to give you up. I couldn't
do anything else. We might pray 'bout it."

A wistful expression came over Jinnie's face.

"Is praying anything like wishing, cobbler?"

"Somethin' the same," replied Mr. Grandoken, "with this
difference--wishin' is askin' somethin' out of somewhere of some one
you don't know; prayin' is just talkin' to some one you're acquainted
with! See?"

"Yes, I think I do," responded the girl. "Your way is mostly praying,
isn't it, Lafe?"

"Prayin's more powerful than wishin', lass," said Lafe. "When I was
first paralyzed, I done a lot of wishin'. I hadn't any acquaintance
with anybody but Peggy. After that I took up with God, an' He's been
awful good to me."

"He's been good to me, too, Lafe, bringing me here."

This seemed to be a discovery to Virginia, and for a few minutes her
brain was alive with new hopes. Suddenly she drew her chair in front
of Grandoken.

"Will to-morrow ever be to-day, cobbler?"

Lafe looked at the solemn-faced girl with smiling, kindly eyes.

"Sure, kid, sure," he asserted. "When you get done wishin' an' there
ain't nothin' left in the world to want, then to-morrow's to-day."

Jinnie smiled dismally. "There'd never be a day, cobbler, that I
couldn't think of something I'd like for you--and Peg."

Lafe meditated an instant before replying. Then:

"I've found out that we're always happier, kid, when we've got a
to-morrow to look to," said he, "'cause when you're just satisfied,
somethin's very apt to go smash. I was that way once."

He paused for some seconds.

"Jinnie," he murmured, "I haven't told you how I lost the use of my
legs, have I?"

"No, Lafe."

"Well, as I was sayin', there didn't used to be any to-morrow for me.
I always lived just for that one day. I had Peg an' the boy. I could
work for 'm, an' that was enough. It's more'n lots of men get in this
world."

His voice trailed into a whisper and ceased. He was living for the
moment in the glory of his past usefulness. The rapt, wrinkled face
shone as if it had been touched by angel fingers. Virginia watched him
reverently.

"It's more'n two years ago, now," proceeded the cobbler presently,
"an' I was