dlin."

As the words left his lips, he began to sob. "I want my cobbler," he
screamed loudly, "and I want my beautiful stars!"

"Bobbie, Bobbie, you'll be sick if you scream that way. There, there,
honey!" Jinnie hushed him gently.

"I want to be 'Happy in Spite'," the boy went on. But his words
brought before the pale girl that old, old memory of the cobbler who
had invented the club for just such purposes as this. How could she be
'Happy in Spite' when Bobbie suffered; when Peg and baby Lafe needed
her; happy when Lafe faced an ignominious death for a crime he had not
committed; happy when her beloved was perhaps still very ill in the
hospital? She got up and began to walk to and fro. Suddenly she paused
in her even march across the room. Unless she steadied her fluttering,
stinging nerves, she'd never be able to still the wretched boy.
There's an old saying that when one tries to help others, winged aid
will come to the helper. And so it was with Jinnie. She had only again
taken Bobbie close when there came to her Lafe's old, old words: "He
hath given his angels charge over thee."

"Bobbie," she said softly, "I'm going to play for you."

As Jinnie straightened his limp little body out on the divan, she
noticed how very thin he had become, how his heart throbbed
continually, how the agonized lines drew and pursed the sensitive,
delicate mouth.

Then she played and played and played, and ever in her heart to the
rhythm of her music were the words, "His angels shall have charge over
thee." Suddenly there came to her a great belief that out of her faith
and Lafe's faith would come Bobbie's good, and Peg's good, and
especially the good of the man shut up in the little cell. When the
boy grew sleepy, Jinnie made him ready for bed.

"I'll lie down with you, Bobbie," she whispered, "and Happy Pete can
sleep on the foot of the bed."

And as the pair of sad little souls slept, Lafe's angels kept guard
over them.

CHAPTER XLIII

THEODORE SENDS FOR MOLLY

Theodore King was rallying rapidly in the hospital. All danger of
blood poison had passed, and though he was still very weak, his
surgeon had ceased to worry, and the public at large sat back with a
sigh, satisfied that the wealthiest and most promising young citizen
in the county had escaped death at the hand of an assassin.

One morning a telephone message summoned Molly Merriweather to the
hospital. In extreme agitation she dressed quickly, telling Mr