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."

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.

"Come in and shut the door," said he, and