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 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."