Just a Jew

Jinnie settled back contentedly.

"A long time ago," began Mr. Grandoken, "God led a bunch of Jews out of a town where a king was torturin' 'em----"

The listener's eyes darkened in sympathy.

"They was made to do a lot of things that hurt 'em; their babies and women, too."

Jinnie leaned forward and covered the horny hand with her slender fingers.

"Have you ever had any babies, Lafe?" she ventured.

A perceptible shadow crossed the man's face.

"Yes," said he hesitatingly. "Me and Peggy had a boy--a little fellow with curly hair--a Jew baby. Peggy always let me call him a Jew baby, though he was part Irish."

"Oh!" gasped Jinnie, radiantly.

"I was a big fellow then, kid, with fine, strong legs, an' nights, when I'd come home, I'd carry the little chap about."

The cobbler's eyes glistened with the memory, but shadowed almost instantly.

"But one day----" he hesitated.

The pause brought an exclamation from the girl.

"And one day--what?" she demanded.

"He died; that's all," and Lafe gazed unseeingly at the snow-covered tracks.

"And you buried him?" asked Virginia, softly.

"Yes, an' the fault was mostly mine, Jinnie. I ain't had no way to make it up to Peggy, but there's lots of to-morrows."

"You'll make her happy then?" ejaculated the girl.

"Yes," said Lafe, "an' I might a done it then, but I wouldn't listen to the voices."

A look of bewildered surprise crossed the girl's face. Were they spirit voices, the voices in the pines, of which Lafe was speaking? She'd ask him.