Jinnie contemplated Happy Pete’s points of beauty. Never before had she thought him anything more than a homely, lovable dog, with squat little legs, and a pointed nose. In lightninglike comparison she brought to her mind the things she always considered beautiful—the spring violets, the summer roses, that belt of wonderful color skirting the afternoon horizon, and all the wonders of nature of which her romantic world consisted. The contrast between these and the shaking black dog, with his smudge of tangled hair hanging over his eyes, shocked Jinnie’s artistic sense.
“If––if you say he’s beautiful, then he is,” she stammered almost inaudibly.
“Of course he is! What’s your name?”
“Jinnie. Jinnie Grandoken... What’s yours?”
“Blind Bobbie, or sometimes just Bobbie.”
“Well, I’ll call you Bobbie, if you want me to.... I like you awful well. I feel it right in here.”
She pressed the boy’s fingers to her side.
“Oh, that’s your heart!” he exclaimed. “I got one too! Feel it jump!”
Jinnie’s fingers pressed the spot indicated by the little boy.
“My goodness,” she exclaimed, “it’ll jump out of your mouth, won’t it?” 102