“Lafe,” she began, clearing her throat.
The cobbler questioned her with a glance.
“That girl’ll be the death of this hull shanty,” she announced huskily. “I hate ’er more’n anything in the world.”
Lafe placed a half-mended shoe beside him on the bench.
“What’s ailin’ ’er now, Peggy?”
“Oh, she ain’t sick,” interrupted Peg, with curling lip. “She never looked better’n she does this minute, settin’ in there huddlin’ that pup, but she’s brought home another kid, as bad off as a kid can be.”
“A what? What’d you say, Peg? You don’t mean a youngster!”
Mrs. Grandoken bobbed her head, her face stoically expressionless. “An’ bad off,” she repeated querulously. “The young ’un’s blind.”
Before Lafe’s mental vision rose Jinnie’s lovely face, her parted lips and self-assured smile.
“But where’d she get it? It must belong to some ’un.”