“I’m afraid,” she whispered. “I wish Lafe and Jinnie was here.”
One long shiver shook Bobbie’s slender body. That Peg could ever be afraid was a new idea to him. It terrified him even to contemplate it. He began to sob wistfully, but in another instant raised his head. 264
“She’s comin’,” he cried sharply. “I hear ’er. I got two stars, mebbe three.”
When Jinnie opened the door, the water was dripping from her clothes, and her hair hung in long, wet curls to her waist. One look into Peg’s twisted, pain-ridden face, and she understood.
“I’m glad you’re here,” said the woman, with a gesture of helplessness. And Bobbie echoed, with fluttering hands, “I’m glad, too, Jinnie. Me and Peg was so ’fraid.”
The girl spoke softly to Bobbie, and drew Peggy into the bedroom. There, with her arm thrown across Mrs. Grandoken’s shoulder, she gave all the assurance and comfort of which she was capable.
Long after midnight, the rain still came down in thrashing torrents, and through the pieces of broken tin on the roof the wind shrilled dismally.
There was a solemn hush in the back bedroom where Peggy lay staring at the ceiling. In front of the shadowy lamp was a bit of cardboard to protect the sick woman’s eyes from the light. At Peggy’s side sat Jinnie, and in her arms lay a small bundle. Jinnie had gained much knowledge in the last few hours. She had discovered the mystery of all existence. She had seen Peg go down into that wonderful valley of life and bring back Lafe’s little boy baby, and the girl’s eyes held an expression of impenetrable things. She moved her position slightly so as to study Mrs. Grandoken’s face.
Suddenly Peg’s eyes lowered.
“Jinnie, gimme a drink, will you?”