CHAPTER XXXVIII
THE STORY OF A BIRD
Lafe Grandoken, in his wheel chair, sat under the barred prison window, an open Bible on his knees. Slowly the shadows were falling about him, and to the man every shade had an entity of its own. First there trooped before him all the old memories of the many yesterdays—of Peg—his little dead lad—and Jinnie. And lastly, ghostlike, came the shattered hopes of to-morrow, and with these he groaned and shivered.
Jinnie stole in and looked long upon her friend through the iron-latticed door. The smile that played with the dimples in her cheeks and the dancing shadows in the violet eyes indicated her happiness. Lafe looked older and thinner than ever before, and her heart sang when she thought of the news she had to tell him. She longed to pronounce his name, to take away the far-away expression that seemed to hold him in deep meditation. During her tramp to the jail she’d concocted a fairy story to bring a smile to the cobbler’s lips. So at length:
“Lafe,” she whispered.
Mr. Grandoken’s head came up quickly, and he turned the chair and wheeled toward her. There was the same question in his eyes that had been there for so many days, and Jinnie smiled broadly.
“Lafe,” she began mysteriously, “a great big bird flew right into the house last night. He flopped in to get out of the storm!” 269
“A bird?” repeated Lafe, startled.
“Yes, and everybody says it’s awful good luck.”
Lafe’s expression grew tragic, and Jinnie hurried on with her tale.