As he said this, Peg opened the door roughly and ordered them in to breakfast.
Virginia sat beside the cobbler at the meager meal. On the table were three bowls of hot mush. As the fragrant odor rose to her nostrils, waves of joy crept slowly through the young body.
“Peggy ’lowed you’d be hungry, kid,” said the cobbler, pushing a bowl in front of her.
Mrs. Grandoken interrupted her husband with a growl.
“If I’ve any mem’ry, you ’lowed it yourself, Lafe Grandoken,” she muttered.
A smile deepened on the cobbler’s face and a slight flush rose to his forehead.
“I ’lowed it, too, Peggy dear,” he said.
“Eat your mush,” snapped the woman, “an’, Lafe, don’t ‘Peggy dear’ me. I hate it; see?”
Virginia refused to believe the startling words. She 59 would have adored being called “dear.” In Lafe’s voice, great love rang out; in the woman’s, she scarcely knew what. She glanced from one to the other as the cobbler lifted his head. He was always thanking some one in some unknown place for the priceless gift of his woman.
“I’ll ‘Peggy dear’ you whenever I feel like it, wife,” he said gravely, “for God knows you’re awful dear to me, Peg.”