“Oh, you don’t have to be a Jew to believe,” returned Lafe. “It’s as easy to do as ’tis to roll off’n a log.”
This lame man filled her young heart with a deep longing to help him and to have him help her.
“You’re going to teach me all about it, ain’t you, Lafe?” she entreated presently.
“Sure! Sure! You see, it’s this way: Common, everyday folks—them with narrer minds—ain’t much use for my kind of Jews. I’m livin’ here in a mess of ’em. Most of ’em’s shortwood gatherers. When I found out about the man on the cross, I told it right out loud to ’em all. ... You’re one of ’em. You’re a Gentile, Jinnie.”
“I’m sorry,” said the girl sadly.
“Oh, you needn’t be. Peg’s one, too, but she’s got God’s mark on her soul as big as any of them women belongin’ to Abraham, Isaac and Jacob––I ain’t sure but it’s a mite bigger.” 66
The speaker worked a while, bringing the nails from his lips in rapid, even succession. Peg was the one bright spot that shone out of his wonderful yesterdays. She was the one link that fastened him securely to a useful to-morrow.
Virginia counted the nails mechanically as they were driven into the leather, and as the last one disappeared, she said:
“Are you always happy, Lafe, when you’re smiling? Why, you smile—when—even when—” she stammered, caught her breath, and finished, “even when Mrs. Peggy barks.”
An amused laugh came from the cobbler’s lips.