Lafe looked at the solemn-faced girl with smiling, kindly eyes.
“Sure, kid, sure,” he asserted. “When you get done wishin’ an’ there ain’t nothin’ left in the world to want, then to-morrow’s to-day.”
Jinnie smiled dismally. “There’d never be a day, cobbler, 72 that I couldn’t think of something I’d like for you—and Peg.”
Lafe meditated an instant before replying. Then:
“I’ve found out that we’re always happier, kid, when we’ve got a to-morrow to look to,” said he, “’cause when you’re just satisfied, somethin’s very apt to go smash. I was that way once.”
He paused for some seconds.
“Jinnie,” he murmured, “I haven’t told you how I lost the use of my legs, have I?”
“No, Lafe.”
“Well, as I was sayin’, there didn’t used to be any to-morrow for me. I always lived just for that one day. I had Peg an’ the boy. I could work for ’m, an’ that was enough. It’s more’n lots of men get in this world.”
His voice trailed into a whisper and ceased. He was living for the moment in the glory of his past usefulness. The rapt, wrinkled face shone as if it had been touched by angel fingers. Virginia watched him reverently.