"Don't cry, my Bobbie," she sobbed. "I'll go back to the hills with you, because you need me. We'll live with the birds and squirrels, and I'll sell wood so we c'n eat."
When she raised her reproachful eyes to Peg, and finished with a swipe at her offending nose with her sleeve, she had never looked more beautiful, and Peggy glanced away, fearing she might weaken.
"Tell Lafe I love him, and I love you, too, Peggy. I'll come every day and see you both, and bring you some money."
If she had been ten years older or had spent months framing a speech to fit the need of this occasion, Jinnie could not have been more effective, for Peg's rage entirely ebbed at these words.
"Get up, you brats," she ordered grimly. "An' you listen to me, Jinnie Grandoken. Your Bobbie c'n stay, but if you ever, so long as you live, bring another maimed, lame or blind creature to this house, I'll kick it out in the street. Now both of you climb up to that table an' eat some hot soup."
Jinnie drew a long breath of happiness. She had cried a little, she was sorry for that. She had broken her resolve always to smile--to be "Happy in Spite."
"I'll never bring any one else in, Peg," she averred gratefully.
Then she remembered how sweeping was her promise and changed it a trifle.
"Of course if a kid was awful sick in the street and didn't have a home, I'd have to fetch it in, wouldn't I?"
Peggy flounced over to the table, speechless, followed by the two children.