Mrs. Grandoken, dark-faced, with drooping lips, ordered the girl into the kitchen.
Alone with his wife, Lafe read Singleton's letter aloud.
"I've heard as much of her yarn as I can get," he said, glancing up. "I just wanted to tell you she was here."
"We ain't got a cent to bless ourselves with," grumbled Mrs. Grandoken, "an' times is so hard I can't get more work than what I'm doin'."
A patient, resigned look crossed the cobbler's pain-worn face.
"That's so, Peg, that's so," he agreed heartily. "But there's always to-morrow, an' after that another to-morrow. With every new day there's always a chance. We've got a chance, an' so's the girl."
The woman dropped into a chair, noticing the cobbler's smile, which was born to give her hope.
"There ain't much chance for a bit of a brat like her," she snarled crossly, and the man answered this statement with eagerness, because the rising inflection in his wife's voice made it a question.
"Yes, there is, Peg," he insisted; "yes, there is! Didn't you say there was hope for me when my legs went bad--that I had a chance for a livin'? Now didn't you, Peggy? An' ain't I got the nattiest little shop this side of way up town?"
Peg paused a moment. Then, "That you have, Lafe; you sure have," came slowly.
"An' didn't I make full sixty cents yesterday?"
"You did, Lafe; you sure did."
"An' sixty cents is better'n nothin', ain't it, Peg?"
Mrs. Grandoken arose hastily.
"Course 'tis, Lafe! But don't brag 'cause you made sixty cents. You might a lost your hands same's your feet. 'Tain't no credit to you you didn't. Here, let me wrap you up better! You'll freeze all that's left of your legs, if you don't."
"Them legs ain't much good," sighed the cobbler. "They might as well be off; mightn't they, Peg?"
Peggy wrapped a worn blanket tightly about her husband.
"You oughter be ashamed," she growled darkly. "Ain't you every day sayin' there's always to-morrow?"
This time her voice was toned with finality, and she turned and went out.