"Drink of water, Peggy dear," she whispered.
Mrs. Grandoken dropped the fluid into the open, parched mouth from a spoon; then she bent low to catch the stammering words: "Did Lafe like the rose, Peggy, and did you get the ring of sausage?"
Peg glanced at the doctor, a question struggling to her lips, but she could not frame the words.
"Tell her 'yes'," said the man under his breath.
"Lafe just doted on the flower, honey," acknowledged Peggy, bending over the bed, "and I cooked all the sausage, an' we two et 'em. They was finer'n silk.... Now go to sleep; will you?"
"Sure," trembled Jinnie. "Put Happy Pete in my arms, dear."
Mrs. Grandoken looked once more at the doctor. He nodded his head slightly.
So with the dog clasped in her arms, Jinnie straightway fell asleep.
Then Peggy wheeled Lafe away to bed, and as she helped him from the chair, she said: "I lied to her just now with my own mouth, Lafe. I told her we et them sausages. We couldn't eat 'em 'cause they was all mashed up an' covered with blood."
The cobbler's eyes searched the mottled face of the speaker.
"That kind of lies 're blessed by God in his Heaven, Peg," he breathed tenderly. "A lie lendin' a helpin' hand to a sick lass is better'n most truths."
Before going to bed Peg peeped in at Jinnie. The girl still lay with her arm over the sleeping Pete, her eyes roving round the room. She caught sight of the silent woman, and a troubled line formed between her brows.
"How're you going to get money to live, Peggy?" she wailed. "I'm just beginning to remember about the dance and getting hurt."
Peggy stood a moment at the foot of the bed.
"Lafe's got a whole pocket full o' money," she returned glibly.
"That's nice," sighed the girl in relief.
"Shut up now an' go to sleep! Lafe's got enough cash to last a month."
And as the white lids drooped over the violet eyes, Peg Grandoken's guardian angel registered another lie to her credit in the life-book of her Heavenly Father.