I’ll be delighted, Senator,” went on Mr. Manning, rather affected himself. “I’ll be delighted. You always were generous.”
“Here you are, Manning,” said the senator, grimly, from the mere necessity of it. “Send everything now, and the bill to me.”
“I’ll be delighted,” was all the astonished and approving groceryman could say.
The senator passed out, but remembering the old people, visited a clothier and shoe man, and finding that he could only guess at what sizes might be required, ordered the several articles with the privilege of exchange. When his labors were over, he returned to his room.
“Carrying coal,” he thought, over and over. “Really, it was very thoughtless in me. I mustn’t forget them any more.”
CHAPTER IV
The desire to flee, which Jennie experienced upon seeing the senator again, was attributable to what she considered the disgrace of her position. She was ashamed to think that he, who thought so well of her, should discover her doing so common a thing. Girl-like, she was inclined to imagine that his interest in her depended upon things which were better than this.
When Jennie reached home, Mrs. Gerhardt had heard of her flight from the other children.
“What was the matter with you, anyhow?” asked George, when she came in.
“Oh, nothing,” she answered, but immediately turned to her mother, who was near, and said, “Mr. Brander came by and saw us.”
“Oh, did he?” softly exclaimed her mother. “He’s back then. What made you run, though, you foolish girl?”
“Well, I didn’t want him to see me.”
Mrs. Gerhardt could not help laughing at her daughter’s predicament and the children’s description of her flight, but she secretly appreciated and sympathized with her feelings. It was too bad, she thought, that the distinguished senator should know.
“Well, maybe he didn’t know you, anyhow,” she said.
“Oh, yes he did, too,” whispered Jennie. “He called after me three or four times.”
Mrs. Gerhardt shook her head.
“What is it?” said Gerhardt, who had been hearing the conversation from the adjoining room, and now came out.
“Oh, nothing,” said the mother, who hated to explain the significance which the senator’s personality had come to have in their lives. “A man frightened them when they were bringing the coal.”
Gerhardt looked the distress he felt, but could say nothing. It was all too bad that his children must be subjected to this, but what could he do? Seeing the rest of them laughing over it and looking upon it in the light of a joke, he smiled also.
“We’ll buy some coal pretty soon, maybe,” he added.
The arrival of the Christmas presents, later in the evening, threw the household into an uproar of excitement. Neither Gerhardt nor the mother could believe their eyes when a grocery wagon halted in front of their cottage, and a lusty clerk began to carry in the gifts. After failing to persuade the clerk to hesitate, or to convince him that he had made a mistake, the large assortment of things was looked into with exceedingly human glee.
“Just you never mind,” were the clerk’s authoritative words. “I know what I’m about. Gerhardt, isn’t it? Well, you’re the people.”
Mrs. Gerhardt moved about, rubbing her hands in her excitement, and giving vent to an occasional “Well, isn’t that nice now!”
Gerhardt himself was melted at the thought of the generosity of the unknown benefactor, and was inclined to lay it all to the goodness of a great local mill owner, who knew him and wished him well. Mrs. Gerhardt tearfully suspected the source, but said nothing. Jennie knew by instinct the author of it all.
The afternoon of the day after Christmas, Brander encountered the mother in the hotel, Jennie having been left at home to look after the house.
“How do you do, Mrs. Gerhardt!” he exclaimed genially, extending his hand. “How did you enjoy your Christmas?”
Poor Mrs. Gerhardt took it nervously, and tried to look at him in an appreciative way, but it was impossible. Her eyes filled rapidly with tears.
“There, there,” he said, patting her on the shoulder. “Don’t cry. You mustn’t forget to get my laundry today.”
“Oh, no sir,” she returned, and would have said more, had he not walked away.
From this on, Gerhardt heard continually of the fine senator at the hotel, how pleasant he was, and how much he paid for his washing. He was inclined, with the simplicity of a German working-man, to believe that only superior qualities could exist in one so distinguished.
Jennie, whose attitude needed no encouragement in this direction, was more than ever prejudiced in his favor.
There was developing in her that perfection of womanhood, the mould of form, which could not help but attract any man. She gave evidence of much that would develop into a fine matronly bearing later in life. Already, she was nearly perfect, well-built, and tall for a girl. Had she been dressed in the trailing skirts of a woman of fashion, she would have made a fitting companion for a man the height of the senator. Her eyes were wondrously clear and bright, her skin fair, and her teeth white and even. She was clever, too, in a sensible way, and by no means deficient in observation. All that she lacked was training and that assurance of which the knowledge of utter dependency despoils one. Carrying washing, though, and being compelled to acknowledge almost anything as a favor, put her at a disadvantage.
Nowadays when she came to the hotel upon her semi-weekly errand, Senator Brander took her presence with easy grace, and to this she responded. He urged her to examine the knick-knacks of his chamber freely, gave her little presents for herself, or her brothers and sisters, and talked to her so unaffectedly, that finally the over-awing sense of the great difference between them was brushed away, and she looked upon him more as a generous friend than as a distinguished senator. He asked her once how she would like to go to a seminary, thinking all the while how attractive she would be when she came out. Finally, one evening, he called her to his side.
“Come over here, Jennie,” he said, “and stand by me.”
She came, and having her so near, he took her hand.
“Well, Jennie,” he said, studying her face in a quizzical, interrogative way, “what do you think of me anyhow?”
“Oh,” she answered, looking consciously away, “I don’t know. What makes you ask me that?”
“Oh, yes, you do,” he returned. “You have some opinion of me. Tell me now, what is it?”
“No, I haven’t,” she said innocently.
“Oh, yes, you have,” he went on pleasantly, interested because thus eluded. “You must think something of me. Now, what is it?”
“Do you mean do I like you?” she asked frankly, looking down at the big mop of black hair well streaked with gray which hung about his forehead, and gave an almost
