closed the door. While the two stood half-confused amid the evidences of comfort and finery, he repeated, “Let me see.”
Mrs. Gerhardt looked principally at his handsome head, but Jennie studied the room. Such an array of knick-knacks and things that seemed of great value on mantel and dressing-case she had never seen. The senator’s easy chair, with a green-shaded lamp beside it, the rich heavy carpet and rugs upon the floor, and all the scattered evidence of mannish comfort were to her distinctly ideal.
While they were standing he moved over to a comer of the room, but turned about to say, “Sit down; take those two chairs there.”
Still overawed, mother and daughter thought it more polite to disobey.
He disappeared into a large closet, but came out again, and after advising them to sit down, said, with a glance at Mrs. Gerhardt and a smile at Jennie:
“Is this your daughter?”
“Yes, sir,” said the mother. “She’s my oldest girl.”
“Oh, she is,” he returned, turning his back now and opening a bureau drawer. While he was rummaging and extracting several articles of apparel, he asked:
“Is your husband alive?”
“What is his name?”
“Where does he live?”
To all of these questions Mrs. Gerhardt very humbly answered.
“How many children have you?” he inquired very earnestly.
“Six,” said Mrs. Gerhardt.
“Well,” he returned, “that’s quite a family. You’ve certainly done your duty to the nation.”
“Yes, sir,” returned Mrs. Gerhardt, who was touched by his genial and interested manner.
“And you say this is your oldest daughter?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What does your husband do?”
“He’s a glass-blower. But he’s sick now.”
During the colloquy Jennie’s large blue eyes were wide with interest. Whenever he looked at her, she turned upon him such a frank, unsophisticated gaze, and smiled in such a vague, sweet way, that he could not help repeating his attentions.
“Well,” he said, “that is too bad. I have some washing here—not very much, but what there is, you are welcome to. Next week there may be more.”
He went about now, stuffing things into a blue cotton bag with a pretty design on the side, and all the while asking questions. In some indefinable way, these two figures appealed to him. He wanted to know just how their home condition stood and why this innocent looking mother, with the pathetic eyes, came to be scrubbing hotel stairways.
In trying to question closely, without giving offense, he bordered upon the ridiculous:
“Where is it you live?” he said, recalling that the mother had only vaguely indicated.
“On 13th Street,” she returned.
“North or South?”
“South.”
He paused again, and bringing over the bag said:
“Well, here they are. How much do you charge for your work?”
Mrs. Gerhardt started to explain, but he saw how aimless his question was. He really did not care about the price. Whatever such humble souls as these might charge, he would willingly pay.
“Never mind,” he said, sorry that he had mentioned the subject.
“Do you want these any certain day?” questioned the mother.
“No,” he said, scratching his head reflectively, “any day next week will do.”
She thanked him with a simple phrase, and started to go.
“Let me see,” he said, stepping ahead of them and opening the door. “You may bring them back Monday.”
“Yes, sir,” said Mrs. Gerhardt. “Thank you.”
They went out and the senator returned to his reading, but it was with a peculiarly disturbed mind.
“Too bad,” he said, closing his volume. “There’s something very pathetic about those people.”
He brooded awhile, the ruck of his own trivial questions coming back, and then arose. Somehow their visit seemed for the time being to set clearly before him his own fortunate condition. Jennie’s spirit of wonder and appreciation was abroad in the chamber.
As for Mrs. Gerhardt, she forgot the other washing in the glee of getting this one. She and Jennie made their way anew through the shadowy streets.
“Didn’t he have a fine room?” whispered Jennie.
“Yes,” answered her mother. “He’s a great man.”
“He’s a senator, isn’t he?” continued the daughter.
“Yes.”
“It must be nice to be famous,” said the girl, softly.
CHAPTER II
The spirit of Jennie—who shall express it? This daughter of poverty, who was now to fetch and carry the laundry of this distinguished citizen of Columbus, was a creature of a mellowness which words can but vaguely suggest. There are natures born to the inheritance of flesh that come without understanding, and that go again without seeming to have wondered why. Life, as long as they endure it, is a true wonderland, a thing of infinite beauty, which could they but wander into it, wonderingly, would be heaven enough. Opening their eyes, they see a conformable and perfect world. Trees, flowers, the world of sound and the world of color. These are the valued inheritance of their state. If no one said to them “Mine,” they would wander radiantly forth, singing the song which all the earth may some day hope to hear. It is the song of goodness.
Caged in the world of the material, however, such a nature is almost invariably an anomaly. That other world of flesh, into which has been woven pride and greed, looks with but blinded eyes, and sees but little. If one says it is sweet to look at the clouds, the answer is a word against idleness. If one seeks to give ear to the winds, it shall be well with his soul, but they will seize upon his possessions. If all the world of the so-called inanimate delay one, calling with tenderness in sounds that seem to be too perfect to be less than understanding, it shall be ill with the body. The hands of the actual are forever reaching toward such as these—forever seizing greedily upon them. It is of such that the bondservants are made.
In the world of the actual, Jennie was such a spirit. From her earliest youth, goodness and mercy had moulded her impulses. Did Sebastian fall and injure himself, it was she who struggled with straining anxiety to carry him safely to his mother. Did George complain that he was hungry, she gave him all of her bread. Many were the hours in which she had rocked her younger brothers and sisters to sleep, singing
