that such deserving people must suffer so, but intended, also, in a vague way, to ameliorate their condition, if possible.
“Good morning,” the senator said to Jennie, when she came into his presence. “How do you do today?”
Jennie came forward, extending her hand and blushing. She found herself so much disturbed by this visit that she could hardly find tongue to answer his questions.
“I thought,” he said, “I’d come out and find where you live. This is a quite comfortable house. How many rooms have you?”
“Five,” said Jennie. “You’ll have to excuse their looks this morning. We’ve been ironing and it’s all upset.”
“I know,” said Brander, gently. “Don’t you think I understand, Jennie? You mustn’t feel nervous about me.”
She noticed the comforting, personal tone he always used with her when she was at his room, and it tended in a way to subdue her flustered senses.
“You mustn’t think it anything if I come here occasionally. I intend to come. I want to meet your father.”
“Oh,” said Jennie, “he’s out today.”
While they were talking, however, the honest wood-cutter was coming in at the gate with his buck and saw. Brander saw him, and at once recognized him by a slight resemblance to his daughter.
“There he is now, I believe,” he said.
“Oh, is he?” said Jennie, looking out.
Gerhardt, who was given to speculation these days, passed by the window without looking up. He put his wooden buck down, and hanging his saw on a nail on the side of the house, came in.
“Mother,” he called in German, and then not seeing her, came to the door of the front room and looked in.
Brander arose and extended his hand. The knotted and weatherbeaten German came forward, and took it with a very questioning expression of countenance.
“This is my father, Mr. Brander,” said Jennie, all her diffidence dissolved by sympathy. “This is the gentleman from the hotel, Papa—Mr. Brander.”
“What’s the name?” said the German, turning his head.
“Brander,” said the senator.
“Oh, yes,” he said with a considerable German accent. “Since I had the fever, I don’t hear good. My wife, she spoke to me of you.”
“Yes,” said the senator, “I thought I’d come out and make your acquaintance. You have quite a family.”
“Yes,” said the father, who was conscious of his very poor garments and anxious to get away. “I have six children—all young. She’s the oldest girl.”
Mrs. Gerhardt now came back and Gerhardt, seeing his chance, said:
“Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go. I broke my saw, and so I had to stop work.”
“Certainly,” said Brander, graciously, realizing now why Jennie never wanted to explain. He half wished that she were courageous enough not to conceal anything.
“Well, Mrs. Gerhardt,” he said, when the mother was stiffly seated, “I want to tell you that you mustn’t look on me as a stranger. Hereafter I want you to keep me informed of how things are going with you. Jennie won’t always do it.”
Jennie smiled quietly. Mrs. Gerhardt only rubbed her hands.
They talked for a few minutes and then the senator said:
“Tell your husband to come and see me next Monday at my office in the hotel. I want to do something for him.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“I’ll not stay any longer now,” he added. “Don’t forget to have him come.”
“Oh, he’ll come,” she returned.
He arose and adjusting a glove on one hand, extended the other to Jennie.
“Here is your finest treasure, Mrs. Gerhardt,” he said. “I think I’ll take her.”
“Well, I don’t know,” said her mother, “whether I could spare her or not.”
“Well,” said the senator, going toward the door, and giving Mrs. Gerhardt his hand, “good morning.”
He nodded and walked out, while a half-dozen neighbors, who had observed his entrance, peeked from behind curtains and drawn blinds at the astonishing sight.
“Who can that be, anyhow?” was the general query.
“See what he gave me,” said the innocent mother to her daughter the moment he had closed the door.
It was a ten-dollar bill. He had placed it in her hand as he said goodbye.
CHAPTER V
Having been conducted by circumstances into so obligated an attitude toward the senator, it was not unnatural for Jennie to conceive most generously of everything he had done, or, from now on, did. New benefactions contributed to this feeling. The senator gave her father a letter to a local mill-owner, who saw that he received something to do. It was not much, to be sure, a mere job as night-watchman, but it had significant results. One of these was the extreme gratefulness of the latter, who could anticipate, from now on, only good flowing from such a quarter.
Another agreeable influence was due to gifts made to the mother, through the daughter. Once, he sent her a dress, and another time, a shawl. All these things were given in a spirit of mingled charity and self-gratification, but to Mrs. Gerhardt, they glowed with but one motive. Senator Brander was good-hearted.
As for Jennie, he drew nearer to her in every possible way, so that at last, she came to see him in a light which would require considerable analysis to make clear. This fresh, young soul, however, had too much innocence and buoyancy to consider for a moment the world’s view. Since that one notable and halcyon visit upon which he had robbed her of her original shyness, and implanted a tender kiss upon her cheek, they had lived in a different atmosphere. Jennie was his companion now, and as he more and more unbended, and even joyously flung aside the habiliments of dignity, her perception of him grew clearer. They laughed and chatted in a natural way, and he was comforted by the world of youth into which he had thus found entrance.
One thing that disturbed him, however, was the occasional thought, which he could not repress, that he was not doing right. Other people must soon discover that he was not confining himself strictly to conventional relations with this washer-woman’s daughter. He suspected that the housekeeper was not without knowledge that Jennie almost invariably lingered from a quarter to three quarters of an hour, whenever she came for or returned his laundry. He knew that it might come to the ears of the hotel clerks and so, in a general way, get about town and work serious injury, but the reflection did not cause him to modify his conduct. Sometimes he consoled himself with the thought that he was not doing her any actual harm, and at other times argued that he could not put this one delightful tenderness out of his life. Did he not wish honestly to do her much good?
He
