know what to say. She looked up at him weakly in her innocent, motherly way, and said, “She couldn’t come tonight, very well.”
“Not ill, is she?” he inquired.
“No,” she said.
“I’m glad to hear that,” he said resignedly. “How have you been?”
Mrs. Gerhardt explained to him, in answer to his pleasant question, the condition of the family, and then went away. After she had gone, he got to thinking the matter over, and wondered at the change. Something had happened, he felt, but he was in no position to say what. It seemed rather odd that he should be wondering over it.
On Saturday, however, when she returned the clothes, he felt that there must be something wrong.
“What’s the matter, Mrs. Gerhardt?” he inquired. “Has anything happened to your daughter?”
“No, sir,” she returned, too troubled to wish to deceive him.
“Isn’t she coming for the laundry any more?”
“I,—I,—” ventured the mother, stammering in her perturbation—“she—they have been talking about her,” she at last forced herself to say.
The senator looked down upon her with considerable gravity, and said:
“Who has been talking?”
“The people here in the hotel.”
“Who, what people?” he interrupted, a touch of the choler that was in him showing itself.
“The housekeeper.”
“The housekeeper, eh!” he exclaimed. “What has she got to say?”
The mother related to him her experience.
“And she told you that, did she?” he remarked in wrath. “She ventures to trouble herself about my affairs. I wonder people can’t mind their own business without interfering with mine. Your daughter, Mrs. Gerhardt, is perfectly safe with me. I have no intention of doing her an injury. It’s a shame,” he added, though in almost a classic manner, “that a girl can’t come to my room in this hotel without having her motive questioned. I’ll look into this matter.”
“I hope you don’t think that I have anything to do with it,” said the mother apologetically. “I know you like Jennie and wouldn’t injure her. You’ve done so much for her and all of us, Mr. Brander, I feel ashamed to keep her away.”
“That’s all right, Mrs. Gerhardt,” he said, quietly. “You did perfectly right. I don’t blame you in the least. It is the lying accusation passed about in this hotel that I object to. We’ll see about that.”
Mrs. Gerhardt stood there, pale with excitement. She was afraid she had deeply offended this man who had done so much for them. If she could only say something, she thought, that would clear this matter up, and make him feel that she was no tattler. Scandal was awful to her.
“I thought I was doing everything for the best,” she said at last.
“So you were,” he replied. “I like Jennie very much. I have always enjoyed her coming here. It is my intention to do well by her, but perhaps it will be better to keep her away, at least for the present.”
After he had expressed himself somewhat further to this effect, he opened the door and saw her out, but it was only the beginning of his real mental labor in the matter.
Again that evening the senator sat in his easy chair and brooded over this new development. Jennie was really much more precious to him than he had thought. Now that he had no hope of seeing her there any more, he began to realize how much these little visits of hers had meant. He thought the matter over very carefully, realized instantly that there was nothing to be done so far as the hotel gossip was concerned, and concluded that he had really placed the girl in a very unsatisfactory position.
“Perhaps I had better end this little affair,” he thought. “It isn’t a wise thing to pursue.”
On the strength of this conclusion he went to Washington and finished his term. Then he returned to Columbus to await the friendly recognition from the president which was to send him upon some ministry abroad. Jennie had not been forgotten in the least. The longer he stayed away, the more interested he was to get back. When he was again peaceably settled in his old quarters, he took up his cane one morning and strolled out in the direction of the cottage. Arriving there, he made up his mind to go in, and, knocking at the door, he was greeted by Mrs. Gerhardt and her daughter with astonished and diffident smiles. He explained vaguely that he had been away, and mentioned his laundry as if that were the object of his visit. Then, when chance gave him a few moments with Jennie alone, he said:
“How would you like to take a drive with me tomorrow evening?”
“I’d like it,” said Jennie, to whom the proposition was a decided novelty.
He smiled and patted her cheek, because he was happy to see her again. Every day seemed to be adding to her beauty. Graced with her cleanly white apron this morning, and rounded in the face by the simple plaiting of her hair, she was a pleasing sight.
He waited genially until Mrs. Gerhardt returned and then, having accomplished the purpose of his visit, arose.
“I’m going to take your daughter out riding tomorrow evening,” he explained. “I want to talk to her about her future.”
“Won’t that be nice?” said the mother. She saw nothing incongruous in the proposal. They parted with smiles and much handshaking.
“That man has the best heart,” said Mrs. Gerhardt. “Doesn’t he always speak so nicely of you? He may help you to an education. You ought to be proud.”
“I am,” said Jennie frankly.
“I don’t know whether we had better tell your father, or not,” concluded Mrs. Gerhardt. “He doesn’t like for you to be out evenings.”
It was for this reason that the deeply religious Gerhardt did not know of the ride.
Jennie was ready when the ex-senator called. When she opened the door for him, that helpless sort of loveliness which rested in her eyes touched him as sharply as ever. He could see by the weak-flamed, unpretentious parlor-lamp that she was dressed for him, and that the occasion had called out the best she had. A pale lavender gingham, starched and ironed until it was a model of laundering, set off her pretty figure and gave that atmosphere of superior cleanliness which her spirit deserved. There were little lace-edged cuffs and a rather high collar attached to it. She had no gloves, nor any jewelry, nor yet a jacket good enough to wear, but her hair was done up in such a dainty way that it set off her well-shaped head better than any hat, and the few ringlets that could escape crowned her as with a halo. When Brander suggested that she wear a jacket, she hesitated a moment, but went in and borrowed her mother’s cape—a plain gray woolen one. Brander realized now that she had no jacket, and suffered keenly to think that she had contemplated going without one.
“She would have endured the raw night air,” he thought, “and said nothing of it.”
He looked at her and shook his head reflectively.
Her cheeks
