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disappointed.

      “Why,” he said to her, “what has become of Jennie?”

      Having hoped that he would not notice, or, at least, not comment upon the change, Mrs. Gerhardt did not know what to say. She looked up at him weakly in her innocent, motherly way, and said, “She couldn’t come to-night.”

      “Not ill, is she?” he inquired.

      “No.”

      “I’m glad to hear that,” he said resignedly. “How have you been?”

      Mrs. Gerhardt answered his kindly inquiries and departed. After she had gone he got to thinking the matter over, and wondered what could have happened. 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.

      “Who has been talking?” he asked gravely.

      “The people here in the hotel.”

      “Who, what people?” he interrupted, a touch of annoyance showing in his voice.

      “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, does she? 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 indignantly, “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 distressing 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.”

      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 realise how much these little visits of hers had meant. He thought the matter over very carefully, realised 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 eager he was to get back. When he was again permanently 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 plunged in boldly.

      “How would you like to take a drive with me tomorrow evening?” he asked.

      “I’d like it,” said Jennie, to whom the proposition was a glorious novelty.

      He smiled and patted her cheek, foolishly happy to see her again. Every day seemed to add to her beauty. Graced with her clean white apron, her shapely head crowned by the glory of her simply plaited hair, she was a pleasing sight for any man to look upon.

      He waited until Mrs. Gerhardt returned, and then, having accomplished the purpose of his visit, he 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,” commented 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.”

      Finally they decided not to tell him. He might not understand.

      Jennie was ready when he called. He could see by the weak-flamed, unpretentious parlour-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 to perfection. There were little lace-edged cuffs and a rather high collar attached to it. She had no gloves nor any jewellery, 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 should wear a jacket she hesitated a moment; then she went in and borrowed her mother’s cape, a plain grey woollen one. Brander realised 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. Then they started, and he quickly forgot everything but the great fact that she was at his side. She talked with freedom and with a gentle girlish enthusiasm that he found irresistibly charming.

      “Why, Jennie,” he said, when she had called upon him to notice how soft the trees looked, where, outlined dimly against the new rising moon, they were touched with its yellow light, “you’re a great one. I believe you would write poetry if you were schooled a little.”

      “Do you suppose I could?” she asked innocently.

      “Do I suppose, little girl?” he said, taking her hand. “Do I suppose? Why, I know. You’re the dearest little day-dreamer in the world. Of course you could write poetry. You live it. You are poetry, my dear. Don’t you worry about writing any.”

      This eulogy touched her as nothing else possibly could have done. He was always saying such nice things. No one ever seemed to like or to appreciate her half as much as he did. And how good he was! Everybody said that. Her own father.

      They rode still farther, until suddenly remembering, he said: “I wonder what time it is. Perhaps we had better be turning

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