Having been led by circumstances into an attitude of obligation toward the Senator, it was not unnatural that Jennie should become imbued with a most generous spirit of appreciation for everything he had done and now continued to do. 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 helped, and old Gerhardt’s gratitude was extravagant. Never was there such a great, such a good man!

Nor was Mrs. Gerhardt overlooked. Once Brander sent her a dress, and at another time a shawl. All these benefactions were made 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 point of 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 his dignity, her perception of him grew clearer. They laughed and chatted in a natural way, and he keenly enjoyed this new entrance into the radiant world of youthful happiness.

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 he would argue that he could not put this one delightful tenderness out of his life. Did he not wish honestly to do her much good?

He thought of these things occasionally, and decided that he could not stop. The self-approval which such a resolution might bring him was hardly worth the inevitable pain of the abnegation. He had not so very many more years to live. Why die unsatisfied?

One evening he put his arm around her and strained her to his breast. Another time he drew her to his knee, and told her of his life at Washington. Always now he had a caress and a kiss for her, but it was still in a tentative, uncertain way. He did not want to reach for her soul too deeply.

Jennie enjoyed it all innocently. Elements of fancy and novelty entered into her life. She was an unsophisticated creature, emotional, totally inexperienced in the matter of the affections, and yet mature enough mentally to enjoy the attentions of this great man who had thus bowed from his high position to make friends with her.

One evening she pushed his hair back from his forehead as she stood by his chair, and, finding nothing else to do, took out his watch. The great man thrilled as he looked at her pretty innocence.

“Would you like to have a watch, too?” he asked.

“Yes, indeed, I would,” said Jennie with a deep breath.

The next day he stopped as he was passing a jewellery store and bought one. It was gold, and had pretty ornamented hands.

“Jennie,” he said, when she came the next time, “I want to show you something. See what time it is by my watch.”

Jennie drew out the watch from his waistcoat pocket and started in surprise.

“This isn’t your watch!” she exclaimed, her face full of innocent wonder.

“No,” he said, delighted with his little deception. “It’s yours.”

“Mine!” exclaimed Jennie. “Mine! Oh, isn’t it lovely!”

“Do you think so?” he said.

Her delight touched and pleased him immensely. Her face shone with light and her eyes fairly danced.

“That’s yours,” he said. “See that you wear it now, and don’t lose it.”

“You’re so good!” she exclaimed.

“No,” he said, but he held her at arm’s length by the waist to make up his mind what his reward should be. Slowly he drew her toward him until, when very close, she put her arms about his neck, and laid her cheek in gratitude against his own. This was the quintessence of pleasure for him. He felt as he had been longing to feel for years.

The progress of his idyl suffered a check when the great senatorial fight came on in the Legislature. Attacked by a combination of rivals, Brander was given the fight of his life. To his amazement he discovered that a great railroad corporation, which had always been friendly, was secretly throwing its strength in behalf of an already too powerful candidate. Shocked by this defection, he was thrown alternately into the deepest gloom and into paroxysms of wrath. These slings of fortune, however lightly he pretended to receive them, never failed to lacerate him. It had been long since he had suffered a defeat — too long.

During this period Jennie received her earliest lesson in the vagaries of man. For two weeks she did not even see him, and one evening, after an extremely comfortless conference with his leader, he met her with the most chilling formality. When she knocked at his door he only troubled to open it a foot, exclaiming almost harshly: “I can’t bother about the clothes to-night. Come tomorrow.”

Jennie retreated, shocked and surprised by this reception. She did not know what to think of it. He was restored on the instant to his far-off, mighty throne, and left to rule in peace. Why should he not withdraw the light of his countenance if it pleased him. But why —

A day or two later he repented mildly, but had no time to readjust matters. His washing was taken and delivered with considerable formality, and he went on toiling forgetfully, until at last he was miserably defeated by two votes. Astounded by this result, he lapsed into gloomy dejection of soul. What was he to do now?

Into this atmosphere came Jennie, bringing with her the lightness and comfort of her own hopeful disposition. Nagged to desperation by his thoughts, Brander first talked to her to amuse himself; but soon his distress imperceptibly took flight; he found himself actually smiling.

“Ah, Jennie,” he said, speaking to her as he might have done to a child, “youth is on your side. You possess the most valuable thing in life.”

“Do I?”

“Yes, but you don’t realise it. You never will until it is too late.”

“I love that girl,” he thought to himself that night. “I wish I could have her with me always.”

But fortune had another fling for him to endure. It got about the hotel that Jennie was, to use the mildest expression, conducting herself strangely. A girl who carries washing must expect criticism if anything not befitting her station is observed in her apparel. Jennie was seen wearing the gold watch. Her mother was informed by the housekeeper of the state of things.

“I thought I’d speak to you about it,” she said. “People are talking. You’d better not let your daughter go to his room for the laundry.”

Mrs. Gerhardt was too astonished and hurt for utterance. Jennie had told her nothing, but even now she did not believe there was anything to tell. The watch had been both approved of and admired by her. She had not thought that it was endangering her daughter’s reputation.

Going home she worried almost incessantly, and talked with Jennie about it. The latter did not admit the implication that things had gone too far. In fact, she did not look at it in that light. She did not own, it is true, what really had happened while she was visiting the Senator.

“It’s so terrible that people should begin to talk!” said her mother. “Did you really stay so long in the room?”

“I don’t know,” returned Jennie, compelled by her conscience to admit at least part of the truth. “Perhaps I did.”

“He has never said anything out of the way to you, has he?”

“No,” answered her daughter, who did not attach any suspicion of evil to what had passed between them.

If the mother had only gone a little bit further she might have learned more, but she was only too glad, for her own peace of mind, to hush the matter up. People were slandering a good man, that she knew. Jennie had been the least bit indiscreet. People were always so ready to talk. How could the poor girl, amid such unfortunate circumstances, do otherwise than she did. It made her cry to think of it.

The result of it all was that she decided to get the washing herself.

She came to his door the next Monday after this decision. Brander, who was expecting Jennie, was both surprised and 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 back. Have you your watch?”

Jennie started, for this watch had been the one thing of which she had hoped he would not speak. Ever since he had returned it had been on her mind.

In his absence the family finances had become so strained that she had been compelled to pawn it. Martha had got to that place in the matter of apparel where she could no longer go to school unless something new were provided for her. And so, after much discussion, it was decided that the watch must go.

Bass took it, and after much argument with the local pawnbroker, he had been able to bring home ten dollars. Mrs. Gerhardt expended the money upon her children, and heaved a sigh of relief. Martha looked very much better. Naturally, Jennie was glad.

Now, however, when the Senator spoke of it, her hour of retribution seemed at hand. She actually trembled, and he noticed her discomfiture.

“Why, Jennie,” he said gently, “what made you start like that?”

“Nothing,” she answered.

“Haven’t you your watch?”

She paused, for it seemed impossible to tell a deliberate falsehood. There was a strained silence; then she said, with a voice that had too much of a sob in it for him not to suspect the truth, “No, sir.” He persisted, and she confessed everything.

“Well,” he said, “dearest, don’t feel badly about it. There never was such another girl. I’ll get your watch for you. Hereafter when you need anything I want you to come to me. Do you hear? I want you to promise me that. If I’m not here, I want you to write me. I’ll always be in touch with you from now on. You will have my address. Just let me know, and I’ll help you. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” said Jennie.

“You’ll promise to do that now, will you?”

“Yes,” she replied.

For a moment neither of them spoke.

“Jennie,” he said at last, the spring-like quality of the night moving him to a burst of feeling, “I’ve about decided that I can’t do without you. Do you think you could make up your mind to live with me from now on?”

Jennie looked away, not clearly understanding his words as he meant them.

“I don’t know,” she said vaguely.

“Well, you think about it,” he said pleasantly. “I’m serious. Would you be willing to marry me, and let me put you away in a seminary for a few years?”

“Go away to school?”

“Yes, after you marry me.”

“I guess so,” she replied. Her mother came into her mind. Maybe she could help the family.

He looked around at her, and tried to make out the expression on her face. It was not dark. The moon was now above the trees in the east, and already the vast host of stars were paling before it.

“Don’t you care for me at all, Jennie?” he asked.

“Yes!”

“You never come for my laundry any more, though,” he returned pathetically. It touched her to hear him say this.

“I didn’t do that,” she answered. “I couldn’t help it; Mother thought it was best.”

“So it was,” he assented. “Don’t feel badly. I was only joking with you. You’d be glad to come if you could, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, I would,” she answered frankly.

He took her hand and pressed it so feelingly that all his kindly words seemed doubly emphasised to her. Reaching up impulsively, she put her arms about him. “You’re so good to me,” she said with the loving tone of a daughter.

“You’re my girl, Jennie,” he said with deep feeling. “I’d do anything in the world for you.”