consolation of a creature sent to wander in a vale whose explanation was

not here but in heaven. Slowly Gerhardt walked on, and as he brooded on

the words and the duties which the sacrament involved the shade of

lingering disgust that had possessed him when he had taken the child to

church disappeared and a feeling of natural affection took its place.

However much the daughter had sinned, the infant was not to blame. It

was a helpless, puling, tender thing, demanding his sympathy and his

love. Gerhardt felt his heart go out to the little child, and yet he could not yield his position all in a moment.

"That is a nice man," he said of the minister to his wife as they walked along, rapidly softening in his conception of his duty.

"Yes, he was," agreed Mrs. Gerhardt timidly.

"It's a good-sized little church," he continued.

"Yes."

Gerhardt looked around him, at the street, the houses, the show of brisk

life on this sunshiny, winter's day, and then finally at the child that his wife was carrying.

"She must be heavy," he said, in his characteristic German. "Let me take her."

Mrs. Gerhardt, who was rather weary, did not refuse.

"There!" he said, as he looked at her and then fixed her comfortably upon his shoulder. "Let us hope she proves worthy of all that has been done to-day."

Mrs. Gerhardt listened, and the meaning in his voice interpreted itself

plainly enough. The presence of the child in the house might be the cause of recurring spells of depression and unkind words, but there would be

another and greater influence restraining him. There would always be her

soul to consider. He would never again be utterly unconscious of her soul.

During the remainder of Gerhardt's stay he was shy in Jennie's presence

and endeavoured to act as though he were unconscious of her existence.

When the time came for parting, he even went away without bidding her

good-bye, telling his wife she might do that for him; but after he was

actually on his way back to Youngstown he regretted the omission. "I might have bade her good-bye," he thought to himself as the train

rumbled heavily along. But it was too late.

For the time being the affairs of the Gerhardt family drifted. Jennie

continued her work with Mrs. Bracebridge. Sebastian fixed himself

firmly in his clerkship in the cigar store. George was promoted to the

noble sum of three dollars, and then three-fifty. It was a narrow, humdrum life the family led. Coal, groceries, shoes, and clothing were the

uppermost topics of their conversation; every one felt the stress and strain of trying to make ends meet.

That which worried Jennie most, and there were many things which

weighed upon her sensitive soul, was the outcome of her own life— not

so much for herself as for her baby and the family. She could not really

see where she fitted in. "Who would have me?" she asked herself over and over. "How was she to dispose of Vesta in the event of a new love affair?" Such a contingency was quite possible. She was young, good-looking, and men were inclined to flirt with her, or rather to attempt it.

The Bracebridges entertained many masculine guests, and some of them

had made unpleasant overtures to her.

"My dear, you're a very pretty girl," said one old rake of fifty- odd when she knocked at his door one morning to give him a message from his

hostess.

"I beg your pardon," she said, confusedly, and coloured.

"Indeed, you're quite sweet. And you needn't beg my pardon. I'd like to talk to you some time."

He attempted to chuck her under the chin, but Jennie hurried away. She

would have reported the matter to her mistress but a nervous shame

deterred her. "Why would men always be doing this?" she thought. Could it be because there was something innately bad about her, an inward

corruption that attracted its like?

It is a curious characteristic of the non-defensive disposition that it is like a honey-jar to flies. Nothing is brought to it and much is taken away.

Around a soft, yielding, unselfish disposition men swarm naturally. They

sense this generosity, this non- protective attitude from afar. A girl like Jennie is like a comfortable fire to the average masculine mind; they

gravitate to it, seek its sympathy, yearn to possess it. Hence she was

annoyed by many unwelcome attentions.

One day there arrived from Cincinnati a certain Lester Kane, the son of a wholesale carriage builder of great trade distinction in that city and

elsewhere throughout the country, who was wont to visit this house

frequently in a social way. He was a friend of Mrs. Bracebridge more than of her husband, for the former had been raised in Cincinnati and as a girl had visited at his father's house. She knew his mother, his brother and

sisters and to all intents and purposes socially had always been

considered one of the family.

"Lester's coming to-morrow, Henry," Jennie heard Mrs. Bracebridge tell her husband. "I had a wire from him this noon. He's such a scamp. I'm going to give him the big east front room upstairs. Be sociable and pay

him some attention. His father was so good to me."

"I know it," said her husband calmly. "I like Lester. He's the biggest one in that family. But he's too indifferent. He doesn't care enough."

"I know, but he's so nice. I do think he's one of the nicest men I ever knew."

"I'll be decent to him. Don't I always do pretty well by your people?"

"Yes, pretty well."

"Oh, I don't know about that," he replied dryly.

When this notable person arrived Jennie was prepared to see some one of

more than ordinary importance, and she was not disappointed. There

came into the reception-hall to greet her mistress a man of perhaps thirty-six years of age, above the medium in height, clear- eyed, firm-jawed,

athletic, direct, and vigorous. He had a deep, resonant voice that carried clearly everywhere; people somehow used to stop and listen whether they

knew him or not. He was simple and abrupt in his speech.

"Oh, there you are," he began. "I'm glad to see you again. How's Mr.

Bracebridge? How's Fannie?"

He asked his questions forcefully, whole-heartedly, and his hostess

answered with an equal warmth. "I'm glad to see you, Lester," she said.

"George will take your things upstairs. Come up into my room. It's more comfy. How are grandpa and Louise?"

He followed her up the stairs, and Jennie, who had been standing at the

head of the stairs listening, felt the magnetic charm of his personality. It seemed, why she could hardly say, that a real personage had arrived. The

house was cheerier. The attitude of her mistress was much more

complaisant. Everybody seemed to feel that something must be done for

this man.

Jennie went about her work, but the impression persisted; his name ran in her mind. Lester Kane. And he was from Cincinnati. She looked at him

now and then on the sly, and felt, for the first time in her life, an interest in a man on his own account. He was so big, so handsome, so forceful.

She wondered what his business was. At the same time she felt a little

dread of him. Once she caught him looking at her with a steady, incisive

stare. She quailed inwardly, and took the first opportunity to get out of his presence. Another time he tried to address a few remarks to her, but she