between her and her mother which would permit of a confidence such as

this. He was by no means a hard man, and the thought touched him. But

he would not relinquish his purpose.

"There's only one thing to be done, as far as I can see," he went on very gently. "You're not suited for the kind of work you're doing. You're too refined. I object to it. Give it up and come with me down to New York;

I'll take good care of you. I love you and want you. As far as your family is concerned, you won't have to worry about them anymore. You can take

a nice home for them and furnish it in any style you please. Wouldn't you like that?"

He paused, and Jennie's thoughts reverted quickly to her mother, her dear mother. All her life long Mrs. Gerhardt had been talking of this very thing

—a nice home. If they could just have a larger house, with good furniture and a yard filled with trees, how happy she would be. In such a home she

would be free of the care of rent, the discomfort of poor furniture, the

wretchedness of poverty; she would be so happy. She hesitated there

while his keen eye followed her in spirit, and he saw what a power he had set in motion. It had been a happy inspiration—the suggestion of a decent home for the family. He waited a few minutes longer, and then said:

"Well, wouldn't you better let me do that?"

"It would be very nice," she said, "but it can't be done now. I couldn't leave home. Papa would want to know all about where I was going. I

wouldn't know what to say."

"Why couldn't you pretend that you are going down to New York with

Mrs. Bracebridge?" he suggested. "There couldn't be any objection to that, could there?"

"Not if they didn't find out," she said, her eyes opening in amazement.

"But if they should!"

"They won't," he replied calmly. "They're not watching Mrs.

Bracebridge's affairs. Plenty of mistresses take their maids on long trips.

Why not simply tell them you're invited to go—have to go—and then

go?"

"Do you think I could?" she inquired.

"Certainly," he replied. "What is there peculiar about that?"

She thought it over, and the plan did seem feasible. Then she looked at

this man and realized that relationship with him meant possible

motherhood for her again. The tragedy of giving birth to a child—ah, she

could not go through that a second time, at least under the same

conditions. She could not bring herself to tell him about Vesta, but she

must voice this insurmountable objection.

"I—" she said, formulating the first word of her sentence, and then stopping.

"Yes," he said. "I—what?"

"I—" She paused again.

He loved her shy ways, her sweet, hesitating lips.

"What is it, Jennie?" he asked helpfully. "You're so delicious. Can't you tell me?"

Her hand was on the table. He reached over and laid his strong brown one

on top of it.

"I couldn't have a baby," she said, finally, and looked down.

He gazed at her, and the charm of her frankness, her innate decency under conditions so anomalous, her simple unaffected recognition of the primal

facts of life lifted her to a plane in his esteem which she had not occupied until that moment.

"You're a great girl, Jennie," he said. "You're wonderful. But don't worry about that. It can be arranged. You don't need to have a child unless you want to, and I don't want you to."

He saw the question written in her wondering, shamed face.

"It's so," he said. "You believe me, don't you? You think I know, don't you?"

"Yes," she faltered.

"Well, I do. But anyway, I wouldn't let any trouble come to you. I'll take you away. Besides, I don't want any children. There wouldn't be any

satisfaction in that proposition for me at this time. I'd rather wait. But there won't be—don't worry."

"Yes," she said faintly. Not for worlds could she have met his eyes.

"Look here, Jennie," he said, after a time. "You care for me, don't you?

You don't think I'd sit here and plead with you if I didn't care for you? I'm crazy about you, and that's the literal truth. You're like wine to me. I want you to come with me. I want you to do it quickly. I know how difficult

this family business is, but you can arrange it. Come with me down to

New York. We'll work out something later. I'll meet your family. We'll

pretend a courtship, anything you like—only come now."

"You don't mean right away, do you?" she asked, startled.

"Yes, to-morrow if possible. Monday sure. You can arrange it. Why, if Mrs. Bracebridge asked you you'd go fast enough, and no one would

think anything about it. Isn't that so?"

"Yes," she admitted slowly.

"Well, then, why not now?"

"It's always so much harder to work out a falsehood," she replied thoughtfully.

"I know it, but you can come. Won't you?"

"Won't you wait a little while?" she pleaded. "It's so very sudden. I'm afraid."

"Not a day, sweet, that I can help. Can't you see how I feel? Look in my eyes. Will you?"

"Yes," she replied sorrowfully, and yet with a strange thrill of affection. "I will."

The business of arranging for this sudden departure was really not so

difficult as it first appeared. Jennie proposed to tell her mother the whole truth, and there was nothing to say to her father except that she was going with Mrs. Bracebridge at the latter's request. He might question her, but he really could not doubt. Before going home that afternoon she

accompanied Lester to a department store, where she was fitted out with a trunk, a suit- case, and a travelling suit and hat. Lester was very proud of his prize. "When we get to New York I am going to get you some real

things," he told her. "I am going to show you what you can be made to look like." He had all the purchased articles packed in the trunk and sent to his hotel. Then he arranged to have Jennie come there and dress

Monday for the trip which began in the afternoon.

When she came home Mrs. Gerhardt, who was in the kitchen, received

her with her usual affectionate greeting. "Have you been working very hard?" she asked. "You look tired."

"No," she said, "I'm not tired. It isn't that. I just don't feel good."

"What's the trouble?"

"Oh, I have to tell you something, mamma. It's so hard." She paused, looking inquiringly at her mother, and then away.

"Why, what is it?" asked her mother nervously. So many things had happened in the past that she was always on the alert for some new

calamity. "You haven't lost your place, have you?"

"No," replied Jennie, with an effort to maintain her mental poise, "but I'm going to leave it."

"No!" exclaimed her mother. "Why?"

"I'm going to New York."

Her mother's eyes opened widely. "Why, when did you decide to do

that?" she inquired.

"To-day."

"You don't mean it!"

"Yes, I do, mamma. Listen. I've got something I want to tell you. You know how poor we are. There isn't any way we can make things come out

right. I have found someone who wants to help us. He says he loves me,

and he wants me to go to New York with him Monday. I've decided to