go."

"Oh, Jennie!" exclaimed her mother. "Surely not! You wouldn't do anything like that after all that's happened. Think of your father."

"I've thought it all out," went on Jennie, firmly. "It's really for the best.

He's a good man. I know he is. He has lots of money. He wants me to go

with him, and I'd better go. He will take a new house for us when we

come back and help us to get along. No one will ever have me as a wife

—you know that. It might as well be this way. He loves me. And I love

him. Why shouldn't I go?"

"Does he know about Vesta?" asked her mother cautiously.

"No," said Jennie guiltily. "I thought I'd better not tell him about her. She oughtn't to be brought into it if I can help it."

"I'm afraid you're storing up trouble for yourself, Jennie," said her mother.

"Don't you think he is sure to find it out some time?"

"I thought maybe that she could be kept here," suggested Jennie, "until she's old enough to go to school. Then maybe I could send her

somewhere."

"She might," assented her mother; "but don't you think it would be better to tell him now? He won't think any the worse of you."

"It isn't that. It's her," said Jennie passionately. "I don't want her to be brought into it."

Her mother shook her head. "Where did you meet him?" she inquired.

"At Mrs. Bracebridge's."

"How long ago?"

"Oh, it's been almost two months now."

"And you never said anything about him," protested Mrs. Gerhardt reproachfully.

"I didn't know that he cared for me this way," said Jennie defensively.

"Why didn't you wait and let him come out here first?" asked her mother.

"It will make things so much easier. You can't go and not have your father find out."

"I thought I'd say I was going with Mrs. Bracebridge. Papa can't object to my going with her."

"No," agreed her mother thoughtfully.

The two looked at each other in silence. Mrs. Gerhardt, with her

imaginative nature, endeavored to formulate some picture of this new and

wonderful personality that had come into Jennie's life. He was wealthy;

he wanted to take Jennie; he wanted to give them a good home. What a

story!

"And he gave me this," put in Jennie, who, with some instinctive psychic faculty, had been following her mother's mood. She opened her dress at

the neck, and took out the two hundred and fifty dollars; she placed the

money in her mother's hands.

The latter stared at it wide-eyed. Here was the relief for all her woes—

food, clothes, rent, coal—all done up in one small package of green and

yellow bills. If there were plenty of money in the house Gerhardt need not worry about his burned hands; George and Martha and Veronica could be

clothed in comfort and made happy. Jennie could dress better; there

would be a future education for Vesta.

"Do you think he might ever want to marry you?" asked her mother finally.

"I don't know," replied Jennie, "he might. I know he loves me."

"Well," said her mother after a long pause, "if you're going to tell your father you'd better do it right away. He'll think it's strange as it is."

Jennie realized that she had won. Her mother had acquiesced from sheer

force of circumstances. She was sorry, but somehow it seemed to be for

the best. "I'll help you out with it," her mother had concluded, with a little sigh.

The difficulty of telling this lie was very great for Mrs. Gerhardt, but she went through the falsehood with a seeming nonchalance which allayed

Gerhardt's suspicions. The children were also told, and when, after the

general discussion, Jennie repeated the falsehood to her father it seemed natural enough.

"How long do you think you'll be gone?" he inquired.

"About two or three weeks," she replied.

"That's a nice trip," he said. "I came through New York in 1844. It was a small place then compared to what it is now."

Secretly he was pleased that Jennie should have this fine chance. Her

employer must like her.

When Monday came Jennie bade her parents good-bye and left early,

going straight to the Dornton, where Lester awaited her.

"So you came," he said gaily, greeting her as she entered the ladies'

parlor.

"Yes," she said simply.

"You are my niece," he went on. "I have engaged a room for you near mine. I'll call for the key, and you go dress. When you're ready I'll have the trunk sent to the depot. The train leaves at one o'clock."

She went to her room and dressed, while he fidgeted about, read, smoked,

and finally knocked at her door.

She replied by opening to him, fully clad.

"You look charming," he said with a smile.

She looked down, for she was nervous and distraught. The whole process

of planning, lying, nerving herself to carry out her part had been hard on her. She looked tired and worried.

"Not grieving, are you?" he asked, seeing how things stood.

"No-o," she replied.

"Come now, sweet. You mustn't feel this way. It's coming out all right."

He took her in his arms and kissed her, and they strolled down the hall.

He was astonished to see how well she looked in even these simple

clothes—the best she had ever had.

They reached the depot after a short carriage ride. The accommodations

had been arranged for beforehand, and Kane had allowed just enough

time to make the train. When they settled themselves in a Pullman state-

room it was with a keen sense of satisfaction on his part. Life looked rosy.

Jennie was beside him. He had succeeded in what he had started out to

do. So might it always be.

As the train rolled out of the depot and the long reaches of the fields

succeeded Jennie studied them wistfully. There were the forests, leafless and bare; the wide, brown fields, wet with the rains of winter; the low

farm-houses sitting amid flat stretches of prairie, their low roofs making them look as if they were hugging the ground. The train roared past little hamlets, with cottages of white and yellow and drab, their roofs

blackened by frost and rain. Jennie noted one in particular which seemed

to recall the old neighborhood where they used to live at Columbus; she

put her handkerchief to her eyes and began silently to cry.

"I hope you're not crying, are you, Jennie?" said Lester, looking up suddenly from the letter he had been reading. "Come, come," he went on as he saw a faint tremor shaking her. "This won't do. You have to do better than this. You'll never get along if you act that way."

She made no reply, and the depth of her silent grief filled him with

strange sympathies.

"Don't cry," he continued soothingly; "everything will be all right. I told you that. You needn't worry about anything."

Jennie made a great effort to recover herself, and began to dry her eyes.

"You don't want to give way like that," he continued. "It doesn't do you any good. I know how you feel about leaving home, but tears won't help

it any. It isn't as if you were going away for good, you know. Besides,

you'll be going back shortly. You care for me, don't you, sweet? I'm

something?"

"Yes," she said, and managed to smile back at him. Lester returned to his correspondence and Jennie fell to thinking of Vesta. It troubled her to