positive. His pet motto, "Hew to the line, let the chips fall where they may," had clung in her brain as something immensely characteristic.

Apparently he was not afraid of anything—God, man, or devil. He used

to look at her, holding her chin between the thumb and fingers of his big brown hand, and say: "You're sweet, all right, but you need courage and defiance. You haven't enough of those things." And her eyes would meet his in dumb appeal. "Never mind," he would add, "you have other things." And then he would kiss her.

One of the most appealing things to Lester was the simple way in which

she tried to avoid exposure of her various social and educational

shortcomings. She could not write very well, and once he found a list of

words he had used written out on a piece of paper with the meanings

opposite. He smiled, but he liked her better for it. Another time in the

Southern hotel in St. Louis he watched her pretending a loss of appetite

because she thought that her lack of table manners was being observed by

near-by diners. She could not always be sure of the right forks and knives, and the strange-looking dishes bothered her; how did one eat asparagus

and artichokes.

"Why don't you eat something?" he asked good-naturedly. "You're hungry, aren't you?"

"Not very."

"You must be. Listen, Jennie. I know what it is. You mustn't feel that way.

Your manners are all right. I wouldn't bring you here if they weren't. Your instincts are all right. Don't be uneasy. I'd tell you quick enough when

there was anything wrong." His brown eyes held a friendly gleam.

She smiled gratefully. "I do feel a little nervous at times," she admitted.

"Don't," he repeated. "You're all right. Don't worry. I'll show you." And he did.

By degrees Jennie grew into an understanding of the usages and customs

of comfortable existence. All that the Gerhardt family had ever had were

the bare necessities of life. Now she was surrounded with whatever she

wanted—trunks, clothes, toilet articles, the whole varied equipment of

comfort—and while she liked it all, it did not upset her sense of

proportion and her sense of the fitness of things. There was no element of vanity in her, only a sense of joy in privilege and opportunity. She was

grateful to Lester for all that he had done and was doing for her. If only she could hold him—always!

The details of getting Vesta established once adjusted, Jennie settled

down into the routine of home life. Lester, busy about his multitudinous

affairs, was in and out. He had a suite of rooms reserved for himself at the Grand Pacific, which was then the exclusive hotel of Chicago, and this

was his ostensible residence. His luncheon and evening appointments

were kept at the Union Club. An early patron of the telephone, he had one installed in the apartment, so that he could reach Jennie quickly and at

any time. He was home two or three nights a week, sometimes oftener.

He insisted at first on Jennie having a girl of general housework, but

acquiesced in the more sensible arrangement which she suggested later of

letting some one come in to do the cleaning. She liked to work around her own home. Her natural industry and love of order prompted this feeling.

Lester liked his breakfast promptly at eight in the morning. He wanted

dinner served nicely at seven. Silverware, cut glass, imported china—all

the little luxuries of life appealed to him. He kept his trunks and wardrobe at the apartment.

During the first few months everything went smoothly. He was in the

habit of taking Jennie to the theatre now and then, and if he chanced to

run across an acquaintance he always introduced her as Miss Gerhardt.

When he registered her as his wife it was usually under an assumed

name; where there was no danger of detection he did not mind using his

own signature. Thus far there had been no difficulty or unpleasantness of any kind.

The trouble with this situation was that it was criss-crossed with the

danger and consequent worry which the deception in regard to Vesta had

entailed, as well as with Jennie's natural anxiety about her father and the disorganised home. Jennie feared, as Veronica hinted, that she and

William would go to live with Martha, who was installed in a boarding-

house in Cleveland, and that Gerhardt would be left alone. He was such a

pathetic figure to her, with his injured hands and his one ability—that of being a watchman—that she was hurt to think of his being left alone.

Would he come to her? She knew that he would not—feeling as he did at

present. Would Lester have him—she was not sure of that. If he came

Vesta would have to be accounted for. So she worried.

The situation in regard to Vesta was really complicated. Owing to the

feeling that she was doing her daughter a great injustice, Jennie was

particularly sensitive in regard to her, anxious to do a thousand things to make up for the one great duty that she could not perform. She daily paid a visit to the home of Mrs. Olsen, always taking with her toys, candy, or whatever came into her mind as being likely to interest and please the

child. She liked to sit with Vesta and tell her stories of fairy and giant, which kept the little girl wide-eyed. At last she went so far as to bring her to the apartment, when Lester was away visiting his parents, and she soon found it possible, during his several absences, to do this regularly. After that, as time went on and she began to know his habits, she became more

bold—although bold is scarcely the word to use in connection with

Jennie. She became venturesome much as a mouse might; she would risk

Vesta's presence on the assurance of even short absences—two or three

days. She even got into the habit of keeping a few of Vesta's toys at the apartment, so that she could have something to play with when she came.

During these several visits from her child Jennie could not but realise the lovely thing life would be were she only an honoured wife and a happy

mother. Vesta was a most observant little girl. She could by her innocent childish questions give a hundred turns to the dagger of self-reproach

which was already planted deeply in Jennie's heart.

"Can I come to live with you?" was one of her simplest and most frequently repeated questions. Jennie would reply that mamma could not

have her just yet, but that very soon now, just as soon as she possibly

could, Vesta should come to stay always.

"Don't you know just when?" Vesta would ask.

"No, dearest, not just when. Very soon now. You won't mind waiting a little while. Don't you like Mrs. Olsen?"

"Yes," replied Vesta; "but then she ain't got any nice things now. She's just got old things." And Jennie, stricken to the heart, would take Vesta to the toy shop, and load her down with a new assortment of playthings.

Of course Lester was not in the least suspicious. His observation of things relating to the home were rather casual. He went about his work and his

pleasures believing Jennie to be the soul of sincerity and good-natured

service, and it never occurred to him that there was anything underhanded in her actions. Once he did come home sick in the afternoon and found

her absent—an absence which endured from two o'clock to five. He was a

little irritated and grumbled on her return, but his annoyance was as

nothing to her astonishment and fright when she found him there. She

blanched at the thought of his suspecting something, and explained as