"You know I don't dance," he returned dryly. "Why should I go?"

"Don't dance. Won't dance, you mean. You're getting too lazy to move. If Robert is willing to dance occasionally I think you might."

"Robert's got it on me in lightness," Lester replied, airily.

"And politeness," retorted Louise.

"Be that as it may," said Lester.

"Don't try to stir up a fight, Louise," observed Robert, sagely.

After dinner they adjourned to the library, and Robert talked with his

brother a little on business. There were some contracts coming up for

revision. He wanted to see what suggestions Lester had to make. Louise

was going to a party, and the carriage was now announced. "So you are not coming?" she asked, a trifle complainingly.

"Too tired," said Lester lightly. "Make my excuses to Mrs. Knowles."

"Letty Pace asked about you the other night," Louise called back from the door.

"Kind," replied Lester. "I'm greatly obliged."

"She's a nice girl, Lester," put in his father, who was standing near the open fire. "I only wish you would marry her and settle down. You'd have a good wife in her."

"She's charming," testified Mrs. Kane.

"What is this?" asked Lester jocularly—"a conspiracy? You know I'm not strong on the matrimonial business."

"And I well know it," replied his mother semi-seriously. "I wish you were."

Lester changed the subject. He really could not stand for this sort of thing any more, he told himself. And as he thought his mind wandered back to

Jennie and her peculiar "Oh no, no!" There was some one that appealed to him. That was a type of womanhood worth while. Not sophisticated, not

self-seeking, not watched over and set like a man-trap in the path of men, but a sweet little girl—sweet as a flower, who was without anybody,

apparently, to watch over her. That night in his room he composed a

letter, which he dated a week later, because he did not want to appear too urgent and because he could not again leave Cincinnati for at least two

weeks.

"MY DEAR JENNIE,

"Although it has been a week, and I have said nothing, I have not

forgotten you—believe me. Was the impression I gave of myself very

bad? I will make it better from now on, for I love you, little girl—I really do. There is a flower on my table which reminds me of you very much—

white, delicate, beautiful. Your personality, lingering with me, is just that.

You are the essence of everything beautiful to me. It is in your power to strew flowers in my path if you will.

"But what I want to say here is that I shall be in Cleveland on the 18th, and I shall expect to see you. I arrive Thursday night, and I want you to meet me in the ladies' parlour of the Dornton at noon Friday. Will you?

You can lunch with me.

"You see, I respect your suggestion that I should not call. (I will not—on condition.) These separations are dangerous to good friendship. Write me

that you will. I throw myself on your generosity. But I can't take 'no' for an answer, not now.

"With a world of affection.

"LESTER KANE."

He sealed the letter and addressed it. "She's a remarkable girl in her way," he thought. "She really is."

The arrival of this letter, coming after a week of silence and after she had had a chance to think, moved Jennie deeply. What did she want to do?

What ought she to do? How did she truly feel about this man? Did she

sincerely wish to answer his letter? If she did so, what should she say?

Heretofore all her movements, even the one in which she had sought to

sacrifice herself for the sake of Bass in Columbus, had not seemed to

involve any one but herself. Now, there seemed to be others to consider—

her family, above all, her child. The little Vesta was now eighteen months of age; she was an interesting child; her large, blue eyes and light hair giving promise of a comeliness which would closely approximate that of

her mother, while her mential traits indicated a clear and intelligent mind.

Mrs. Gerhardt had become very fond of her. Gerhardt had unbended so

gradually that his interest was not even yet clearly discernible, but he had a distinct feeling of kindliness toward her. And this readjustment of her father's attitude had aroused in Jennie an ardent desire to so conduct

herself that no pain should ever come to him again. Any new folly on her

part would not only be base ingratitude to her father, but would tend to

injure the prospects of her little one. Her life was a failure, she fancied, but Vesta's was a thing apart; she must do nothing to spoil it. She

wondered whether it would not be better to write Lester and explain

everything. She had told him that she did not wish to do wrong. Suppose

she went on to inform him that she had a child, and beg him to leave her

in peace. Would he obey her? She doubted it. Did she really want him to

take her at her word?

The need of making this confession was a painful thing to Jennie. It

caused her to hesitate, to start a letter in which she tried to explain, and then to tear it up. Finally, fate intervened in the sudden home-coming of her father, who had been seriously injured by an accident at the glass-works in Youngstown where he worked.

It was on a Wednesday afternoon, in the latter part of August, when a

letter came from Gerhardt. But instead of the customary fatherly

communication, written in German and enclosing the regular weekly

remittance of five dollars, there was only a brief note, written by another hand, and explaining that the day before Gerhardt had received a severe

burn on both hands, due to the accidental overturning of a dipper of

molten glass. The letter added that he would be home the next morning.

"What do you think of that?" exclaimed William, his mouth wide open.

"Poor papa!" said Veronica, tears welling up in her eyes.

Mrs. Gerhardt sat down, clasped her hands in her lap, and stared at the

floor. "Now, what to do?" she nervously exclaimed. The possibility that Gerhardt was disabled for life opened long vistas of difficulties which she had not the courage to contemplate.

Bass came home at half-past six and Jennie at eight. The former heard the news with an astonished face.

"Gee! that's tough, isn't it?" he exclaimed. "Did the letter say how bad he was hurt?"

"No," replied Mrs. Gerhardt.

"Well, I wouldn't worry about it," said Bass easily. "It won't do any good.

We'll get along somehow. I wouldn't worry like that if I were you."

The truth was, he wouldn't, because his nature was wholly different. Life did not rest heavily upon his shoulders. His brain was not large enough to grasp the significance and weigh the results of things.

"I know," said Mrs. Gerhardt, endeavoring to recover herself. "I can't help it, though. To think that just when we were getting along fairly well this new calamity should be added. It seems sometimes as if we were under a

curse. We have so much bad luck."

When Jennie came her mother turned to her instinctively; here was her

one stay.

"What's the matter, ma?" asked Jennie as she opened the door and observed her mother's face. "What have you been crying about?"

Mrs. Gerhardt looked at her, and then turned half away.

"Pa's had his hands burned," put in Bass solemnly. "He'll be home tomorrow."