Jennie Gerhardt. Theodore Dreiser

enough?”

      He looked at her, and the playful, companionable way in which she seemed to take him, thrilled him. It was the essence of human comfort in another that he was feeling. How long had it been since the touch of a human hand had the thrill and warmth in it for him that hers did. How cold was the general material of life beside this warm, human factor, a woman dealing sympathetically with him. He studied her face in silence, while she turned and twisted, feeling, but scarcely understanding, the deep import of his scrutiny.

      “Well,” he said at last, “I think you’re a fine girl. Don’t you think I’m a pretty nice man?”

      “Yes,” said Jennie, promptly.

      He leaned back in his chair and laughed at the unconscious drollery of her reply. She looked at him curiously, and smiled.

      “What made you laugh?” she inquired.

      “Oh, your answer,” he returned. “I really ought not to laugh, though. You don’t appreciate me in the least. I don’t believe you like me at all.”

      “But I do, though,” she replied earnestly. “I think you’re so good.” Her eyes showed very plainly that she felt what she was saying.

      “Well,” he said, drawing her gently down to him, and the same instant, he pressed his lips to her cheek.

      “Oh!” she cried, straightening up, both startled and frightened.

      It was a new note in their relationship. The senatorial quality vanished in an instant. She recognized in him what she had not felt before. He seemed younger, too. She was a woman to him, and he was playing the part of a lover. She hesitated, but not knowing just what to do, did nothing at all.

      “Well,” he said, “did I frighten you?”

      She looked at him, but moved by her underlying respect for this great man, she said with a smile, “Yes, you did.”

      “I did it because I like you so much.”

      She meditated upon this a moment, and then said, “I think I’d better be going.”

      “My, now,” he pleaded, “are you going to run away because of that?”

      “No,” she said, moved by a curious feeling of ingratitude, “but I ought to be going. They’ll be wondering where I am.”

      “You’re sure you’re not angry about it?”

      “No,” she replied with more of a womanish air than she had ever shown before. It was a novel experience to be in so authoritative a position. It was so remarkable that it was almost confusing to both.

      “You’re my girl anyhow,” the senator said, rising. “I’m going to take care of you in the future.”

      Jennie heard this, and it pleased her. He was so able, she thought, to do something wondrous—so much in the nature of a magician. She looked about her, and the thought of coming into such a life and such an atmosphere was heavenly. Not that she fully understood his meaning, however. He meant to be good and generous, and give her fine things. Naturally she was happy. She took up the package that she had come for, not seeing or feeling the incongruity of her position, while he felt it as a direct reproof.

      “She ought not to carry that,” he thought. A great wave of sympathy swept over him. He took her cheeks between his hands, this time in a superior and more generous way. “Never mind, little girl,” he said. “You won’t have to do this always. I’ll see what I can do.”

      The outcome of this was simply a more sympathetic relationship between them. He did not hesitate to ask her to sit beside him on the arm of his chair the next time she came, and to question her intimately about the family’s condition, and her own desires. Several times he noticed that she was evading things, particularly in regard to what her father was doing. She was ashamed to own that he was sawing wood. Fearing lest something more serious was impending, he decided to go out some day and see for himself.

      This he did, when a comfortable morning presented itself, and his other duties did not press upon him. It was three days before the great fight in the legislature began, which ended in his defeat. Nothing could be done in these few remaining days. He knew he had everything as secure as such things could be made—which was never very secure. He took his cane and strolled forth, coming to the cottage in the course of a half-hour, and knocked boldly at the door.

      Mrs. Gerhardt opened it.

      “Good morning,” he said, cheerily; then, seeing her hesitate, he added, “May I come in?”

      The good mother, who was all but overcome by his astonishing presence, wiped her hands furtively upon her much-mended apron, and seeing that he waited for a reply, said:

      “Oh, yes. Come right in. Have this chair.”

      She hurried forward, forgetting to close the door, and, offering one of the common chairs, asked him to be seated.

      Genially, Brander looked at her, and feeling sorry that he was the occasion of so much confusion, said, “Don’t trouble yourself, Mrs. Gerhardt. I was passing and thought I’d come in. How is your husband?”

      “He’s well, thank you,” returned the mother. “He’s out working today.”

      “Then he has found employment?”

      “Yes sir,” said Mrs. Gerhardt, who hesitated, like Jennie, to say what it was.

      “The children are all well now, and in school, I hope?”

      “Yes,” replied the mother, who had by now unfastened her apron, and was nervously turning it in her lap.

      “That’s good, and where is Jennie?”

      The latter, who had been ironing, had abandoned the board and concealed herself in the bedroom, where she was busy tidying herself in the fear that her mother would not have fore-thought enough to say that she was out, and so let her escape.

      “She’s here,” returned her mother, who had hopes of her daughter rescuing her. “She’ll be right in soon. I’ll call her.”

      Using this as an excuse, she passed out of the room and, finding Jennie, said:

      “Oh, my, you go in for a moment. I must put off these old slippers, anyway.”

      “What did you tell him I was here for?” said Jennie weakly.

      “What could I do?” asked the mother.

      Together they hesitated while the senator surveyed the room. It was nothing uncommon to him, this evidence of poverty, but they thought it was. He felt sorry to think that such deserving people must suffer so, but intended, also, in a vague way, to ameliorate their condition, if possible.

      “Good morning,” the senator said to Jennie, when she came into his presence. “How do you do today?”

      Jennie came forward, extending her hand and blushing. She found herself so much disturbed by this visit that she could hardly find tongue to answer his questions.

      “I thought,” he said, “I’d come out and find where you live. This is a quite comfortable house. How many rooms have you?”

      “Five,” said Jennie. “You’ll have to excuse their looks this morning. We’ve been ironing and it’s all upset.”

      “I know,” said Brander, gently. “Don’t you think I understand, Jennie? You mustn’t feel nervous about me.”

      She noticed the comforting, personal tone he always used with her when she was at his room, and it tended in a way to subdue her flustered senses.

      “You mustn’t think it anything if I come here occasionally. I intend to come. I want to meet your father.”

      “Oh,” said Jennie, “he’s out today.”

      While they were talking, however, the honest wood-cutter was coming in at the gate with his