JENNIE GERHARDT. Theodore Dreiser

office. The two United States Senators, whenever business called them to Columbus, invariably maintained parlour chambers at the hotel. One of them, Senator Brander, was looked upon by the proprietor as more or less of a permanent guest, because he was not only a resident of the city, but an otherwise homeless bachelor. Other and more transient guests included Congressmen, State legislators and lobbyists, merchants, professional men, and, after them, the whole raft of indescribables who, coming and going, make up the glow and stir of this kaleidoscopic world.

      Mother and daughter, suddenly flung into this realm of superior brightness, felt immeasurably overawed. They went about too timid to touch anything for fear of giving offence. The great red-carpeted hallway, which they were set to sweep, had for them all the magnificence of a palace; they kept their eyes down and spoke in their lowest tones. When it came to scrubbing the steps and polishing the brass-work of the splendid stairs both needed to steel themselves, the mother against her timidity, the daughter against the shame at so public an exposure. Wide beneath lay the imposing lobby, and men, lounging, smoking, passing constantly in and out, could see them both.

      “Isn’t it fine?” whispered Genevieve, and started nervously at the sound of her own voice.

      “Yes,” returned her mother, who, upon her knees, was wringing out her cloth with earnest but clumsy hands.

      “It must cost a good deal to live here, don’t you think?”

      “Yes,” said her mother. “Don’t forget to rub into these little corners. Look here what you’ve left.”

      Jennie, mortified by this correction, fell earnestly to her task, and polished vigorously, without again daring to lift her eyes.

      With painstaking diligence they worked downward until about five o’clock; it was dark outside, and all the lobby was brightly lighted. Now they were very near the bottom of the stairway.

      Through the big swinging doors there entered from the chilly world without a tall, distinguished, middle-aged gentleman, whose silk hat and loose military cape-coat marked him at once, among the crowd of general idlers, as some one of importance. His face was of a dark and solemn cast, but broad and sympathetic in its lines, and his bright eyes were heavily shaded with thick, bushy, black eyebrows. Passing to the desk he picked up the key that had already been laid out for him, and coming to the staircase, started up.

      The middle-aged woman, scrubbing at his feet, he acknowledged not only by walking around her, but by graciously waving his hand, as much as to say, “Don’t move for me.”

      The daughter, however, caught his eye by standing up, her troubled glance showing that she feared she was in his way.

      He bowed and smiled pleasantly.

      “You shouldn’t have troubled yourself,” he said,

      Jennie only smiled.

      When he had reached the upper landing an impulsive sidewise glance assured him, more clearly than before, of her uncommonly prepossessing appearance. He noted the high, white forehead, with its smoothly parted and plaited hair. The eyes he saw were blue and the complexion fair. He had even time to admire the mouth and the full cheeks — above all, the well-rounded, graceful form, full of youth, health, and that hopeful expectancy which to the middle-aged is so suggestive of all that is worth begging of Providence. Without another look he went dignifiedly upon his way, but the impression of her charming personality went with him. This was the Hon. George Sylvester Brander, junior Senator.

      “Wasn’t that a fine-looking man who went up just now?” observed Jennie a few moments later.

      “Yes, he was,” said her mother.

      “He had a gold-headed cane.”

      “You mustn’t stare at people when they pass,” cautioned her mother, wisely. “It isn’t nice.”

      “I didn’t stare at him,” returned Jennie, innocently. “He bowed to me.”

      “Well, don’t you pay any attention to anybody,” said her mother. “They may not like it.”

      Jennie fell to her task in silence, but the glamour of the great world was having its effect upon her senses. She could not help giving ear to the sounds, the brightness, the buzz of conversation and laughter surrounding her. In one section of the parlour floor was the dining-room, and from the clink of dishes one could tell that supper was being prepared. In another was the parlour proper, and there some one came to play on the piano. That feeling of rest and relaxation which comes before the evening meal pervaded the place. It touched the heart of the innocent working-girl with hope, for hers were the years, and poverty could not as yet fill her young mind with cares. She rubbed diligently always, and sometimes forgot the troubled mother at her side, whose kindly eyes were becoming invested with crows’ feet, and whose lips half repeated the hundred cares of the day. She could only think that all of this was very fascinating, and wish that a portion of it might come to her.

      At half-past five, the housekeeper, remembering them, came and told them that they might go. The fully finished stairway was relinquished by both with a sigh of relief, and, after putting their implements away, they hastened homeward, the mother, at least, pleased to think that at last she had something to do.

      As they passed several fine houses Jennie was again touched by that half-defined emotion which the unwonted novelty of the hotel life had engendered in her consciousness.

      “Isn’t it fine to be rich?” she said.

      “Yes,” answered her mother, who was thinking of the suffering Veronica.

      “Did you see what a big dining-room they had there?”

      “Yes.”

      They went on past the low cottages and among the dead leaves of the year.

      “I wish we were rich,” murmured Jennie, half to herself.

      “I don’t know just what to do,” confided her mother with a long-drawn sigh. “I don’t believe there’s a thing to eat in the house.”

      “Let’s stop and see Mr. Bauman again,” exclaimed Jennie, her natural sympathies restored by the hopeless note in her mother’s voice.

      “Do you think he would trust us any more?”

      “Let’s tell him where we’re working. I will.”

      “Well,” said her mother, wearily.

      Into the small, dimly lighted grocery store, which was two blocks from their house, they ventured nervously. Mrs. Gerhardt was about to begin, but Jennie spoke first.

      “Will you let us have some bread to-night, and a little bacon? We’re working now at the Columbus House, and we’ll be sure to pay you Saturday.”

      “Yes,” added Mrs. Gerhardt, “I have something to do.”

      Bauman, who had long supplied them before illness and trouble began, knew that they told the truth.

      “How long have you been working there?” he asked.

      “Just this afternoon.”

      “You know, Mrs. Gerhardt,” he said, “how it is with me. I don’t want to refuse you. Mr. Gerhardt is good for it, but I am poor, too. Times are hard,” he explained further, “I have my family to keep.”

      “Yes, I know,” said Mrs. Gerhardt, weakly.

      Her old shoddy shawl hid her rough hands, red from the day’s work, but they were working nervously. Jennie stood by in strained silence.

      “Well,” concluded Mr. Bauman, “I guess it’s all right this time. Do what you can for me Saturday.”

      He wrapped up the bread and bacon, and, handing Jennie the parcel, he added, with a touch of cynicism:

      “When you get money again I guess you’ll go and trade somewhere else.”

      “No,” returned Mrs. Gerhardt; “you know better than that.” But she was