A pale lavender gingham, starched and ironed, until it was a model of laundering, set off her pretty figure to perfection.
There were little lace-edged cuffs and a rather high collar attached to it. She had no gloves, nor any jewelry, nor yet a jacket good enough to wear, but her hair was done up in such a dainty way that it set off her well-shaped head better than any hat, and the few ringlets that could escape crowned her as with a halo.
When Brander suggested that she should wear a jacket she hesitated a moment; then she went in and borrowed her mother's cape, a plain gray woolen one.
Brander realized now that she had no jacket, and suffered keenly to think that she had contemplated going without one.
"She would have endured the raw night air," he thought, "and said nothing of it."
He looked at her and shook his head reflectively.
Then they started, and he quickly forgot everything but the great fact that she was at his side.
She talked with freedom and with a gentle girlish enthusiasm that he found irresistibly charming.
"Why, Jennie," he said, when she had called upon him to notice how soft the trees looked, where, outlined dimly against the new rising moon, they were touched with its yellow light, "you're a great one.
I believe you would write poetry if you were schooled a little."
"Do you suppose I could?" she asked innocently.
"Do I suppose, little girl?" he said, taking her hand. "Do I suppose? Why, I know.
You're the dearest little day-dreamer in the world.
Of course you could write poetry.
You live it.
You are poetry, my dear.
Don't you worry about writing any."
This eulogy touched her as nothing else possibly could have done.
He was always saying such nice things.
No one ever seemed to like or to appreciate her half as much as he did.
And how good he was!
Everybody said that.
Her own father.
They rode still farther, until suddenly remembering, he said:
"I wonder what time it is.
Perhaps we had better be turning back.
Have you your watch?"
Jennie started, for this watch had been the one thing of which she had hoped he would not speak.
Ever since he had returned it had been on her mind.
In his absence the family finances had become so strained that she had been compelled to pawn it.
Martha had got to that place in the matter of apparel where she could no longer go to school unless something new were provided for her.
And so, after much discussion, it was decided that the watch must go.
Bass took it, and after much argument with the local pawn broker, he had been able to bring home ten dollars.
Mrs. Gerhardt expended the money upon her children, and heaved a sigh of relief.
Martha looked very much better.
Naturally, Jennie was glad.
Now, however, when the Senator spoke of it, her hour of retribution seemed at hand.
She actually trembled, and he noticed her discomfiture.
"Why, Jennie," he said gently, "what made you start like that?"
"Nothing," she answered.
"Haven't you your watch?"
She paused, for it seemed impossible to tell a deliberate falsehood.
There was a strained silence; then she said, with a voice that had too much of a sob in it for him not to suspect the truth, "No, sir."
He persisted, and she confessed everything.
"Well," he said, "dearest, don't feel badly about it.
There never was such another girl.
I'll get your watch for you.
Hereafter when you need anything I want you to come to me.
Do you hear?
I want you to promise me that.