Going about her household duties, she was content to wait, without a murmur, the fulfilment of that process for which, after all, she was but the sacrificial implement.
When her duties were lightest she was content to sit in quiet meditation, the marvel of life holding her as in a trance.
When she was hardest pressed to aid her mother, she would sometimes find herself quietly singing, the pleasure of work lifting her out of herself.
Always she was content to face the future with a serene and unfaltering courage.
It is not so with all women.
Nature is unkind in permitting the minor type to bear a child at all.
The larger natures in their maturity welcome motherhood, see in it the immense possibilities of racial fulfilment, and find joy and satisfaction in being the hand-maiden of so immense a purpose.
Jennie, a child in years, was potentially a woman physically and mentally, but not yet come into rounded conclusions as to life and her place in it.
The great situation which had forced her into this anomalous position was from one point of view a tribute to her individual capacity.
It proved her courage, the largeness of her sympathy, her willingness to sacrifice for what she considered a worthy cause.
That it resulted in an unexpected consequence, which placed upon her a larger and more complicated burden, was due to the fact that her sense of self-protection had not been commensurate with her emotions.
There were times when the prospective coming of the child gave her a sense of fear and confusion, because she did not know but that the child might eventually reproach her; but there was always that saving sense of eternal justice in life which would not permit her to be utterly crushed.
To her way of thinking, people were not intentionally cruel.
Vague thoughts of sympathy and divine goodness permeated her soul.
Life at worst or best was beautiful—had always been so.
These thoughts did not come to her all at once, but through the months during which she watched and waited.
It was a wonderful thing to be a mother, even under these untoward conditions.
She felt that she would love this child, would be a good mother to it if life permitted.
That was the problem—what would life permit?
There were many things to be done—clothes to be made; certain provisions of hygiene and diet to be observed.
One of her fears was that Gerhardt might unexpectedly return, but he did not.
The old family doctor who had nursed the various members of the Gerhardt family through their multitudinous ailments—Doctor Ellwanger—was taken into consultation, and he gave sound and practical advice.
Despite his Lutheran upbringing, the practice of medicine in a large and kindly way had led him to the conclusion that there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in our philosophies and in our small neighborhood relationships.
"So it is," he observed to Mrs. Gerhardt when she confided to him nervously what the trouble was.
"Well, you mustn't worry.
These things happen in more places than you think.
If you knew as much about life as I do, and about your neighbors, you would not cry.
Your girl will be all right.
She is very healthy.
She can go away somewhere afterward, and people will never know.
Why should you worry about what your neighbors think.
It is not so uncommon as you imagine."
Mrs. Gerhardt marveled.
He was such a wise man.
It gave her a little courage.
As for Jennie, she listened to his advice with interest and without fear.
She wanted things not so much for herself as for her child, and she was anxious to do whatever she was told.
The doctor was curious to know who the father was; when informed he lifted his eyes.
"Indeed," he commented. "That ought to be a bright baby."
There came the final hour when the child was ushered into the world.
It was Doctor Ellwanger who presided, assisted by the mother, who, having brought forth six herself, knew exactly what to do.
There was no difficulty, and at the first cry of the new-born infant there awakened in Jennie a tremendous yearning toward it.
This was her child!
It was weak and feeble—a little girl, and it needed her care.
She took it to her breast, when it had been bathed and swaddled, with a tremendous sense of satisfaction and joy.
This was her child, her little girl.
She wanted to live to be able to work for it, and rejoiced, even in her weakness, that she was so strong.
Doctor Ellwanger predicted a quick recovery.
He thought two weeks would be the outside limit of her need to stay in bed.
As a matter of fact, in ten days she was up and about, as vigorous and healthy as ever.