They are exactly what they are capable of being.
I despise lack of taste; it is the worst crime."
Most of these worldly-wise counsels were not given directly to Jennie.
She overheard them, but to her quiet and reflective mind they had their import.
Like seeds fallen upon good ground, they took root and grew.
She began to get a faint perception of hierarchies and powers.
They were not for her, perhaps, but they were in the world, and if fortune were kind one might better one's state.
She worked on, wondering, however, just how better fortune might come to her.
Who would have her to wife knowing her history?
How could she ever explain the existence of her child?
Her child, her child, the one transcendent, gripping theme of joy and fear.
If she could only do something for it—sometime, somehow!
For the first winter things went smoothly enough.
By the closest economy the children were clothed and kept in school, the rent paid, and the instalments met.
Once it looked as though there might be some difficulty about the continuance of the home life, and that was when Gerhardt wrote that he would be home for Christmas.
The mill was to close down for a short period at that time. He was naturally anxious to see what the new life of his family at Cleveland was like.
Mrs. Gerhardt would have welcomed his return with unalloyed pleasure had it not been for the fear she entertained of his creating a scene.
Jennie talked it over with her mother, and Mrs. Gerhardt in turn spoke of it to Bass, whose advice was to brave it out.
"Don't worry," he said; "he won't do anything about it.
I'll talk to him if he says anything."
The scene did occur, but it was not so unpleasant as Mrs. Gerhardt had feared.
Gerhardt came home during the afternoon, while Bass, Jennie, and George were at work.
Two of the younger children went to the train to meet him.
When he entered Mrs. Gerhardt greeted him affectionately, but she trembled for the discovery which was sure to come.
Her suspense was not for long.
Gerhardt opened the front bedroom door only a few minutes after he arrived.
On the white counterpane of the bed was a pretty child, sleeping.
He could not but know on the instant whose it was, but he pretended ignorance.
"Whose child is that?" he questioned.
"It's Jennie's," said Mrs. Gerhardt, weakly.
"When did that come here?"
"Not so very long ago," answered the mother, nervously.
"I guess she is here, too," he declared, contemptuously, refusing to pronounce her name, a fact which he had already anticipated.
"She's working in a family," returned his wife in a pleading tone.
"She's doing so well now.
She had no place to go.
Let her alone."
Gerhardt had received a light since he had been away.
Certain inexplicable thoughts and feelings had come to him in his religious meditations.
In his prayers he had admitted to the All-seeing that he might have done differently by his daughter.
Yet he could not make up his mind how to treat her for the future.
She had committed a great sin; it was impossible to get away from that.
When Jennie came home that night a meeting was unavoidable.
Gerhardt saw her coming, and pretended to be deeply engaged in a newspaper.
Mrs. Gerhardt, who had begged him not to ignore Jennie entirely, trembled for fear he would say or do something which would hurt her feelings.
"She is coming now," she said, crossing to the door of the front room, where he was sitting; but Gerhardt refused to look up.
"Speak to her, anyhow," was her last appeal before the door opened; but he made no reply.
When Jennie came in her mother whispered,
"He is in the front room."
Jennie paled, put her thumb to her lip and stood irresolute, not knowing how to meet the situation.