"Oh no," she said.
"Not so much.
Don't give me all that."
"Yes," he replied. "Don't argue.
Here. Give me your hand."
She put it out in answer to the summons of his eyes, and he shut her fingers on the money, pressing them gently at the same time.
"I want you to have it, sweet. I love you, little girl.
I'm not going to see you suffer, nor any one belonging to you."
Her eyes looked a dumb thankfulness, and she bit her lips.
"I don't know how to thank you," she said.
"You don't need to," he replied.
"The thanks are all the other way—believe me."
He paused and looked at her, the beauty of her face holding him.
She looked at the table, wondering what would come next.
"How would you like to leave what you're doing and stay at home?" he asked.
"That would give you your freedom day times."
"I couldn't do that," she replied.
"Papa wouldn't allow it.
He knows I ought to work."
"That's true enough," he said.
"But there's so little in what you're doing.
Good heavens!
Four dollars a week!
I would be glad to give you fifty times that sum if I thought there was any way in which you could use it."
He idly thrummed the cloth with his fingers.
"I couldn't," she said.
"I hardly know how to use this.
They'll suspect.
I'll have to tell mamma."
From the way she said it he judged there must be some bond of sympathy between her and her mother which would permit of a confidence such as this.
He was by no means a hard man, and the thought touched him.
But he would not relinquish his purpose.
"There's only one thing to be done, as far as I can see," he went on very gently.
"You're not suited for the kind of work you're doing.
You're too refined.
I object to it.
Give it up and come with me down to New York; I'll take good care of you.
I love you and want you.
As far as your family is concerned, you won't have to worry about them any more.
You can take a nice home for them and furnish it in any style you please.
Wouldn't you like that?"
He paused, and Jennie's thoughts reverted quickly to her mother, her dear mother.
All her life long Mrs. Gerhardt had been talking of this very thing—a nice home.
If they could just have a larger house, with good furniture and a yard filled with trees, how happy she would be.
In such a home she would be free of the care of rent, the discomfort of poor furniture, the wretchedness of poverty; she would be so happy.
She hesitated there while his keen eye followed her in spirit, and he saw what a power he had set in motion.
It had been a happy inspiration—the suggestion of a decent home for the family.
He waited a few minutes longer, and then said:
"Well, wouldn't you better let me do that?"
"It would be very nice," she said, "but it can't be done now.