There is no one here all day now to look after her right, as she should be." Again he shook his head.
"I know," said Jennie weakly.
"I'm going to fix it now.
I'm going to have her live with me soon.
I won't neglect her—you know that."
"But the child's name," he insisted.
"She should have a name.
Soon in another year she goes to school.
People will want to know who she is.
It can't go on forever like this."
Jennie understood well enough that it couldn't.
She was crazy about her baby.
The heaviest cross she had to bear was the constant separations and the silence she was obliged to maintain about Vesta's very existence. It did seem unfair to the child, and yet Jennie did not see clearly how she could have acted otherwise.
Vesta had good clothes, everything she needed.
She was at least comfortable.
Jennie hoped to give her a good education.
If only she had told the truth to Lester in the first place.
Now it was almost too late, and yet she felt that she had acted for the best.
Finally she decided to find some good woman or family in Chicago who would take charge of Vesta for a consideration.
In a Swedish colony to the west of La Salle Avenue she came across an old lady who seemed to embody all the virtues she required—cleanliness, simplicity, honesty. She was a widow, doing work by the day, but she was glad to make an arrangement by which she should give her whole time to Vesta.
The latter was to go to kindergarten when a suitable one should be found.
She was to have toys and kindly attention, and Mrs. Olsen was to inform Jennie of any change in the child's health.
Jennie proposed to call every day, and she thought that sometimes, when Lester was out of town, Vesta might be brought to the apartment.
She had had her with her at Cleveland, and he had never found out anything.
The arrangements completed, Jennie returned at the first opportunity to Cleveland to take Vesta away.
Gerhardt, who had been brooding over his approaching loss, appeared most solicitous about her future.
"She should grow up to be a fine girl," he said.
"You should give her a good education—she is so smart."
He spoke of the advisability of sending her to a Lutheran school and church, but Jennie was not so sure of that.
Time and association with Lester had led her to think that perhaps the public school was better than any private institution.
She had no particular objection to the church, but she no longer depended upon its teachings as a guide in the affairs of life.
Why should she?
The next day it was necessary for Jennie to return to Chicago.
Vesta, excited and eager, was made ready for the journey.
Gerhardt had been wandering about, restless as a lost spirit, while the process of dressing was going on; now that the hour had actually struck he was doing his best to control his feelings.
He could see that the five-year-old child had no conception of what it meant to him.
She was happy and self-interested, chattering about the ride and the train.
"Be a good little girl," he said, lifting her up and kissing her.
"See that you study your catechism and say your prayers.
And you won't forget the grandpa—what?—" He tried to go on, but his voice failed him.
Jennie, whose heart ached for her father, choked back her emotion.
"There," she said, "if I'd thought you were going to act like that—" She stopped.
"Go," said Gerhardt, manfully, "go.
It is best this way."
And he stood solemnly by as they went out of the door.
Then he turned back to his favorite haunt, the kitchen, and stood there staring at the floor.
One by one they were leaving him—Mrs. Gerhardt, Bass, Martha, Jennie, Vesta.
He clasped his hands together, after his old-time fashion, and shook his head again and again.
"So it is!
So it is!" he repeated.