there are no dead.

Miss Murfree, Dr. Emory, Mrs. Davis, and some others among the

neighbours were most sympathetic and considerate. Mrs. Davis sent a

telegram to Lester saying that Vesta was dead, but, being absent, there

was no response. The house was looked after with scrupulous care by

others, for Jennie was incapable of attending to it herself. She walked

about looking at things which Vesta had owned or liked—things which

Lester or she had given her—sighing over the fact that Vesta would not

need or use them any more. She gave instructions that the body should be

taken to Chicago and buried in the Cemetery of the Redeemer, for Lester,

at the time of Gerhardt's death, had purchased a small plot of ground

there. She also expressed her wish that the minister of the little Lutheran church in Cottage Grove Avenue, where Gerhardt had attended, should be

requested to say a few words at the grave. There were the usual

preliminary services at the house. The local Methodist minister read a

portion of the first epistle of Paul to the Thessalonians, and a body of

Vesta's classmates sang "Nearer My God to Thee." There were flowers, a white coffin, a world of sympathetic expressions, and then Vesta was

taken away. The coffin was properly incased for transportation, put on the train, and finally delivered at the Lutheran cemetery in Chicago.

Jennie moved as one in a dream. She was dazed, almost to the point of

insensibility. Five of her neighbourhood friends, at the solicitation of Mrs.

Davis, were kind enough to accompany her. At the grave-side when the

body was finally lowered, she looked at it, one might have thought

indifferently, for she was numb from suffering. She returned to Sandwood

after it was all over, saying that she would not stay long. She wanted to come back to Chicago, where she could be near Vesta and Gerhardt.

After the funeral Jennie tried to think of her future. She fixed her mind on the need of doing something, even though she did not need to. She

thought that she might like to try nursing, and could start at once to obtain the training which was required. She also thought of William. He was

unmarried, and perhaps he might be willing to come and live with her.

Only she did not know where he was, and Bass was also in ignorance of

his whereabouts. She finally concluded that she would try to get work in a store. Her disposition was against idleness. She could not live alone here, and she could not have her neighbours sympathetically worrying over

what was to become of her. Miserable as she was, she would be less

miserable stopping in a hotel in Chicago, and looking for something to

do, or living in a cottage somewhere near the Cemetery of the Redeemer.

It also occurred to her that she might adopt a homeless child. There were a number of orphan asylums in the city.

Some three weeks after Vesta's death Lester returned to Chicago with his

wife, and discovered the first letter, the telegram, and an additional note telling him that Vesta was dead. He was truly grieved, for his affection for the girl had been real. He was very sorry for Jennie, and he told his wife that he would have to go out and see her. He was wondering what she

would do. She could not live alone. Perhaps he could suggest something

which would help her. He took the train to Sandwood, but Jennie had

gone to the Hotel Tremont in Chicago. He went there, but Jennie had

gone to her daughter's grave; later he called again and found her in. When the boy presented his card she suffered an upwelling of feeling—a wave

that was more intense than that with which she had received him in the

olden days, for now her need of him was greater.

Lester, in spite of the glamour of his new affection and the restoration of his wealth, power, and dignities, had had time to think deeply of what he had done. His original feeling of doubt and dissatisfaction with himself

had never wholly quieted. It did not ease him any to know that he had left Jennie comfortably fixed, for it was always so plain to him that money

was not the point at issue with her. Affection was what she craved.

Without it she was like a rudderless boat on an endless sea, and he knew

it. She needed him, and he was ashamed to think that his charity had not

outweighed his sense of self-preservation and his desire for material

advantage. To-day as the elevator carried him up to her room he was

really sorry, though he knew now that no act of his could make things

right. He had been to blame from the very beginning, first for taking her, then for failing to stick by a bad bargain. Well, it could not be helped

now. The best thing he could do was to be fair, to counsel with her, to

give her the best of his sympathy and advice.

"Hello, Jennie," he said familiarly as she opened the door to him in her hotel room, his glance taking in the ravages which death and suffering

had wrought. She was thinner, her face quite drawn and colourless, her

eyes larger by contrast. "I'm awfully sorry about Vesta," he said a little awkwardly. "I never dreamed anything like that could happen."

It was the first word of comfort which had meant anything to her since

Vesta died—since Lester had left her, in fact. It touched her that he had come to sympathise; for the moment she could not speak. Tears welled

over her eyelids and down upon her cheeks.

"Don't cry, Jennie," he said, putting his arm around her and holding her head to his shoulder. "I'm sorry. I've been sorry for a good many things that can't be helped now. I'm intensely sorry for this. Where did you bury her?"

"Beside papa," she said, sobbing.

"Too bad," he murmured, and held her in silence. She finally gained control of herself sufficiently to step away from him; then wiping her

eyes with her handkerchief, she asked him to sit down.

"I'm so sorry," he went on, "that this should have happened while I was away. I would have been with you if I had been here. I suppose you won't

want to live out at Sandwood now?"

"I can't, Lester," she replied. "I couldn't stand it."

"Where are you thinking of going?"

"Oh, I don't know yet. I didn't want to be a bother to those people out there. I thought I'd get a little house somewhere and adopt a baby maybe, or get something to do. I don't like to be alone."

"That isn't a bad idea," he said, "that of adopting a baby. It would be a lot of company for you. You know how to go about getting one?"

"You just ask at one of these asylums, don't you?"

"I think there's something more than that," he replied thoughtfully. "There are some formalities—I don't know what they are. They try to keep

control of the child in some way. You had better consult with Watson and

get him to help you. Pick out your baby, and then let him do the rest. I'll speak to him about it."

Lester saw that she needed companionship badly. "Where is your brother George?" he asked.

"He's in Rochester, but he couldn't come. Bass said he was married," she added.

"There isn't any other member of the family you could persuade to come and live with you?"

"I might get William, but I don't know where he is."

"Why not try that new section west of Jackson Park," he suggested, "if you want a house here in Chicago? I see some nice cottages out that way.

You needn't buy. Just rent until you see how well you're satisfied."

Jennie thought this good advice because it came from Lester. It was good