“I shall come back as soon as possible, my dear,” said the minister; and he found for her a comfortable seat, placed the baby in her arms, and so left her in the waiting-room. Jennie sat there without feeling the time pass wearily, after all; her mind was too full of delightful anticipations of homegoing. Nearly an hour passed, and then her father came hurrying in. “It is all done, my dear. Your trunks are rescued from the custom house and deposited on the train, and now we have five minutes left in which to take some refreshments, if you would like,” he said cheerfully. “I want nothing, dear papa, for I have not very long since breakfasted. But you?” she inquired. “No, dear; nothing for me. And now, my dear child, I have at length found breathing space in this hurry and confusion to ask about your husband. You did not name him at all in your letter, from which I argued ill; and if there had been time, I should have written to you for some explanation; but I knew that you were then to sail in a few days, and that you would reach Liverpool before my letter could get to New York. Now, my dear, I must ask you some very serious questions.” “Yes, papa.” “How is it that you, the daughter of a clergyman of the Church of England, and the wife of an ex-captain in her majesty’s army, should have been confined in the charity ward of a public hospital?” Jennie shuddered, but did not answer. “How was it that you had to be indebted to alms for your outfit and passage to this country? Why did you not mention your husband’s name in your letter to me? Why are you here alone? Where is your husband? Tell me, child. Do not fear or hesitate to tell your father everything,” he said, tenderly taking her hand. “Oh, papa, your goodness goes to my heart. He has left me, papa,” she said, and then suddenly lifting her soft, dark eyes, full of truth and candor, to meet her father’s pitying gaze, she added: “But do not mind that, dear papa. I do not. The best thing he ever did for me was to leave me.” “Jennie!” “Yes, papa dear, it was, indeed. I am not saying this from pride or bravado, but because it is the very truth itself, that the best thing he ever did for me was to leave me.” “Oh, Jennie!” “Yes, papa.” “You do not care for him, then?” “No, dear papa.” “And yet, my child, he is your husband still,” said the minister. “Unhappily, yes; but he has left me. It is the kindest act of his life toward me.” “And you never wish to see him again, Jennie?” “Never, nor to hear of him. I am happy now in a quiet way. I wish for nothing better on earth than to live in a quiet way at the darling little parsonage with you and dearest mamma and my blessed baby.” Suddenly into the pathos and gravity of Jennie’s face came a ripple of humor as she spoke of her child and looked at her father.