The remaining stock of Lester’s discarded clothing—shoes, shirts, collars, suits, ties, and what not—he would store away for weeks and months, and then, in a sad and gloomy frame of mind, he would call in a tailor, or an old-shoe man, or a ragman, and dispose of the lot at the best price he could. He learned that all second-hand clothes men were sharks; that there was no use in putting the least faith in the protests of any rag dealer or old-shoe man. They all lied. They all claimed to be very poor, when as a matter of fact they were actually rolling in wealth. Gerhardt had investigated these stories; he had followed them up; he had seen what they were doing with the things he sold them. “Scoundrels!” he declared. “They offer me ten cents for a pair of shoes, and then I see them hanging out in front of their places marked two dollars. Such robbery! My God! They could afford to give me a dollar.” Jennie smiled. It was only to her that he complained, for he could expect no sympathy from’ Lester. So far as his own meager store of money was concerned, he gave the most of it to his beloved church, where he was considered to be a model of propriety, honesty, faith—in fact, the embodiment of all the virtues. And so, for all the ill winds that were beginning to blow socially, Jennie was now leading the dream years of her existence. Lester, in spite of the doubts which assailed him at times as to the wisdom of his career, was invariably kind and considerate, and he seemed to enjoy his home life. “Everything all right?” she would ask when he came in of an evening. “Sure!” he would answer, and pinch her chin or cheek. She would follow him in while Jeannette, always alert, would take his coat and hat. In the winter-time they would sit in the library before the big grate-fire. In the spring, summer, or fall Lester preferred to walk out on the porch, one corner of which commanded a sweeping view of the lawn and the distant street, and light his before-dinner cigar. Jennie would sit on the side of his chair and stroke his head. “Your hair is not getting the least bit thin, Lester; aren’t you glad?” she would say; or, “Oh, see how your brow is wrinkled now. You mustn’t do that. You didn’t change your tie, mister, this morning. Why didn’t you? I laid one out for you.” “Oh, I forgot,” he would answer, or he would cause the wrinkles to disappear, or laughingly predict that he would soon be getting bald if he wasn’t so now.