“I’d like it,” said Jennie, to whom the proposition was a glorious novelty. He smiled and patted her cheek, foolishly happy to see her again. Every day seemed to add to her beauty. Graced with her clean white apron, her shapely head crowned by the glory of her simply plaited hair, she was a pleasing sight for any man to look upon. He waited until Mrs. Gerhardt returned, and then, having accomplished the purpose of his visit, he arose. “I’m going to take your daughter out riding to-morrow evening,” he explained. “I want to talk to her about her future.” “Won’t that be nice?” said the mother. She saw nothing incongruous in the proposal. They parted with smiles and much handshaking. “That man has the best heart,” commented Mrs. Gerhardt. “Doesn’t he always speak so nicely of you? He may help you to an education. You ought to be proud.” “I am,” said Jennie frankly. “I don’t know whether we had better tell your father or not,” concluded Mrs. Gerhardt. “He doesn’t like for you to be out evenings.” Finally they decided not to tell him. He might not understand. Jennie was ready when he called. He could see by the weak-flamed, unpretentious parlor-lamp that she was dressed for him, and that the occasion had called out the best she had. A pale lavender gingham, starched and ironed, until it was a model of laundering, set off her pretty figure to perfection. There were little lace-edged cuffs and a rather high collar attached to it. She had no gloves, nor any jewelry, nor yet a jacket good enough to wear, but her hair was done up in such a dainty way that it set off her well-shaped head better than any hat, and the few ringlets that could escape crowned her as with a halo. When Brander suggested that she should wear a jacket she hesitated a moment; then she went in and borrowed her mother’s cape, a plain gray woolen one. Brander realized now that she had no jacket, and suffered keenly to think that she had contemplated going without one. “She would have endured the raw night air,” he thought, “and said nothing of it.” He looked at her and shook his head reflectively. Then they started, and he quickly forgot everything but the great fact that she was at his side. She talked with freedom and with a gentle girlish enthusiasm that he found irresistibly charming. “Why, Jennie,” he said, when she had called upon him to notice how soft the trees looked, where, outlined dimly against the new rising moon, they were touched with its yellow light, “you’re a great one. I believe you would write poetry if you were schooled a little.” “Do you suppose I could?” she asked innocently. “Do I suppose, little girl?” he said, taking her hand. “Do I suppose? Why, I know. You’re the dearest little day-dreamer in the world. Of course you could write poetry. You live it. You are poetry, my dear. Don’t you worry about writing any.”