“Oh, that was it. They didn’t say why they let me out.” “Don’t tell any one,” she pleaded. “I don’t want any one to know. You know how papa feels about him.” “All right,” he replied. But he was curious as to what the ex-Senator thought, what he had done, and how she had appealed to him. She explained briefly, then she heard her mother come to the door. “Jennie,” she whispered. Jennie went out. “Oh, why did you go?” she asked. “I couldn’t help it, ma,” she replied. “I thought I must do something.” “Why did you stay so long?” “He wanted to talk to me,” she answered evasively. Her mother looked at her nervously, wanly. “I have been so afraid, oh, so afraid. Your father went to your room, but I said you were asleep. He locked the front door, but I opened it again. When Bass came in he wanted to call you, but I persuaded him to wait until morning.” Again she looked wistfully at her daughter. “I’m all right, mamma,” said Jennie encouragingly. “I’ll tell you all about it to-morrow. Go to bed. How does he think Bass got out?” “He doesn’t know. He thought maybe they just let him go because he couldn’t pay the fine.” Jennie laid her hand lovingly on her mother’s shoulder. “Go to bed,” she said. She was already years older in thought and act. She felt as though she must help her mother now as well as herself. The days which followed were ones of dreamy uncertainty to Jennie. She went over in her mind these dramatic events time and time and time and again. It was not such a difficult matter to tell her mother that the Senator had talked again of marriage, that he proposed to come and get her after his next trip to Washington, that he had given her a hundred dollars and intended to give her more, but of that other matter—the one all-important thing, she could not bring herself to speak. It was too sacred. The balance of the money that he had promised her arrived by messenger the following day, four hundred dollars in bills, with the admonition that she should put it in a local bank. The ex-Senator explained that he was already on his way to Washington, but that he would come back or send for her. “Keep a stout heart,” he wrote. “There are better days in store for you.” Brander was gone, and Jennie’s fate was really in the balance. But her mind still retained all of the heart-innocence, and unsophistication of her youth; a certain gentle wistfulness was the only outward change in her demeanor. He would surely send for her. There was the mirage of a distant country and wondrous scenes looming up in her mind. She had a little fortune in the bank, more than she had ever dreamed of, with which to help her mother. There were natural, girlish anticipations of good still holding over, which made her less apprehensive than she could otherwise possibly have been. All nature, life, possibility was in the balance. It might turn good, or ill, but with so inexperienced a soul it would not be entirely evil until it was so.