nod that
Gerhardt knew of the child's existence.

"Go ahead," said Mrs. Gerhardt; "it's all right. He won't say
anything."

Jennie finally went to the door, and, seeing her father, his brow
wrinkled as if in serious but not unkindly thought, she hesitated, but
made her way forward.

"Papa," she said, unable to formulate a definite sentence.

Gerhardt looked up, his grayish-brown eyes a study under their
heavy sandy lashes. At the sight of his daughter he weakened
internally; but with the self-adjusted armor of resolve about him he
showed no sign of pleasure at seeing her. All the forces of his
conventional understanding of morality and his naturally sympathetic
and fatherly disposition were battling within him, but, as in so many
cases where the average mind is concerned, convention was temporarily
the victor.

"Yes," he said.

"Won't you forgive me, Papa?"

"I do," he returned grimly.

She hesitated a moment, and then stepped forward, for what purpose
he well understood.

"There," he said, pushing her gently away, as her lips barely
touched his grizzled cheek.

It had been a frigid meeting.

When Jennie went out into the kitchen after this very trying ordeal
she lifted her eyes to her waiting mother and tried to make it seem as
though all had been well, but her emotional disposition got the better
of her.

"Did he make up to you?" her mother was about to ask; but the words
were only half out of her mouth before her daughter sank down into one
of the chairs close to the kitchen table and, laying her head on her
arm, burst forth into soft, convulsive, inaudible sobs.

"Now, now," said Mrs. Gerhardt. "There now, don't cry. What did he
say?"

It was some time before Jennie recovered herself sufficiently to
answer. Her mother tried to treat the situation lightly.

"I wouldn't feel bad," she said. "He'll get over it. It's his
way."

CHAPTER XV

The return of Gerhardt brought forward the child question in all
its bearings. He could not help considering it from the standpoint of
a grandparent, particularly since it was a human being possessed of a
soul. He wondered if it had been baptized. Then he inquired.

"No, not yet," said his wife, who had not forgotten this duty, but
had been uncertain whether the little one would be welcome in the
faith.

"No, of course not," sneered Gerhardt, whose opinion of his wife's
religious devotion was not any too great. "Such carelessness! Such
irreligion!