Bab Bab 31 · There was peace and quiet for some time after this storm. Jennie

went the next day and brought Vesta away with her. The joy of the

reunion between mother and child made up for many other worries. "Now

I can do by her as I ought," she thought; and three or four times

during the day she found herself humming a little song.

Lester came only occasionally at first. He was trying to make

himself believe that he ought to do something toward reforming his

life--toward bringing about that eventual separation which he had

suggested. He did not like the idea of a child being in this

apartment--particularly that particular child. He fought his way

through a period of calculated neglect, and then began to return to

the apartment more regularly. In spite of all its drawbacks, it was a

place of quiet, peace, and very notable personal comfort.

During the first days of Lester's return it was difficult for

Jennie to adjust matters so as to keep the playful, nervous, almost

uncontrollable child from annoying the staid, emphatic,

commercial-minded man. Jennie gave Vesta a severe talking to the first

night Lester telephoned that he was coming, telling her that he was a

very bad-tempered man who didn't like children, and that she mustn't

go near him. "You mustn't talk," she said. "You mustn't ask questions.

Let mamma ask you what you want. And don't reach, ever."

Vesta agreed solemnly, but her childish mind hardly grasped the

full significance of the warning.

Lester came at seven. Jennie, who had taken great pains to array

Vesta as attractively as possible, had gone into her bedroom to give

her own toilet a last touch. Vesta was supposedly in the kitchen. As a

matter of fact, she had followed her mother to the door of the

sitting-room, where now she could be plainly seen. Lester hung up his

hat and coat, then, turning, he caught his first glimpse. The child

looked very sweet--he admitted that at a glance. She was arrayed

in a blue-dotted, white flannel dress, with a soft roll collar and

cuffs, and the costume was completed by white stockings and shoes. Her

corn-colored ringlets hung gaily about her face. Blue eyes, rosy lips,

rosy cheeks completed the picture. Lester stared, almost inclined to

say something, but restrained himself. Vesta shyly retreated.

When Jennie came out he commented on the fact that Vesta had

arrived. "Rather sweet-looking child," he said. "Do you have much

trouble in making her mind?"

"Not much," she returned.

Jennie went on to the dining-room, and Lester overheard a scrap of

their conversation.

"Who are he?" asked Vesta.

"Sh! That's your Uncle Lester. Didn't I tell you you mustn't

talk?"

"Are he your uncle?"

"No, dear. Don't talk now. Run into the kitchen."

"Are he only my uncle?"

"Yes. Now run along."

"All right."

In spite of himself Lester had to smile.

What might have followed if the child had been homely, misshapen,

peevish, or all three, can scarcely be conjectured. Had Jennie been

less tactful, even in the beginning, he might have obtained a

disagreeable impression. As it was, the natural beauty of the child,

combined with the mother's gentle diplomacy in keeping her in the

background, served to give him that fleeting glimpse of innocence and

youth which is always pleasant. The thought struck him that Jennie had

been the mother of a child all these years; she had been separated

from it for months at a time; she had never even hinted at its

existence, and yet her affection for Vesta was obviously great. "It's

queer," he said. "She's a peculiar woman."

One morning Lester was sitting in the parlor reading his paper when

he thought he heard something stir. He turned, and was surprised to

see a large blue eye fixed upon him through the crack of a neighboring

door--the effect was most disconcerting. It was not like the

ordinary eye, which, under such embarrassing circumstances, would have

been immediately withdrawn; it kept its position with deliberate

boldness. He turned his paper solemnly and looked again. There was the

eye. He turned it again. Still was the eye present. He crossed his

legs and looked again. Now the eye was gone.

This little episode, unimportant in itself, was yet informed with

the saving grace of comedy, a thing to which Lester was especially

responsive. Although not in the least inclined to relax his attitude

of aloofness, he found his mind, in the minutest degree, tickled by

the mysterious appearance; the corners of his mouth were animated by a

desire to turn up. He did not give way to the feeling, and stuck by

his paper, but the incident remained very clearly in his mind. The

young wayfarer had made her first really important impression upon

him.

Not long after this Lester was sitting one morning at breakfast,

calmly eating his chop and conning his newspaper, when he was aroused

by another visitation--this time not quite so simple. Jennie had

given Vesta her breakfast, and set her to amuse herself alone until

Lester should leave the house. Jennie was seated at the table, pouring

out the coffee, when Vesta suddenly appeared, very business-like in

manner, and marched through the room. Lester looked up, and Jennie

colored and arose.

"What is it, Vesta?" she inquired, following her.

By this time, however, Vesta had reached the kitchen, secured a

little broom, and returned, a droll determination lighting her

face.

"I want my little broom," she exclaimed and marched sedately past,

at which manifestation of spirit Lester again twitched internally,

this time allowing the slightest suggestion of a smile to play across

his mouth.

The final effect of this intercourse was gradually to break down

the feeling of distaste Lester had for the child, and to establish in

its place a sort of tolerant recognition of her possibilities as a

human being.

The developments of the next six months were of a kind to further

relax the strain of opposition which still existed in Lester's mind.

Although not at all resigned to the somewhat tainted atmosphere in

which he was living, he yet found himself so comfortable that he could

not persuade himself to give it up. It was too much like a bed of

down. Jennie was too worshipful. The condition of unquestioned

liberty, so far as all his old social relationships were concerned,

coupled with the privilege of quiet, simplicity, and affection in the

home was too inviting. He lingered on, and began to feel that perhaps

it would be just as well to let matters rest as they were.

During this period his friendly relations with the little Vesta

insensibly strengthened. He discovered that there was a real flavor of

humor about Vesta's doings, and so came to watch for its development.

She was forever doing something interesting, and although Jennie

watched over her with a care that was in itself a revelation to him,

nevertheless Vesta managed to elude every effort to suppress her and

came straight home with her remarks. Once, for example, she was sawing

away at a small piece of meat upon her large plate with her big knife,

when Lester remarked to Jennie that it might be advisable to get her a

little breakfast set.

"She can hardly handle these knives."

"Yes," said Vesta instantly. "I need a little knife. My hand is

just so very little."

She held it up. Jennie, who never could tell what was to follow,

reached over and put it down, while Lester with difficulty restrained

a desire to laugh.

Another morning, not long after, she was watching Jennie put the

lumps of sugar in Lester's cup, when she broke in with, "I want two

lumps in mine, mamma."

"No, dearest," replied Jennie, "you don't need any in yours. You

have milk to drink."

"Uncle Lester has two," she protested.

"Yes," returned Jennie; "but you're only a little girl. Besides you

mustn't say anything like that at the table. It isn't nice."

"Uncle Lester eats too much sugar," was her immediate rejoinder, at

which that fine gourmet smiled broadly.

"I don't know about that," he put in, for the first time deigning

to answer her directly. "That sounds like the fox and grapes to me."

Vesta smiled back at him, and now that the ice was broken she

chattered on unrestrainedly. One thing led to another, and at last

Lester felt as though, in a way, the little girl belonged to him; he

was willing even that she should share in such opportunities as his

position and wealth might make possible--provided, of course,

that he stayed with Jennie, and that they worked out some arrangement

which would not put him hopelessly out of touch with the world which

was back of him, and which he had to keep constantly in mind.