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were ignored. The idea was to frame up a Romeo and Juliet story in

which Lester should appear as an ardent, self-sacrificing lover, and Jennie as a poor and lovely working- girl, lifted to great financial and social

heights by the devotion of her millionaire lover. An exceptional

newspaper artist was engaged to make scenes depicting the various steps

of the romance and the whole thing was handled in the most approved

yellow-journal style. There was a picture of Lester obtained from his

Cincinnati photographer for a consideration; Jennie had been

surreptitiously "snapped" by a staff artist while she was out walking.

And so, apparently out of a clear sky, the story appeared—highly

complimentary, running over with sugary phrases, but with all the dark,

sad facts looming up in the background. Jennie did not see it at first.

Lester came across the page accidentally, and tore it out. He was stunned and chagrined beyond words. "To think the damned newspaper would do

that to a private citizen who was quietly minding his own business!" he thought. He went out of the house, the better to conceal his deep inward

mortification. He avoided the more populous parts of the town,

particularly the downtown section, and rode far out on Cottage Grove

Avenue to the open prairie. He wondered, as the trolley-car rumbled

along, what his friends were thinking—Dodge, and Burnham Moore, and

Henry Aldrich, and the others. This was a smash, indeed. The best he

could do was to put a brave face on it and say nothing, or else wave it off with an indifferent motion of the hand. One thing was sure—he would

prevent further comment. He returned to the house calmer, his self-poise

restored, but he was eager for Monday to come in order that he might get

in touch with his lawyer, Mr. Watson. But when he did see Mr. Watson it

was soon agreed between the two men that it would be foolish to take any

legal action. It was the part of wisdom to let the matter drop. "But I won't stand for anything more," concluded Lester.

"I'll attend to that," said the lawyer, consolingly.

Lester got up. "It's amazing—this damned country of ours!" he

exclaimed. "A man with a little money hasn't any more privacy than a public monument."

"A man with a little money," said Mr. Watson, "is just like a cat with a bell around its neck. Every rat knows exactly where it is and what it is

doing."

"That's an apt simile," assented Lester, bitterly.

Jennie knew nothing of this newspaper story for several days. Lester felt that he could not talk it over, and Gerhardt never read the wicked Sunday newspapers. Finally, one of Jennie's neighbourhood friends, less tactful

than the others, called her attention to the fact of its appearance by

announcing that she had seen it. Jennie did not understand at first. "A story about me?" she exclaimed.

"You and Mr. Kane, yes," replied her guest. "Your love romance."

Jennie coloured swiftly. "Why, I hadn't seen it," she said. "Are you sure it was about us?"

"Why, of course," laughed Mrs. Stendahl. "How could I be mistaken? I have the paper over at the house. I'll send Marie over with it when I get back. You look very sweet in your picture."

Jennie winced.

"I wish you would," she said, weakly.

She was wondering where they had secured her picture, what the article

said. Above all, she was dismayed to think of its effect upon Lester. Had he seen the article? Why had he not spoken to her about it?

The neighbour's daughter brought over the paper, and Jennie's heart stood still as she glanced at the title-page. There it all was— uncompromising

and direct. How dreadfully conspicuous the headline—"This Millionaire Fell in Love With This Lady's Maid," which ran between a picture of

Lester on the left and Jennie on the right. There was an additional caption which explained how Lester, son of the famous carriage family of

Cincinnati, had sacrificed great social opportunity and distinction to

marry his heart's desire. Below were scattered a number of other pictures

—Lester addressing Jennie in the mansion of Mrs. Bracebridge, Lester

standing with her before an imposing and conventional-looking parson,

Lester driving with her in a handsome victoria, Jennie standing beside the window of an imposing mansion (the fact that it was a mansion being

indicated by most sumptuous-looking hangings) and gazing out on a very

modest working-man's cottage pictured in the distance. Jennie felt as

though she must die for very shame. She did not so much mind what it

meant to her, but Lester, Lester, how must he feel? And his family? Now

they would have another club with which to strike him and her. She tried

to keep calm about it, to exert emotional control, but again the tears

would rise, only this time they were tears of opposition to defeat. She did not want to be hounded this way. She wanted to be let alone. She was

trying to do right now. Why couldn't the world help her, instead of

seeking to push her down?

CHAPTER XLII

The fact that Lester had seen this page was made perfectly clear to Jennie that evening, for he brought it home himself, having concluded, after

mature deliberation, that he ought to. He had told her once that there was to be no concealment between them, and this thing, coming so brutally to

disturb their peace, was nevertheless a case in point. He had decided to

tell her not to think anything of it—that it did not make much difference, though to him it made all the difference in the world. The effect of this chill history could never be undone. The wise—and they included all his

social world and many who were not of it—could see just how he had

been living. The article which accompanied the pictures told how he had

followed Jennie from Cleveland to Chicago, how she had been coy and

distant and that he had to court her a long time to win her consent. This was to explain their living together on the North Side. Lester realised that this was an asinine attempt to sugar-coat the true story and it made him

angry. Still he preferred to have it that way rather than in some more

brutal vein. He took the paper out of his pocket when he arrived at the

house, spreading it on the library table. Jennie, who was close by,

watched him, for she knew what was coming.

"Here's something that will interest you, Jennie," he said dryly, pointing to the array of text and pictures.

"I've already seen it, Lester," she said wearily. "Mrs. Stendahl showed it to me this afternoon. I was wondering whether you had."

"Rather high-flown description of my attitude, isn't it? I didn't know I was such an ardent Romeo."

"I'm awfully sorry, Lester," said Jennie, reading behind the dry face of humour the serious import of this affair to him. She had long since

learned that Lester did not express his real feeling, his big ills in words.

He was inclined to jest and make light of the inevitable, the inexorable.

This light comment merely meant "this matter cannot be helped, so we will make the best of it."

"Oh, don't feel badly about it," he went on. "It isn't anything which can be adjusted now. They probably meant well enough. We just happen to be in

the limelight."

"I understand," said Jennie, coming over to him. "I'm sorry, though, anyway." Dinner was announced a moment later and the incident was