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TRACY PARK

A Novel

by

MRS. MARY J. HOLMES, Author of Bessie's Fortune, Queenie Hetherton, Edith Lysle's Secret, Homestead on the Hillside, etc. , etc. , etc. 

Toronto:Rose Publishing CompanyHunter Rose & Co. Printers & Book BindersToronto25 Wellington St

1886

"Don't stand and cry; press forward and remove thedifficulty. "--Dickens. 

CHAPTER I. 

THE TELEGRAM. 

'BREVOORT HOUSE, NEW YORK, Oct. 6th, 18--. 

'_To Mr. Frank Tracy, Tracy Park, Shannondale_. 

'I arrived in the Scotia this morning, and shall take the train forShannondale at 3 p. M. Send someone to the station to meet us. 

'ARTHUR TRACEY. '

This was the telegram which the clerk in the Shannonville office wroteout one October morning, and despatched to the Hon. Frank Tracy, ofTracy Park, in the quiet town of Shannondale, where our story opens. 

Mr. Frank Tracy, who, since his election to the State Legislature fortwo successive terms, had done nothing except to attend politicalmeetings and make speeches on all public occasions, had an office intown, where he usually spent his mornings, smoking, reading the papersand talking to Mr. Colvin, his business agent and lawyer, for, thoughborn in one of the humblest of New England houses, where the slantingroof almost touched the ground in the rear, and he could scarcely standupright in the chamber where he slept, Mr. Frank Tracy was a great mannow, and as he dashed along the turnpike behind his blooded bays, withhis driver beside him, people looked admiringly after him, and pointedhim out to strangers as the Hon. Mr. Tracy, of Tracy Park, one of thefinest places in the county. It is true it did not belong to him, but hehad lived there so long that he had come to look upon it as his, whilehis neighbors, too, seemed to have forgotten that there was across theocean a Mr. Arthur Tracy, who might at any time come home to claim hisown, and demand an account of his brother's stewardship. And it wasthis very Arthur Tracy, whose telegram announcing his return from Europewas read by his brother with mingled feelings of surprise andconsternation. 

'Not that everything isn't fair and above-board, and he is welcome tolook into matters as much as he likes, ' Frank said over and over tohimself, as he sat stating blankly at the telegram, while the coldchills ran up and down his back and arms. 'Yes, he can examine allColvin's books and he will find them straight as a string, for didn't hetell me to use what I needed as remuneration for looking after hisproperty while he was gallivanting over the world; and if he objectsthat I have paid myself too much, why, I can at once transfer thoseinvestments in my name to him. No, it is not that which affects me so, it is the suddenness of the thing, coming without warning and to-nightof all nights, when the house will be full of carousing and champagne. What will Dolly say! Hysterics of course, if not a sick headache. Idon't believe I can face her till she has had a little time to get overit. Here, boy, I want, you!' and he rapped at the window at a young ladwho happened to be passing with a basket on his arm. 'I want you to doan errand for me, ' he continued, as the boy entered the office, and, removing his cap, stood respectfully before him 'Take this telegram toMrs. Tracy, and here is a dime for you. '

'Thank you, but I don't care for the money, ' the boy said 'I was goingto the park anyway to tell Mrs. Tracy that grandma is sick and can't gothere to-night. '

'Cannot go! Sick! What is the matter?' Mr. Tracy asked, in some dismay, feeling that here was a fresh cause of trouble and worry for Dolly, ashe designated his wife when off his guard and not on show before hisfashionable friends, to whom she was Dora, or Mrs. Tracy. 

'She catched cold yesterday fixing up mother's grave, ' the boy replied;and, as if the mention of that grave had sent Mr. Tracy's thoughtsstraying backward to the past, he looked thoughtfully at the child amoment, and then said:

'How old are you, Harold?'

'Ten, last August, ' was the reply; and Mr. Tracy continued:

'You do not remember your mother?'

'No, sir, only a great crowd, and grandma crying so hard, ' was Harold'sreply. 

'You look like her, ' Mr. Tracy said. 

'Yes, sir, ' Harold answered, while into his frank, open face there camean expression of regret for the mother who had died when he was threeyears old, and whose life had been so short and sad. 

'Now, hurry off with the telegram, and mind you don't lose it. It isfrom my brother. He is coming to-night. '

'Mr. Arthur Tracy, who sent the monument for my mother--is he cominghome? Oh, I am so glad!' Harold exclaimed, and his handsome face lightedup with childish joy, as he put the telegram in his pocket and startedFor Tracy Park, wondering if he should encounter Tom, and thinking thatif he did, and Tom gave him any chaff, he should lick him, or try to. 

'Darn him!' he said to himself, as he recalled the many times when TomTracy, a boy of his own age, had laughed at him for his poverty andcoarse clothes. 'Darn him! he ain't any better than I am, if he doeswear velvet trousers and live in a big house. 'Taint his'n; it's Mr. Arthur's, and I'm glad he is coming home. I wonder if he will bringgrandma anything. I wish he'd I bring me a pyramid. He's seen 'em, theysay. '

Meantime, Mr. Frank Tracy had resumed his seat, and, with his handsclasped together over his head, was wondering what effect his brother'sreturn would have upon him. Would he be obliged to leave the park, andthe luxury he had enjoyed so long, and go back to the old life which hehated so much. 

'No; Arthur will never be so mean, ' he said. 'He has always shownhimself generous, and will continue to do so. Besides that, he will wantsomebody to keep his house for him, unless--' and here the perspirationstarted from every pore, as Frank Tracy thought: 'What if he is married, and the _us_ in his telegram means a wife, instead of a friend orservant, as I imagined!'

This would indeed be a calamity, for then his own and Dolly's reign wasover at Tracy Park, and the party they were to give that night to atleast three hundred people would be their last grand blow-out. 

'Confound the party!' he thought, as he arose from his chair and beganto pace the room. 'Arthur won't like that as a greeting after elevenyears' absence. He never fancied being cheek by jowl with Tom, Dick andHarry; and that is just what the smash is to-night. Dolly wants toplease everybody, thinking to get me votes for Congress, and so she hasinvited all creation and his wife. There's old Peterkin, the roughestkind of a canal bummer when Arthur went away. Think of my fastidiousbrother shaking hands with him and Widow Shipley, who kept a low tavernon the tow-path! She'll be there; in her silks and long gold chain, forshe has four boys, all voters, who call me _Frank_ and slap me on theshoulder. Ugh! even I hate it all; and in a most perturbed state ofmind, the Hon. Frank and would-be Congressman continued to walk the roomlamenting the party which must be, and wondering what his aristocraticbrother would say to such a crowd in his house on the night of hisreturn. 

And if there should be a Mrs. Arthur Tracy, with possibly some littleTracys! But that idea was too horrible to contemplate, and so he triedto put it from his mind, and to be as calm and quiet as possible untillunch-time, when, with no very great amount of alacrity andcheerfulness, he started for home, where, as he had been warned by hiswife when he left her in the morning, 'he was to lunch standing up oranyhow, as she had no time for parade that day. '

CHAPTER II. 

ARTHUR TRACY. 

Although it was a morning in October, the grass in the park was as greenas in early June, while the flowers in the beds and borders, thegeraniums, the phlox, the stocks, and verbenas were handsomer, ifpossible, than they had been in the summer-time: for the rain, which hadfallen almost continually during the month of September, had kept themfresh and bright. Here and there the scarlet and golden tints of autumnwere beginning to show on the trees; but this only added a new charm toa place which was noted for its beauty, and was the pride and admirationof the town. 

And yet Mrs. Frank Tracy, who stood on the wide piazza, looking after acarriage which was moving down the avenue which led through the park tothe highway, did not seem as happy as the mistress of that house oughtto have been, standing there in the clear, crisp morning, with a silkenwrapper trailing behind her, a coquettish French cap on her head, andcostly jewels on her short, fat hands, which once were not as white andsoft as they were now. For Mrs. Frank Tracy, as Dorothy Smith, had knownwhat hard labor and poverty meant, and slights, too, because of thepoverty and labor. Her mother was a widow, sickly and lame, and Dorothyin her girlhood had worked in the cotton mills at Langley, and boundshoes for the firm of Newell & Brothers, and had taught a districtschool, 'by way of elevating herself, ' but the elevation did not pay, and she went back to the mills in the day-time and her shoes at night, and rebelled at the fate which had made her so poor and seemed likely tokeep her so. 

But there was something better in store for her than binding shoes, oreven teaching a district school, and, from the time when young FrankTracy came to Langley as clerk in the Newell firm, Dorothy's life waschanged and her star began to rise. They both sang in the choir, standing side by side, and sometimes using the same book, and once ortwice their hands met as both tried to turn the leaves together. Dorothy's were red and rough, and not nearly as delicate as those ofFrank, who had been in a store all his life: and still there was amagnetism in their touch which sent a thrill through the young man'sveins, and made him for the first time look critically at his companion. 

She was very pretty, he thought, with bright black eyes, a healthfulbloom, and a smile and blush which went straight to his heart and madehim her slave at once. In three months' time they were married andcommenced housekeeping in a very unostentatious way, for Frank hadnothing but his salary to depend upon. But he was well connected, andboasted some blue blood, which, in Dorothy's estimation, made amends forlack of money. The Tracys of Boston were his distant relatives, and hehad a rich bachelor uncle who spent his winters in New Orleans and hissummers in Shannondale, at Tracy Park, on which he had lavished fabuloussums of money. From this uncle Frank had expectations, though naturallythe greater part of his fortune would go to his god-son and name-sake, Arthur Tracy, who was Frank's elder brother, and as unlike him as onebrother could well be unlike another. 

Arthur was scholarly in his tastes, quiet and gentlemanly in hismanners, with a musical voice which won him friends at once, while inhis soft black eyes there was a peculiar look of sadness, as if he werebrooding over something which filled him with regret. Frank was veryproud of his brother, and with Dorothy felt that he was honored when, six months after their marriage, he came for a day or so to visit them, and with him his intimate friend Harold Hastings, an Englishman bybirth, but so thoroughly Americanized as to pass unchallenged for anative. There was a band of crape on Arthur's hat, and his manner waslike one trying to be sorry, while conscious of a great inward feelingof resignation, if not content. The rich uncle was dead. He had diedsuddenly in Paris, where he had gone on business, and the whole of hisvast fortune was left to his nephew Arthur--not a farthing to Frank, noteven the mention of his name in the will: and when Dorothy heard it sheput her white apron over her face, and cried as if her heart wouldbreak. They were so poor, she and Frank, and they wanted so many things, and the man who could have helped them was dead and had left themnothing. It was hard, and she might not have made the young heir verywelcome if he had not ensured her that he should do something for herhusband. And he kept his word, and in course of time bought out agrocery in Langley and put Frank in it, and paid the mortgage on hishouse, and gave him a thousand dollars, and invited them for a few daysto visit him; and then it would seem as if he forgot them entirely; forwith his friend Harold he settled himself at Tracy Park, and played therole of the grand gentleman to perfection. 

Dinner parties and card parties, where it was said the play was formoney, and where Arthur always allowed himself to lose and his friendsto win; races and hunts were of frequent occurrence at Tracy Park, where matters generally were managed on a magnificent scale, and createda great deal of talk among the plain folks of Shannondale, whose onlydissipation then was going to church twice on Sunday and to the cattleshow once each year. 

Few ladies ever graced these festivities, for Arthur was veryaristocratic in his feelings, and with two or three exceptions, heldhimself aloof from the people of Shannondale. It was said, however, thatsometimes, when he and his friend were alone, there was the sweep of awhite dress and the gleam of golden hair in the parlor, where sweet AmyCrawford, daughter of the housekeeper, played and sang her simpleballads to the two gentlemen, who always treated her with as muchdeference as if she had been a queen, instead of a poor young girldependent for her bread upon her own and her mother's exertions. Butbeyond the singing in the twilight Amy never advanced, and so far as hermother knew she had never for a single instant been alone with either ofthe gentlemen. How, then, was the household electrified one morning whenit was found that Amy had fled, and that Harold Hastings was thecompanion of her flight?

 'I wanted to tell you, ' Amy wrote to her mother in the note left on her dressing table. 'I wanted to tell you and be married at home, but Mr. Hastings would not allow it. It would create trouble, he said, between himself and Mr. Tracy, who I may confess to you in confidence, asked me twice to be his wife, and when I refused, without giving him a reason, for I dared not tell him of my love for his friend, he was so angry and behaved so strangely, and there was such a look in his eyes, that I was afraid of him, and it was this fear, I think, which made me willing to go away secretly with Harold and be married in New York. We are going to Europe; shall sail to-morrow morning at nine o'clock in the Scotia. The marriage ceremony will be performed before we go on board. I shall write as soon as we reach Liverpool. You must forgive me, mother, and I am sure you would not blame me, if you knew how much I love Mr. Hastings. I know he is poor, and that I might be mistress of Tracy Park, but I love Harold best. It is ten o'clock, and the train, you know, passes at eleven; so I must say good-bye. 

 'Yours lovingly, 'Amy Crawford, now, but when you read this, 'Amy Hastings. '

This was Amy's letter which her mother found upon entering her roomafter waiting more than an hour for her daughter's appearance at thebreakfast, which they always took by themselves. To say that she wasshocked and astonished would but faintly portray the state of her mindas she read that her beautiful young daughter had gone with HaroldHastings, whom she had never liked, for though he was handsome, andagreeable, and gentlemanly as a rule, she knew him to be thoroughlyselfish and indolent, and she trembled for her daughter's happiness whena little time had quenched the ardor of his passion. Added to this wasanother thought which made her brain reel for a moment an she thoughtwhat might have been. Arthur Tracy had wished to make Amy his wife, andmistress of Tracy Park, which she would have graced so well, for in allthe town there was not a fairer, sweeter girl than Amy Crawford, or onebetter beloved. 

It did not matter that she was poor, and her mother was only ahousekeeper. She had never felt a slight on that account, and had beenreared as carefully and tenderly as the daughters of the rich, and ifaway down, in her mother's heart there had been a half defined hope thatsome time the master of Tracy Park might turn his attention to her, ithad been hidden so closely that Mrs. Crawford scarcely knew of itherself until she learned what her daughter was and what she might havebeen. But it was too late now. There was no turning back the wheels offate. 

Forcing herself to be as calm as possible, she took the note to Arthur, who had breakfasted alone, and was waiting impatiently in the libraryfor the appearance of his friend. 

'Lazy dog!' Mrs. Crawford heard him say, as she approached the opendoor. 'Does he think he has nothing to do but to sleep? We were to startby this time, and he in bed yet!'

'Are you speaking of Mr. Hastings?' Mrs. Crawford asked, as she steppedinto the room. 

'Yes, ' was his crisp and haughty reply, as if he resented the question, and her presence there. 

He could be very proud and stern when he felt like it, and one of thesemoods was on him now, but Mrs. Crawford did not heed it, and sinkinginto a chair, for she felt that she could not stand and face him, shebegan:

'I came to tell you of Mr. Hastings and--Amy. She did not come tobreakfast, and I found this note in her room. She has gone to New Yorkwith him. They took the eleven o'clock train last night. They are to bemarried this morning, and sail in the Scotia for Europe. '

She had told her story, and paused for the result, which was worse thanshe had expected. 

For a moment Arthur Tracy stood staring at her, while his face grewwhite as ashes, and into his dark eyes, usually so soft and mild, therecame a fiery gleam like that of a madman, as he seemed for a time to be. 

'Amy gone with Harold, my friend!' he said at last. 'Gone to New York!Gone to be married! Traitors! Vipers! Both of them. Curse them! If hewere here I'd shoot him like a dog; and she--I believe I would killher. '

He was walking the floor rapidly, and to Mrs. Crawford it seemed as ifhe really were unsettled in his mind, he talked so incoherently andacted so strangely. 

'What else did she say?' he asked, suddenly, stopping and confrontingher. 'You have not told me all. Did she speak of me? Let me see thenote, ' and he held his hand for it. 

For a moment Mrs. Crawford hesitated, but as he grew more and morepersistent she suffered him to take it, and then watched him as he readit, white the veins on his forehead began to swell until they stood outlike a dark blue net-work against his otherwise pallid face. 

'Yes, ' he snapped between his white teeth. 'I did ask her to be my wife, and she refused, and with her soft, kittenish ways made me more in lovewith her than ever, and more her dupe. I never suspected Harold, andwhen I told him of my disappointment, for I never kept a thing fromhim--traitor that he was--he laughed at me for losing my heart to myhousekeeper's daughter! I, who, he said, might marry the greatest ladyin the land. I could have knocked him down for his sneer at Amy, and Iwish now I had, the wretch! He will not marry your daughter, madam; andif he does not I will kill him!'

He was certainly mad, and Mrs. Crawford shrank away from him an fromsomething dangerous, and going to her room took her bed in a fit offrightful hysterics. This was followed by a state of nervousprostration, and for a few days she neither saw, nor heard of, norinquired for Mr. Tracy. At the end of the fourth day, however, she wastold by the house-maid that he had that morning packed his valise and, without a word to any one, had taken the train for New York. A week wentby, and then there came a letter from him, which ran as follows:

 'New York, May ----, 18--. 

 'Mrs. Crawford:--I am off for Europe to-morrow, and when I shall return is a matter of uncertainty. They are married; or at least I suppose so, for I found a list of the passengers who sailed in the Scotia, and the names, Mr. And Mrs. Hastings, were in it. So that saves me from breaking the sixth commandment, as I should have done if he hid played Amy false. I may not make myself known to them, but I shall follow them, and if he harms a hair of her head I shall shoot him yet. My brother Frank is to live at Tracy Park. That will suit his wife, and as you will not care to stay with her, I send you a deed of that cottage in the lane by the wood where the gardener now lives. It is a pretty little place, and Amy liked it well. We used to meet there sometimes, and more than once I have sat with her on that seat under the elm tree, and it was there I asked her to be my wife. Alas! I loved her so much, and I love her still as I can never love another woman, and I could have made her so happy; but that is past, and I can only watch her at a distance. When I have anything to communicate, I will write again. 

 'Yours truly, 'Arthur Tracy. '

 'P. S. --Take all the furniture in your room and Amy's, and whatever else is needful for your house. I shall tell Colvin to give you a thousand dollars, and when you want more let him know, I shall never forget that you are Amy's mother. 

This was Arthur's letter to Mrs. Crawford, while to his brother hewrote:

 'Dear Frank:--I am going to Europe for an indefinite length of time. Why I go it matters not to you or any one. I go to suit myself, and I want you to sell out your business at Langley and live at Tracy Park, where you can see to things as if they were your own. You will find everything straight and square, for Colvin is honest and methodical. He knows all about the bonds, and mortgages, and stocks, so you cannot do better than to retain him in your service, overseeing matters yourself, of course, and drawing for your salary what you think right and necessary for your support and for keeping up the place as it ought to be kept up. I enclose a power of attorney. When I want money I shall call upon Colvin. I may be gone for years and perhaps forever. 

 'I shall never marry, and when I die, what I have will naturally go to you. We have not been to each other much like brothers for the past few years, but I do not forget the old home in the mountains where we were boys together, and played, and quarreled, and slept up under the roof, where the blankets were hung to keep the snow from sifting through the rafters upon our bed. 

 'And, Frank, do you remember the bitter mornings, when the thermometer was below zero, and we performed our ablutions in the wood-shed, and the black-eye you gave me once for telling mother that you had not washed yourself at all, it was so cold? She sent you from the table, and made you go without your breakfast, and we had ham and johnny-cake toast that morning, too. That was long ago, and our lives are different now. There are marble basins, with silver chains and stoppers, at Tracy Pack, and you can have a hot bath every day if you like, in a room which would not shame Caracalla himself. And I know you will like it all, and Dolly, too; but don't make fools of yourselves. Nothing stamps a person as a _come-up_ from the scum so soon as airs and ostentation. Be quiet and modest, as if you had always lived at Tracy Park. Imitate Squire Harrington and Mr. St. Claire. They are the true gentlemen, and were to the manner born. Be kind to Mrs. Crawford. She is a lady in every sense of the word, for she comes of good New England stock. 

 'And now, good-bye. I shall write sometimes, but not often. 

 'Your brother, 'Arthur Tracy. '

CHAPTER III. 

MR. AND MRS. FRANK TRACY. 

Mr. Frank, in his small grocery store at Langley, was weighing out apound of butter for the Widow Simpson, who was haggling with him aboutthe price, when his brother's letter was brought to him by the boy whoswept his store and did errands for him. But Frank was too busy justthen to read it. There was a circus in the village that day, and itbrought the country people into the town in larger numbers than usual. Naturally, many of them paid Frank a visit in the course of the morning, so that it was not until he went home to his dinner that be even thoughtof the letter, which was finally brought to his mind by his wife'sasking if there was any news. 

Mrs. Frank was always inquiring for and expecting news, but she was notprepared for what this day brought her. Neither was her husband, andwhen he read his brother's letter, which he did twice to assure himselfthat he was not mistaken, he sat for a moment perfectly bewildered, andstaring at his wife, who was putting his dinner upon the table. 

'Dolly, ' he gasped at last, when he could speak at all--'Dolly, what doyou think? Just listen. Arthur is going to Europe, to stay forever, perhaps, and has left us Tracy Park. We are going there to live, and youwill be as grand a lady as Mrs. Atherton, of Brier Hill; or that younggirl at Collingwood. '

Dolly had a platter of ham and eggs in her hand, and she never couldtell, though she often tried to do so, what prevented her from droppingthe whole upon the floor. She did spill some of the fat upon her cleantablecloth, she put the dish down so suddenly, and sinking into a chair, demanded what her husband meant. Was he crazy, or what?

'Not a bit of it, ' he replied, recovering himself and beginning torealize the good fortune which had come to him. 'We are rich people, Dolly. Read for yourself;' and he passed her the letter, which sheseemed to understand better than he had done. 

'Why, yes, ' she said. 'We are going to Tracy Park to live; but thatdoesn't make us rich. It is not ours. '

'I know that, ' her husband replied. 'But we shall enjoy it all the same, and hold our heads with the best of them. Besides, don't you see, Arthurgives me _carte blanche_ as to pay for my services, and, though I shalldo right, it is not in human nature that I should not feather my nestwhen I have a chance. Some of that money ought to have been mine. Ishall sell out at once if I can find a purchaser, and if I cannot, Ishall rent the grocery and move out of this hole double quick. '

His ideas were growing faster than those of his wife, who was attachedto Langley and its people, and shrank a little from the grander openingbefore her. She had once spent a few days at Tracy Park, as Arthur'sguest, and had felt great restraint even in the presence of Mrs. Crawford and Amy, whom she recognized as ladies notwithstanding theirposition in the house. On that occasion she had, with herbrother-in-law, been invited to dine at Brier Hill, the country-seat ofMrs. Grace Atherton, a gay widow, whose dash and style had completelyoverawed the plain, matter-of-fact Dolly, who did not know what half thedishes were, or what she was expected to do. But, by watching Arthur, and declining some things which she felt sure were beyond hercomprehension, she managed tolerably well, though when the dinner wasover, and she could breathe freely again, she found that the back of hernew silk gown was wet with perspiration, which had oozed from every poreduring the hour and a half she had sat at the table. And even then hertroubles were not ended, for coffee was served in the drawing-room, andas Arthur took his clear, she did not know whether she was expected todo the same or not, but finally ventured to say she would have hers with'trimmin's. ' There was a mischievous twinkle in Mrs. Atherton's eyeswhich disconcerted her so much that she spilled her coffee in her lap, and felt, as she afterward told a friend to whom she was describing thedinner, as if she could have been knocked down with a feather. 

'Such folderol!' she said. 'Changing your plates all the time--eatingpeas in the winter greener than grass, with nothing under the sun withthem, and drinking coffee out of a cup about as big as a thimble. Giveme the good old-fashioned way, I say, with peas and potatoes, and meat, and things, and cups that will hold half a pint and have some thicknessthat you can feel in your mouth. '

And now she was to exchange the good, old-fashioned way for what shetermed 'folderol, ' and for a time she did not like it. But her husbandwas so delighted and eager that he succeeded in impressing her with someof his enthusiasm, and after he had returned to his grocery, and herdishes were washed, she removed her large kitchen apron, and pullingdown the sleeves of her dress, went and stood before the mirror, whereshe examined herself critically and not without some degree ofcomplacency. 

Her hair was black and glossy, or would be if she had time to care forit as it ought to be cared for; her eyes were bright, and perhaps intime she might learn to use them as Mrs. Atherton used hers. 

Mrs. Atherton stood as the criterion for everything elegant andfashionable, and naturally it was with her that she compared herself. 

'She is older than I am, ' she said to herself; 'there are crow-tracksaround her eyes, and her complexion is not a bit better than mine wasbefore I spoiled it with soap-suds, and stove heat, and everythingelse. '

Then she looked at her hands, but they were red and rough, and the nailswere broken and not at all like the nails which an expert has polishedfor an hour or more. Mrs. Atherton's diamond rings would be sadly out ofplace on Dolly's fingers, but time and abstinence from work would domuch for them, she reflected, and after all it would be nice to live ina grand house, ride in a handsome carriage, and keep a hired girl to dothe heavy work. So, on the whole, she began to feel quite reconciled toher change of situation, and to wonder how she ought to conduct herselfin view of her future position. She had intended going to the circusthat night, but she gave that up, telling her husband that it was asecond-class amusement any way, and she did not believe that either Mrs. Atherton or the young lady at Collingwood patronized such places. Sothey staid at home and talked together of what they should do at TracyPark, and wondered if it was their duty to ask all their Langley friendsto visit them. Mrs. Frank, as the more democratic of the two, decidedthat it was. She was not going to begin by being _stuck up_, she said, and when at last she left Langley four weeks later, every man, woman, and child of her familiar acquaintance in town had been heartily invitedto call upon her at Tracy Park if ever they came that way. 

Frank had disposed of his business at a reasonable price, and had rentedhis house with all the furniture, except such articles as his wifeinsisted upon taking with her. The bureau, and bedstead, and chairswhich she and Frank had bought together in Springfield just before theirmarriage, the Boston rocker her mother had given her, and in which theold mother had sat until the day she died, the cradle in which she hadrocked her first baby boy who was lying in the Langley grave-yard, weredear to the wife and mother, and though her husband told her she couldhave no use for them at Tracy Park, where the furniture was of thecostliest kind, and that she would probably put them in the servants'rooms or attic, there was enough of sentiment in her nature to make hercling to them as something of the past, and so they were boxed up andforwarded by freight to Tracy Park, whither Mr. And Mrs. Tracy followedthem a week later. 

The best dressmaker in Langley had been employed upon the wardrobe ofMrs. Frank, who, in her travelling dress of some stuff goods of aplaided pattern, too large and too bright to be quite in good taste, felt herself perfectly _au fait_ as the mistress of Tracy Park, untilshe reached Springfield, where Mrs. Grace Atherton, accompanied by atall, elegant looking young lady, entered the car and took a seat infront of her. Neither of the ladies noticed her, but she recognized Mrs. Atherton at once and guessed that her companion was the young lady fromCollingwood, who, rumor said, was soon to marry her guardian, Mr. Richard Harrington, although he was old enough to be her father. 

Dolly scanned both the ladies very closely, noting every article oftheir costumes from their plain linen collars and cuffs to their quietdresses of gray, which seemed so much more in keeping with the dustycars than her buff and purple plaid. 

'I ain't like them, and never shall be, ' she said to herself, with abitter sense of her inferiority pressing upon her. 'I ain't like them, and never shall be, if I live to be a hundred. I wish we were not goingto be grand. I shall never get used to it, ' and the hot tears sprang toher eyes as she longed to be back in the kitchen where she had worked sohard. 

But Dolly did not know then how readily people can forget the life oftoil behind them and adapt themselves to one of luxury and ease; andwith her the adaptability commenced in some degree the momentShannondale station was reached, and she saw the handsome carriagewaiting for them. A carriage finer far and more modern than the one fromCollingwood, in which Mrs. Atherton and the young lady took their seats, laughing and chatting so gayly that they did not see the woman in thebig plaid who stood watching them with a rising feeling of jealousy andresentment as she thought of Mrs. Atherton, 'She does not even noticeme. '

But when the Tracy carriage drew up, Grace Atherton saw and recognizedher, and whispered, in an aside to her companion:

'For goodness' sake, Edith, look! There are the Tracys, our newneighbors. ' Then she bowed to Mrs. Tracy, and said: 'Ah, I did not knowyou were on the train. '

'I sat right behind you, ' was Mrs. Tracy's rather ungracious reply: andthen, not knowing whether she ought to do it or not, she introduced herhusband. 

'Yes, Mr. Tracy--how do you do?' was Mrs. Atherton's response; but shedid not in return introduce the young girl, whose dark eyes werescanning the strangers so curiously, and this Dolly took as a slight andinwardly resented it. 

But Mrs. Atherton had spoken to her and that was something, and helpedto keep her spirits up as she was driven along the turnpike to theentrance of the park. 

On the occasion of Mrs. Frank's first and only visit to herbrother-in-law it was winter, and everything was covered with snow. Butit was summer now, the month of roses, and fragrance, and beauty, and asthe carriage passed up the broad, smooth avenue which led to the house, Dolly's eyes wandered over the well-kept lawn, sweet with the scent ofnewly-mown grass, the parteries of flowers and shrubs, the winding walksand clumps of evergreens here and there formed into fancy rooms, withrustic seats and tables under the over-hanging boughs; and when shereflected that all this was hers to enjoy for many years, and perhapsfor her life-time, she felt the first stirring of that pride, andsatisfaction, and self-assertion which was to grow upon her so rapidlyand transform her from the plain, unpretentious woman who had washed, and ironed, and baked, and mended in the small house in Langley into thearrogant, haughty lady of fashion, who courted only the rich and lookeddown upon her less fortunate neighbors. Now, however, she was very meekand humble, and trembled as she alighted from the carriage before thegreat stone house which was to be her home. 

'Isn't this grand, Dolly?' her husband said, rubbing his hands togetherand looking about him complacently. 

'Yes, very grand, ' Dolly answered him; but somehow it makes me feelweaker than water. I suppose, though, I shall get accustomed to it. '

CHAPTER IV. 

GETTING ACCUSTOMED TO IT. 

In the absence of Mrs. Crawford, who for a week or more had beendomesticated in the cottage in the lane, as the house was designatedwhich Arthur had given her, there was no one to receive the strangersexcept the cook and the house-maid, and as Mrs. Tracy entered the hallthe two came forward, bristling with criticism, and ready to resentanything like interference in the new-comers. 

The servants at the park had not been pleased with the change ofadministration. That Mr. Arthur was a gentleman whom it was an honor toserve, they all conceded; but with regard to the new master andmistress, they had grave doubts. Although none of them had been at thepark on the occasion of Mrs. Tracy's first visit there, many rumorsconcerning her had reached them, and she would scarcely have recognizedherself could she have heard the remarks of which she was the subject. That she had worked in a factory--which was true--was her least offence, for it was whispered that once, when the winter was unusually severe, and work scarce, she had gone to a soup-house, and even asked andprocured coal from the poor-master for herself and her mother. 

This was not true, and would have argued nothing against her as a womanif it had been, but the cook and the house-maid believed it, and passedsundry jokes together while preparing to meet 'the pauper, ' as theydesignated her. 

In this state of things their welcome could not be very cordial, butMrs. Tracy was too tired and too much excited, to observe their demeanorparticularly. They were civil, and the house was in perfect order, andso much larger and handsomer than she had thought it to be, that shefelt bewildered and embarrassed, and said 'Yes 'em, ' and 'No, ma'am, ' toMartha, the cook, and told Sarah, who was waiting at dinner, that she'might as well sit down in a chair as to stand all the time; shepresumed she was tired with so many extra steps to take. '

But Sarah knew her business, and persisted in standing, and inflictingupon the poor woman as much ceremony as possible, and then, in thekitchen, she repeated to the cook and the coachman, with sundryembellishments of her own, the particulars of the dinner, amid peals oflaughter at the expense of the would-be lady, who had said 'she couldjust as soon have her salad with her other things, and save washing gomany dishes. '

It was hardly possible that mistress and maids would stay together long, especially as Mrs. Tracy, when a little more assured, and a little lessin awe of her servants, began to show a disposition to know by personalobservation what was going on in the kitchen, and to hint broadly thatthere was too much waste here and expenditure there, and quite too muchcompany at all hours of the day. 

'She didn't propose to keep a boarding-house, ' she said, 'or to supportfamilies outside, and the old woman who came so often to the basementdoor with a big basket under her cloak must discontinue her calls. '

Then there occurred one of those Hibernian cyclones which sweepeverything before them, and which in this instance swept Mrs. Tracy outof the kitchen for the time being, and the cook out of the house. Herself-respect, she said, would not allow her to stay with a woman whoknew just how much coal was burned, how much butter was used, and howmuch bread was thrown away, and who objected to giving a bite now andthen to a poor old woman, who, poor as she was, had never yet beenhelped by the poor-master, or gone to a soup-house like my lady!

Martha's departure was followed by that of Sarah, and then Mrs. Tracywas alone, and for a few days enjoyed herself immensely, doing her ownwork, cooking her own dinner, and eating it when and where she liked--inthe kitchen mostly, as that kept the flies from the dining-room, andsaved her many steps, for Dolly was beginning to find that there was avast difference between keeping a house with six rooms and one withtwenty or more. 

Her husband urged her to try a new servant, saying there was nonecessity for her to make a slave of herself: but she refused to listen. Economy was a part of her nature, and besides that she meant to showthem that she was perfectly independent of the whole tribe; the _tribe_and _them_ referring to the hired girls alone, for she knew no one elsein town. 

Nobody had called except the clergyman, not even Mrs. Crawford, whosefriendship and possible advice Mrs. Tracy had counted upon, and withwhom she knew she should feel more at ease than with Mrs. Atherton fromBrier Hill, or Miss Hastings from Collingwood. She had seen both thelast named ladies at church and had a nod from Mrs. Atherton, and thatwas all the recognition she had received from her neighbors up to thehot July morning, a week or more after the house-maid's departure, whenshe was busy in the kitchen canning black raspberries, of which thegarden was full. 

Like many housekeepers who do their own work, Dolly was not veryparticular with regard to her dress in the morning, and on this occasionher hair was drawn from her rather high forehead, and twisted into ahard knot at the back of her head; her calico dress hung straight dawn, for she was minus hoops, which in those days were worn quite large; hersleeves were rolled above her elbows, and, as a protection against thejuice of the berries, she wore a huge apron made of sacking. In thisgarb, and with no thought of being interrupted, she kept on with herwork until the last kettle of fruit, was boiling and bubbling on thestove, and she was just glancing at the clock to see if it were time toput over the peas for dinner, when there came a quick, decisive ring atthe front door. 

'Who can that be?' she said to herself, as she wiped her hands upon herapron. 'Some peddler or agent, I dare say. Why couldn't he come round tothe kitchen, door, I'd like to know?'

She had been frequently troubled with peddlers and agents of all kinds, and feeling certain that this was one--ringing the bell a second time, as if in a hurry--she started for' the door in no very amiable frame ofmind, for peddlers were her abomination. Something ailed the lock orkey, which resisted all her efforts to turn it; and at last, putting hermouth to the keyhole, she called out, rather sharply:

'Go to the back door: I cannot open this, '

Then, as she caught a whiff of burnt syrup, she hurried to the kitchen, where she found that her berries had boiled over, and were hissing andsputtering on the hot stove, raising a cloud of smoke so dense that shedid not see the person who stood on the threshold of the door until avoice wholly unlike that of any peddler or agent said to her;

'Good morning, Mrs. Tracy. I hope I am not intruding. '

Then she turned, and to her horror and surprise, saw Grace Atherton, attired in the coolest and daintiest of morning costumes, with a jauntyFrench bonnet set coquettishly upon her head, and a silver card-case inher hand. 

For the moment Dolly's wits forsook her and she stood staring at hervisitor, who, perfectly at her ease, advanced into the room and said:

'I hope you will excuse me, Mrs. Tracy, for this morning call I came--'

But she did not finish the sentence, for by this time Dolly hadrecovered herself a little, and throwing off her apron, she replied, nervously:

'Not at all--not at all, I supposed you were some peddler or agent whenI sent you to this door. They are the plague of my life, and think I'llbuy everything and give to everything because Arthur did. I am doing myown work, you see. Come into the parlor;' and she led the way into thedark drawing-room, and where the chairs and sofas were surrounded inwhite linen, looking like so many ghosts in the dim, uncertain light. 

But Dolly opened one of the windows, and pushing back the blinds, let ina flood of sunshine, so strong and bright that she at once closed theshutters, saying, apologetically, that she did not believe in fading thecarpets, if they were not her own. Then she sat down upon an ottoman andfaced her visitor, who was regarding her with a mixture of amusement andwonder. 

Grace Atherton was an aristocrat to her very finger-tips, and shrankfrom contact with anything vulgar and unsightly, and, to her mind, Mrs. Tracy represented both, and seemed sadly out of place in that handsomeroom, with her sleeves rolled up and the berry stains on her hands andface. Grace knew nothing by actual experience of canning berries, or ofaprons made of sacking, or of bare arms, except it were of an eveningwhen they showed white and fair against her satin gown, with bands ofgold and precious stones upon them, and she felt that there was animmeasurable distance between herself and this woman, whom she had cometo see partly on business and partly because she thought she must callupon her for the sake of Arthur Tracy, the former occupant of the park. 

Grace and Arthur had been fast friends, and Brier Hill was almost theonly place where he had visited on anything like terms of intimacy. Indeed, it was rumored by the busy knowing ones of Shannondale that, hadthe pretty widow been six years his junior instead of his senior, shewould have left no art untried to win him. But here the wise ones werein fault, for though Grace Atherton's heart was not buried in herhusband's grave, and, in fact, had never been her husband's at all, itwas given to one who, though he cared for it once, did not prize it now, for, with all the intensity of his noble nature, Richard Harrington, ofCollingwood; loved the beautiful girl whom, years ago, he had taken tohis home as his child, and whom, it was said, he was to marry. But ifthe belief that the love she once refused and which she would fainrecover was lost to her forever rankled in her breast, Grace never madea sign, and laughed as gayly and looked almost as young and handsome asin the days when Richard was wooing her in the pleasant old English townacross the sea. She had loved Richard then, but, alas! loved money more, and she chose a richer man, old enough to be her father, who had diedwhen she was twenty-one and left her the possessor of nearly half amillion, every dollar of which she would have given to have recalled thedays which were gone forever. 

Grace had been intending to call upon Mrs. Tracy ever since she came tothe park. 'Not, ' as she said to her friend, Edith Hastings, 'for thewoman's sake, for she knew her to be vulgar: but because she was aneighbor and the sister-in-law of Arthur Tracy, ' And so at last shecame, partly out of compliment and partly on business, into which lastshe plunged at once. She was going to the mountains with Mr. Harringtonand Miss Hastings: her cook, who had been with her seven years, had goneto attend a sick mother, and had recommended as a fit person to take herplace the woman who had just left Tracy Park. 

'I do not like to take a servant without first knowing something of herfrom her last employer, ' she said: 'and, if you do not mind, I shouldlike to ask if Martha left for anything very bad. '

Mrs. Tracy colored scarlet, and for a moment was silent. She could nottell that fine lady in the white muslin dress, with seas of lace andembroidery, that Martha had called her _second classy_, and _stingy_ and_strooping_, and _mean_, because she objected to the amount of coalburned, and bread thrown away, and time consumed at the table, besidesturning down the gas in the kitchen when she thought it too light, tosay nothing of turning it off at the meter at ten o'clock, just when theservants were beginning to enjoy themselves. All this she felt wouldscarcely interest a person like Mrs. Atherton, who might sympathize withMartha more than with herself, so she finally said:

'Martha was saucy to me, and on the whole it was better for them all togo; and so I am doing my own work. '

'Doing your own work!' and Grace gave a little cry of surprise, whileher shoulders shrugged meaningly, and made Mrs. Tracy almost as angry asshe had been with Martha when she called her mean and second-class. 'Itcannot be possible that you cook, and wash, and iron, and doeverything, ' Mrs. Atherton continued. 'My dear Mrs. Tracy, you can neverstand it in a house like this, and Mr. Arthur would not like it if heknew. Why he kept as many as six servants, and sometimes more. Pray letme advise you, and commend to you a good girl; who lived with me threeyears, and can do everything, from dressing my hair to making ablanc-mange. I only parted with her because she was sick, and now thatshe is well, her place is filled. Try her, and do not make a servant ofyourself. It is not fitting that you should. '

Grace was fond of giving advice, and had said more than she intendedsaying when she began, but Mrs. Tracy, though annoyed, was not angry, and consented to receive the girl who had lived at Brier Hill threeyears, and who, she reflected, could be of use to her in many ways. 

While sitting there in her soiled working dress talking to the elegantMrs. Atherton she had felt her inferiority more keenly than she had everdone before, while at the same time she was conscious that a new set ofideas and thoughts had taken possession of her, reawaking in her thegerm of that ambition to be somebody which she had felt so often when agirl, and which now was to bud and blossom, and bear fruit a hundredfold. She would take the girl, and from her learn the ways of the worldas presented at Brier Hill. She would no longer wear sacking aprons, andopen the door herself. She would be more like Grace Atherton, whom shewatched admiringly as she went down the walk to the handsome carriagewaiting for her, with driver and footman in tall hats and long coats onthe box. 

This was the beginning of the fine lady into which Dolly finallyblossomed, and when that day Frank went home to his dinner he noticedsomething in her manner which he could not understand until she told himof Mrs. Atherton's call, and the plight in which that lady had foundher. 

'Served you right, Dolly, ' Frank said, laughing till the tears ran. 'Youhave no business to be digging round like a slave when we are able tohave what we like. Arthur said we were to keep up the place us he haddone, and that does not mean that you should be a scullion. No, Dolly;have all the girls you want, and hold up your head with the best ofthem. Get a new silk gown, and return Mrs. Atherton's call at once, andtake a card and turn down one corner or the other, I don't know which, but this girl of hers can tell you. Pump her dry as a powder horn; findout what the quality do, and then do it, and not bother about theexpense. I am going in for a good time, and don't mean to work either. Itold Colvin this morning that I thought I ought to draw a salary ofabout four thousand a year, besides our living expenses, and though helooked at me pretty sharp over his spectacles he said nothing. Arthur isworth half a million, if he is worth a cent. So, go it, Dolly, while youare young, ' and in the exuberance of his joy Frank kissed his wife onboth cheeks, and then hurried back to his office, where he spent most ofhis time trying to be a gentleman. 

That day they dined in the kitchen with a leaf of the table turned up asthey had done in Langley, but the next day they had dinner in thedining-room, and were waited upon by the new girl as well as it waspossible for her to do with her mistress' interference. 

'Never mind; Mr. Tracy's in a hurry. Give him his pie at once, ' shesaid, as Susan was about to clear the table preparatory to the dessert, but she repented the speech when she saw the look of surprise which thegirl gave her and which expressed more than words could have done. 

'Better let her run herself, ' Frank said, when Susan had left the room, 'and if she wants to take every darned thing off the table and tip itover to boot, let her do it. If she has lived three years with Mrs. Atherton, she knows what is what better than we do. '

'But it takes so long, and I have much to see to in this great house, 'Dolly objected, and her husband replied:

'Get another girl, then; three of them if you like. What matter how manygirls we have so long as Arthur pays for them, and he is bound to dothat. He said so in his letter. You are altogether too economical. I'vetold you so a hundred times, and now there is no need of saving. I wantto see you a lady of silks and satins like Mrs. Atherton. Pump thatgirl. I tell you, and find out what ladies do!'

This was Frank's advice to his wife, and as far as in her lay she actedupon it, and whatever Susan told her was done by Mrs. Atherton at BrierHill, she tried to do at Tracy Park: all except staying out of thekitchen. That, from her nature, she could not and would not do. Consequently she was constantly changing cooks, and frequently took thehelm herself, to the great disgust of her husband, who managed at lastto imbue her with his own ideas of things. 

In course of time most of the neighbors who had any claim to societycalled at the park, and among them Mrs. Crawford. But Mrs. Tracy hadthen reached a point from which she looked down upon one who had beenhousekeeper where she was now mistress, and whose daughter's good namewas under a cloud, as there were some who did not believe that HaroldHastings had ever made her his wife. When told that Mrs. Crawford hadasked for her Mrs. Tracy sent word that she was engaged, and that ifMrs. Crawford pleased she would give her errand to the girl. 

'I have no errand. I came to call, ' was Mrs. Crawford's reply, and shenever crossed the threshold of her old home again until the March windswere blowing and there was a little boy in the nursery at the park. 

At the last moment the expected nurse had fallen sick, and in hisperplexity Mr. Tracy went to the cottage in the lane and begged of Mrs. Crawford to come and care for his wife. Mrs. Crawford was very proud, but she was poor, too, and as the price per week which Frank offered herwas four times as much as she could earn by sewing, she consented atlast and went as nurse to the sick-room, and the baby, Tom, on whoselittle red face she imprinted many a kiss for the sake of her daughterwho was coming home in June, and over whom the shadow of hope and fearwas hanging. 

Dolly Tracy's growth after it fairly commenced, was very rapid, and whenMrs. Crawford went to her as nurse she had three servants in her employ, besides the coachman, and was imitating Mrs. Atherton to the best of herability; and when, early in the summer, she received the wedding cardsof Edith Hastings, the young lady from Collingwood, who had married aMr. St. Claire instead of her guardian, she felt that her position wasassured, and from that time her progress was onward and upward until theOctober morning, ten years later, when our story proper opens, and wesee her standing upon the piazza of her handsome house, with every signof wealth and luxury about her person, from the silken robe to thejewels upon her soft, white hands, which once had washed her own dishes, and canned berries in her own kitchen, where she had received GraceAtherton, with her sleeves above her elbows. 

There were five servants in the house now, and they ran over and againsteach other, and quarrelled, and gossipped, and worried her life nearlyout of her, until she was sometimes tempted to send them away and do thework herself. But she was far too great a lady for that. She dressed insilk and satin every day, and drove in her handsome carriage, with herdriver and footman in tall hats and long coats. She was thoroughly up inetiquette, and did not need Susan to tell her what to do. She knew allabout visiting cards, and dinner cards, and cards of acceptance, andregret, and condolence, and she read much oftener than she did her Biblea book entitled 'Habits of Good Society. '

Three children played in the nursery now, Tom, and Jack, and baby Maude, and she kept a nurse constantly for them, and strove with all her mightto instil into their infant minds that they were the Tracys of TracyPark, and entitled to due respect from their inferiors; and Tom, the boyof ten and a half, had profited by her teaching, and was the veriestlittle braggart in all Shannondale, boasting of his father's house, andhis father's money, without a word of the Uncle Arthur wandering no oneknew where, or cared particularly for that matter. 

Arthur had never been home since the day he quitted it to look after AmyCrawford, now lying in the grave-yard of Shannondale, under the shadowof the tall monument which Arthur's money had bought. At first he hadwritten frequently to Mrs. Crawford, and occasionally to his brother, and his agent, Mr. Colvin; then his letters came very irregularly, andsometimes a year would intervene between them. Then he would write everyweek, and he once told them not to be anxious if they did not hear fromhim in a long time, as in case of his death he had arranged to have thenews communicated to his friends at once. After this letter nothing hadbeen heard from him for more than two years, until the morning when histelegram came and so greatly disturbed the mental equilibrium of Mr. Frank Tracy that for an hour or more he sat staring into the street in abewildered kind of way, wondering what would be the result of hisbrother's return, and if he should be required to give up theinvestments he had made from the exorbitant sum he had charged forlooking after the place. Once he thought he would ask Colvin's opinion;but he was a little afraid of the old man, who had sometimes hinted thathis salary was far greater than the services rendered, but as Mr. Arthur, to whom he made reports of the expenditures, had never objected, it was not for him to do so, he said. And still Frank distrusted him, and decided that, on the whole, his better plan was to wait, or at leastto consult no one but his wife, and he was glad when lunch-time came, and he started home, where preparations were going forward for the firstlarge party they had ever given. 

CHAPTER V. 

AT THE PARK. 

Frank Tracy had at first grown faster than his wife, and the change inhis manner had been more perceptible; for with all her foolishness Dollyhad a kind heart, and a keen sense of right, and wrong, and justice thanher husband. She had opposed him stoutly when he raised his own salaryfrom $4, 000 to $6, 000 a year, on the plea that his services were worthit, and that two thousand more or less was nothing to Arthur; and whenhe was a candidate for the Legislature she had protested loudly againsthis inviting to the house and giving beer and cider to the men whosevotes he wanted, and for whom as men he did not care a farthing; butwhen he came up for Congress she forgot all her scruples, and was asanxious as himself to please those who could help him secure thenomination and afterward the election. It was she who had proposed theparty, to which nearly everybody was to be invited, from old Peterkin, with his powerful influence among a certain class, and Widow Shipleighwith her four sons, to Mr. And Mrs. St. Claire, from Grassy Spring, Squire Harrington, from Collingwood, and Grace Atherton, from BrierHill. Very few who could in any way help Frank to a seat in Congresswere omitted from the list, whether Republican or Democrat, for Frankwas popular with both parties and expected help from both. Over threehundred cards had been issued for the party, which was the absorbingtopic of conversation in the whole town, and which brought white kidsand white muslins into great requisition, while swallow-tails and nonswallow-tails were discussed in the privacy of households, and discardedor decided upon according to the length of the masculine purse or thestrength of the masculine resistance, for dress coats were not then therule in Shannondale. It was said that Mr. St. Claire and SquireHarrington always wore them to dinner, but they were the nobility _parexcellence_ of the town, and were expected to do things differently fromthe middle class, who had their bread to earn. Old Peterkin, however, whom Frank in his soliloquy, had designated a _canal bummer_, had becomea rich man, and was resolved to show that he knew what was _au fait_ forthe occasion; a new suit throughout, in the very latest style, was inprogress of making for him, and he had been heard to say that 'Tracyshould have his vote and that of fifty more of the boys to pay for histicket to the doin's'. This speech, which was reported to Mrs. Tracy, reconciled her to the prospect of receiving as a guest the coarsest, roughest man in town, whose only recommendation was his money and thebrute influence he exercised over a certain class. 

Dolly has scarcely slept for excitement since the party had been decidedupon, and everything seemed to be moving on very smoothly and in order. They were to have music, and flowers, and a caterer from Springfield, where a lovely party-dress for herself of peach-blow satin was making, and nothing occurred of any importance to disturb her until the morningof the day appointed for the party, when it seemed as if every evilculminated at once. First, the colored boy who was to wait in the upperhall came down with measles. Then Grace Atherton drove round in hercarriage to say that it would be impossible for her to be present, asshe had received news from New York which made it necessary for her togo there by the next train. She was exceedingly sorry, she said, and foronce in her life Grace was sincere. She _was_ anxious to attend theparty, for, as she said to Edith St. Claire in confidence, she wanted tosee old Peterkin in his swallow-tail and white vest, with a shirt-frontas big as a platter. There was a great deal of sarcasm and ridicule inGrace Atherton's nature, but at heart she was kind and meant to be just, and after a fashion really liked Mrs. Tracy, to whom she had been ofservice in various ways, helping her to fill her new position moregracefully than she could otherwise have done, and enlightening herwithout seeming to do so on many points which puzzled her sorely; on thewhole they were good friends, and, after expressing her regret that shecould not be present in the evening, Grace stood a few moments chattingfamiliarly and offering to send over flowers from her greenhouse, andher own maid to arrange Mrs. Tracy's hair and assist her in dressing. Then she took her leave, and it was her carriage Mrs. Tracy was watchingas it went down the avenue, when little Harold Hastings appeared aroundthe corner of the house, and, coming up the steps, took off his caprespectfully as he said:

'Grandma sends you her compliments, and is very sorry that she hasrheumatism this morning and cannot come to-night to help you. Shethinks, perhaps, you can get Mrs. Mosher. '

'Your grandmother can't come, when I depended so much upon her, and shethinks I can get Mrs. Mosher, that termagant, who would raise a mutinyin the kitchen in an hour!' Mrs. Tracy said this so sharply that a flushmounted to the handsome face of the boy, who felt as if he were in someway a culprit and being reprimanded. 'She _must_ come, if she doesnothing but sit in the kitchen and keep order, ' was Mrs. Tracy's nextremark. 

'She can't, ' Harold replied; 'her foot and ankle is all swelled andaches so she almost cries. She is awful sorry, and so am I, for I wascoming with her to see the show. '

This speech put a new idea into Mrs. Tracy's mind, and she said to theboy:

'How would you like to come anyway, and stay in the upper hall, and tellthe people where to go? The boy I engaged has disappointed me. You arerather small for the place, but I guess you'll do, and I will give youfifty cents. '

'I'd like it first-rate, ' Harold said, his face brightening at thethought of earning fifty cents and seeing the show at the same time. 

Half-dollars were not very plentiful with Harold, and he was trying tosave enough to buy his grandmother a pair of spectacles, for he hadheard her say that she could not thread her needle as readily as sheonce did, and must have glasses as soon as she had the money to spare. Harold had seen a pair at the drug-store for one dollar, and, withoutknowing at all whether they would fit his grandmother's eyes or not, hadasked the druggist to keep them until he had the required amount. Fiftycents would just make it, and he promised at once that he would come;but in an instant there fell a shadow upon his face as he thought of_Tom_, his tormentor, who worried him so much. 

'What is it?' Mrs. Tracy asked, as she detected in him a disposition toreconsider. 

'Will Tom be up in the hall?' Harold asked. 

'Of course not, ' Mrs. Tracy replied. 'He will be in the parlors untilten o'clock, and then he will go to bed. Why do you ask?'

'Because, ' Harold answered fearlessly, 'if he was to be there I couldnot come; he chaffs me so and twits me with being poor and living in ahouse his uncle gave us. '

'That is very naughty in him, and I will see that he behaves better infuture, ' said Mrs. Tracy, rather amused than other wise at the boy'sfrankness. 

As the mention of the uncle reminded Harold of the telegram, he took itfrom his pocket and handed it to her. 

'Mr. Tracy said I was to bring you this. It's from Mr. Arthur, and he'scoming to-night. I'm so glad, and grandma will be, too!'

If Mrs. Tracy heard the last of Harold's speech she did not heed it, forshe had caught the words that Arthur was coming that night, and, for amoment, she felt giddy and faint, and her hand shook so she couldscarcely open the telegram. 

Arthur had been gone so long and left them in undisputed possession ofthe park, that she had come to feel as if it belonged to them by right, and she had grown so into a life of ease and luxury, that to give it upnow and go back to Langley seemed impossible to her. She could see itall so plainly--the old life of obscurity and toil in the little kitchenwhere she had eaten her breakfast on winter mornings so near the stovethat she could cook her buckwheats on the griddle and transfer them toher own and her husband's plates without leaving her seat. She had beenhappy, or comparatively so there, she said to herself, because she knewno better. But now she did know better, and she ate her breakfast in anoak-paneled dining-room, with a waitress at her elbow, and herbuckwheats hot from a silver dish instead of the smoking griddle. Shehad a governess for her two boys, Tom and Jack, and a nurse for herlittle Maude, who, in her ambitious heart, she hoped would one day marryDick St. Clair, the young heir of Grassy Spring. 

It never occurred to Dolly that they might possibly remain at the parkif Arthur did come home. She felt sure they could not, for Arthur wouldhardly approve of his brother's stewardship when he came to realize howmuch it had cost him. They would have to leave, and this party she wasgiving would be her first and last at Tracy Park. How she wished she hadnever thought of it, or, having thought of it, that she had omitted fromthe list those who, she knew, would be obnoxious to the foreign brother, and who had only been invited for the sake of their political influence, which would now be useless, for Frank Tracy as a nobody, with verylittle money to spend, would not run as well, even in his own party, asFrank Tracy of Tracy Park, with thousands at his command if he chose totake them. 

'It is too bad, and I wish we could give up the party, ' she said aloud, forgetting in her excitement that Harold was still standing there, gazing curiously at her. 'You here yet? I thought you had gone!' shesaid, half angrily, as she recovered herself a little and met the boy'swondering eyes. 

'Yes'm; but you ain't going to give the party up?' he said, afraid oflosing his half-dollar. 

'Of course not. How can I, with all the people invited?' she asked, questioningly, and a little less sharply. 

'I don't know, unless I get a pony and go round and tell 'em not tocome, ' Harold suggested, thinking he might earn his fifty cents aseasily that way as any other. 

But, much as Mrs. Tracy wished the party had never been thought of, shecould not now abandon it, and declining the services of Harold and hispony, she again bade him go home, with a charge that he should be ontime in the evening, adding, as she surveyed him critically:

'If you have no clothes suitable, you can wear some of Tom's. You areabout his size. '

'Thank you; I have my meetin' clothes, and do not want Tom's, ' wasHarold's reply, as he walked away, thinking he would go in rags beforehe would wear anything which belonged to his enemy, Tom Tracy. 

The rest of the morning was passed by Mrs. Frank in a most unhappy frameof mind, and she was glad when, at an hour earlier than she had reasonto expect him, her husband came home. 

'Well, Dolly, ' he said, the moment they were alone, 'this is awfullyunlucky, the whole business. If Arthur must come home, why couldn't hehave written in advance, and not take us by surprise? Looks as if hemeant to spring a trap on us, don't it? And if he did, by Jove, he hascaught us nicely. It will be somewhat like the prodigal son, who heardthe sound of music and dancing, only I don't suppose Arthur has spenthis substance in riotous living, with not over nice people; but there isno telling what he has been up to all these years that he has notwritten to us. Perhaps he is married. He said in his telegram, "Send tomeet _us_. " What does that mean, if not a wife?'

'A wife! Oh, Frank!' and with a great gasp Dolly sank down upon thelounge near where she was standing, and actually went into the hystericsher husband had prophesied. 

In reading the telegram she had not noticed the little monosyllable'_us_, ' which was now affecting her so powerfully. Of course it meant awife and possibly children, and her day was surely over at Tracy Park. It was in vain that her husband tried to comfort her, saying that theyknew nothing positively, except that Arthur was coming home and somebodywas coming with him; it might be a friend, or, what was more likely, itmight be a valet; and at all events he was not going to cross Fox Rivertill he reached it, when he might find a bridge across it. 

But Frank's reasoning did not console his wife, whose hysterical fit wassucceeded by a racking headache, which by night was almost unbearable. Strong coffee, aconite, brandy, and belladonna, were all tried withouteffect. Nothing helped her until she commenced her toilet, when in theexcitement of dressing she partly forgot her disquietude, and the painin her head grew leas. Still she was conscious of a feeling ofwretchedness and regret as she sat in her handsome boudoir and felt thatit might be for the last time--that on the morrow another would bemistress where she had reigned so long. 

It was known in the house that Arthur was expected, and some one withhim, but no hint had been given of a wife, and Mrs. Tracy had orderedseparate rooms prepared for the strangers, who were to arrive on thehalf-past ten train. How she should manage to keep up and appear naturaluntil that time Mrs. Tracy did not know, and her face and eyes wore ananxious, frightened look, which all her finery could not hide. And stillshe was really very handsome and striking in her dress of peach blowsatin, and the bare arms which had once been more familiar withsoap-suds and dishwater than lace and gold bracelets, looked very fairand girlish when at last she descended to the drawing-room and stoodwaiting for the first ring which would open the party. 

CHAPTER VI. 

THE COTTAGE IN THE LANE. 

It was called thus because it stood at the end of a broad, grassy avenueor lane, which led from the park to the entrance of the grounds ofCollingwood, whose chimneys and gables were distinctly visible in thewinter when the trees were stripped of their foliage. At the time whenMrs. Crawford took possession of it its color was red, but the stormsand rains of eleven summers and winters had washed nearly all the redaway; and as Mrs. Crawford had never had the money to spare for itsrepainting, it would have presented a brown and dingy appearanceoutwardly, but for the luxurious woodbine, which she had trained with somuch care and skill that it covered nearly three sides of the cottage, and made a gorgeous display in the autumn, when the leaves had turned abright scarlet. 

Thanks to the thoughtfulness of Arthur Tracy, the cottage was furnishedcomfortably and even prettily when Mrs. Crawford entered it, and it wasfrom the same kind friend that her resources mostly had come up to theday when, three years after her marriage, Amy Hastings came home to die, bringing with her a little two-year-old boy, whom, she called Harold, for his father. Just where the father was, if indeed he were living, shedid not know. He had left her in London six months before, saying he wasgoing over to Paris for a few days, and should be back almost before shehad time to miss him. Just before he left her he said to her, playfully:

'Cheer up, _petite_. I have not been quite as regular in my habits as Iought to have been, but London is not the place for a man of mytastes--too many temptations for a fellow like me. When I come back wewill go into the country, where you can have a garden, with flowers andchickens, and grow fat and pretty again. You are not much like the girlI married. Good-bye. '

He kissed her and the baby, and went whistling down the stairs. Shenever saw him again, and only heard from him once. Then he was in Paris, and had decided to go for a week to Pau, where he said they were havingsuch fine fox hunts. Weeks went by and he never wrote nor came, and Amywould have been utterly destitute and friendless but for Arthur Tracy, who, when her need was greatest, went to her, telling her that he hadnever been far from her, but had watched over her vigilantly to see thatno harm came to her. When her husband went to Paris he knew it through adetective, and from the same source knew when he went to Pau, where alltrace of him had been lost. 

'But we are sure to find him again, ' he said, encouragingly; 'andmeantime I shall see that you do not suffer. As an old friend of yourhusband, you will allow me to care for you until he is found. '

And Amy, who had no alternative, accepted his care, and tried to seemcheerful and brave while waiting for the husband who never came back. 

At last when all hope of seeing him again was gone, Arthur sent her hometo the cottage in the lane, where her mother received her gladly, thanking Heaven that she had her daughter back again. But not for long. Poor Amy's heart was broken. She loved her husband devotedly, and hiscruel desertion of her--for she knew now it was that--hurt her more thanyears of suffering with him could have done. Occasionally she heard fromArthur, who was still busy in search of the delinquent, and who alwayssent in his letter a substantial proof of his friendship and generosity. 

And so the weeks and months went by; and then, one day, there came aletter in the well-known handwriting. But it was Mrs. Crawford whoopened it and read that Harold Hastings was dead: that Amy was free, andthat Arthur Tracy, who through all had loved her just as well as when hefirst asked her to be his wife, now put the question again, offering tomake her the mistress of Tracy Park and surround her with every possiblecomfort. 

'Say yes, darling Amy, ' he wrote, 'and we may yet be very happy. I willbe a good husband to you and a father to your child, who shall share myfortune as if he were my own. Answer at once, telling me to come, and, before you know it I shall be there to claim you for my wife. '

With a low moan, Mrs. Crawford hid her face in her hands and sobbedaloud, for the Amy who might have been the honored wife of Arthur Tracylay dead in her coffin; and that day they buried her under the Novembersnow, which was falling in great sheets upon the frozen ground. WhatArthur felt when he heard the news no one ever knew, for he made no signto any one, but at once gave orders to Colvin that a costly monumentshould be placed at her grave, with only this inscription upon it:

 AMY

 _Aged_ 23. 

Of course the low-minded people talked, and Mrs. Crawford knew they did;but her heart was too full of sorrow to care what was said. Herbeautiful daughter was dead, and she was alone with the little boy, thechild Harold, who had inherited his mother's beauty, with all her lovelytraits of character. Had Mrs. Crawford consented, Arthur would havesupported him entirely; but she was too proud for that. She would takecare of him herself as long as possible, she wrote him, but if, whenHarold was older, he chose to educate him, she would offer no objection. 

And there the matter dropped, and Mrs. Crawford struggled on as best shecould, sometimes going out to do plain sewing, sometimes taking it home, sometimes going to people's houses to superintend when they had company, and sometimes selling fruit and flowers from the garden attached to thecottage. But whatever she did, she was always the same quiet, lady-likewoman, who commanded the respect of all, and who, poor as she was, washeld in high esteem by the better class in Shannondale. Grace Atherton'scarriage and that of Edith St. Claire stood oftener before her doorthan that at Tracy Park; and though the ladies came mostly on business, they found themselves lingering after the business was over to talk withone who, in everything save money, was their equal. 

Harold was his grandmother's idol. For him she toiled and worked, feeling more than repaid for all she did by his love and devotion toher. And Harold was a noble little fellow, full of manly instincts, andalways ready to deny himself for the sake of others. That he and hisgrandmother were poor he knew, but he had never felt the effects oftheir poverty, save when Tom Tracy had jeered at him for it, and calledhim a pauper. There had been one square fight between the two boys, inwhich Harold had been the victor, with only a torn jacket, while Tom'seye had been black for a week, and Mrs. Tracy had gone to the cottage tocomplain and insist that Harold should be punished. But when she heardthat Dick St. Claire had assisted in the fray, taking Harold's part, andhimself dealing Tom the blow which blackened his eye, she changed hertactics, for she did not care to quarrel with Mrs. Arthur St. Claire, ofGrassy Spring. 

Harold and Richard St. Claire, or Dick, as he was familiarly called, were great friends, and if the latter knew there was a differencebetween himself and the child of poverty he never manifested it, andplayed far oftener with Harold than with Tom, whose domineeringdisposition and rough manners were distasteful to him. That Harold wouldone day be obliged to earn his living, Mrs. Crawford knew, but he wasstill too young for anything of that kind; and when Grace Atherton, orMrs. St. Claire offered him money for the errands he sometimes did forthem, she steadily refused to let him take it. Had she known of Mrs. Tracy's proposition that he should be present at the party as hall-boy, she would have declined, for though she could go there herself as anemployee, she shrank from suffering Harold to do so. That Mrs. Tracy wasnot a lady, she knew, and in her heart there was always a feeling ofsuperiority to the woman even while she served her, and she was not assorry, perhaps, as she ought to have been, for the attack of rheumatismwhich would prevent her from going to the park to take charge of thekitchen during the evening. 

'I am sorry to disappoint her, but I am glad not to be there, ' she wasthinking to herself as she sat in her bright, cheerful kitchen, waitingfor Harold, when he burst in upon her, exclaiming:

'Oh, grandma, only think! I am invited to the party, and I told her I'dgo, and I am to be there at half-past seven sharp, and to wear mymeetin' clothes. '

'Invited to the party! What do you mean? Only grown up people are to bethere, ' Mrs. Crawford said. 

'Yes, I know;' replied Harold, 'but I'm not to be with the _grown-ups_. I'm to stay in the upper hall and tell 'em where to go. '

'Oh, you are to be a _waiter_, ' was Mrs. Crawford's rather contemptuousremark, which Harold did not heed in his excitement. 

'Yes, I'm to be at the head of the stairs, and somebody else at thebottom; and they are to have fiddlin and dancin'; I've never seenanybody dance; and ice-cream and cake, with something like plaster allover it, and oranges and grapes, and, oh, everything! Dick St. Clairetold me; he knows; his mother has had parties, and she's going to-night, and her gown is crimson velvet, with black and white fur in it like ourcat, only they don't call it that; and--oh, I forgot--they have had atelegraph, and I took it to Mrs. Tracy, who looked mad and almost criedwhen she read it, Mr. Arthur Tracy is coming home to-night. '

Harold had talked so fast that his grandmother could hardly follow him, but she understood what he said last, and started as if he had struckher a blow. 

'Arthur Tracy! Coming home to-night!' she exclaimed. 'Oh, I am so glad, so glad. '

'But Mrs. Tracy did not seem to be, and I guess she wanted to stop theparty, ' Harold said, repeating as nearly as he could what had passedbetween him and the lady. 

Harold was full of the party to which he believed he had been invited, and when in the afternoon Dick St. Claire came to the cottage to playwith him, he felt a kind of patronizing pity for his friend who was notto share his honor. 

'Perhaps mother will let me come over and help you, ' Dick said, 'I knowhow they do it. You mustn't talk to the people as they come up thestairs, nor even say good-evening, only;

'"Ladies will please walk this way, and gentlemen that!"

And Dick went through with a pantomime performance for the benefit ofHarold, who, when the drill was over, felt himself competent to receivethe Queen's guests at the head of the great staircase in Windsor Castle. 

'Yes, I know, ' he said, '"Ladies this way, and gentlemen that;" but whenam I to go down and see the dancing and get some ice-cream?'

On this point Dick was doubtful. He did not believe, he said, thatwaiters ever went down to see the dancing, or to get ice cream, untilthe party was over, and then they ate it in the kitchen, if there wasany left. 

This was not a cheerful outlook for Harold, whose thoughts were moreintent upon cream and dancing than upon showing the people where to go, and it was also the second time the word waiter had been used inconnection with what he was expected to do. But Harold was too young tounderstand that he was not of the party itself. Later on it would cometo him fast enough, that he was only a part of the machinery which movedthe social engine. Now, he felt like the engine itself, and long beforesix o'clock he was dressed, and waiting anxiously for his grandmother'spermission to start. '

'I'll tell you all about it, ' he said to her. 'What they do, and whatthey say, and what they wear, and if I can, I'll speak to Mr. ArthurTracy and thank him for mother's grave-stone. '

By seven o'clock he was on his way to the park, walking rapidly, andoccasionally saying aloud with a gesture of his hand to the right andthe left, and a bow almost to the ground. 

'Ladies this way, ' and 'gentlemen that. '

When he reached the house the gas-jets had just been turned up, andevery window was ablaze with light from the attic to the basement. 

'My eye! ain't it swell!' Harold said to himself, as he stood a moment, looking at the brilliantly lighted rooms. 'Don't I wish I was rich andcould burn all that gas, and maybe I shall be. Grandma says Mr. ArthurTracy was once a poor boy like me; only he had an uncle and I haven't. I've got do earn my money, and I mean to, and sometimes, maybe, I'llhave a house us big as this, and just such a party, with a boy up stairsto tell 'em where to go. I wonder now if I'm expected to go into thekitchen door. Of course not, I've got on my Sunday clothes, and aminvited to the party. I shall ring, '

And he did ring--a sharp, loud ring, which made Mrs. Tracy, who had notyet left her room, start nervously as she wondered who had come soearly. 

'Old Peterkin, of course. Those whom you care for least always comefirst. '

Peering over the banister Tom Tracy saw Harold when the door was opened, and screaming to his mother at the top of his voice, 'It ain't oldPeterkin, mother; it's Hall Hastings, come to the front door, ' he randown the stairs, and confronting the intruder just as he was crossingthe threshold, exclaimed:

'Go 'long; go back. You hain't no business ringin' the bell as if youwas a gentleman. Go to the kitchen door with the other servants!'

With a thrust of the hand he pushed Harold back and was about to shutthe door upon him when, with a quick, dextrous movement, Harold dartedpast him into the hall, saying, as he did so:

'Darn you, Tom Tracy, I won't go to the back kitchen door, and I'm not aservant, and if you call me so again I'll lick you!'

How the matter would have ended is doubtful, if Mrs. Tracy had notcalled from the head of the stairs:

'Thomas! Thomas Tracy! I am ashamed of you! Come to me this minute! Andyou, boy, go to the kitchen; or, no--now you are here, come up stairs, and I'll tell you what you are to do. '

Her directions were much like those of Dick St. Claire, except that shelaid more stress upon the fact that he was not to speak to any onefamiliarly, but was to be in all respects a machine. Just what she meantby that Harold did not know; but he hung his cap on a bracket, andtaking his place where she told him to stand, watched her admiringly asshe went down the staircase, with her peach-blow satin trailing behindher, and followed, by her husband, who looked and felt anxious and illat ease. 

Tom had disappeared, but his younger brother, Jack, who was whollyunlike him, came to Harold's side, and began telling him what quantitiesof good things there were in the dining-room and pantry, and that hisUncle Arthur was coming home that night, and his mother was so glad, shecried; then, with a spring he mounted upon the banister of the longstaircase and slipped swiftly to the bottom. Ascending the stairs almostas quickly as he had gone down, he bade Harold try it with him. 

'It's such fun! and mother won't care. I've done it forty times, ' hesaid, as Harold demurred; and then, as the temptation became too strongto be resisted, two boys instead of one rode down the banister andlanded in the lower hall, and two pairs of little legs ran nimbly up thestairs just as the door opened and admitted the first arrival. 

CHAPTER VII. 

THE PARTY. 

The invitations had been for half-past seven, and precisely at that hourPeterkin arrived, magnificent in his swallow-tail and white shirt front, where an enormous diamond shone conspicuously. With him came the secondMrs. Peterkin, whose name was Mary Jane, but whom her husband alwayscalled _May_ Jane. She was a frail, pale faced little woman, and hadonce been Grace Atherton's maid, but had married Peterkin for his money. This was her first appearance at a grand party, and in her excitementand timidity she did not hear Harold's thrice repeated words, 'Ladies gothat way, ' but followed her husband into the gentlemen's dressing-room, where she deposited her wraps, and then, shaking in every limb, descended to the drawing-room, where Peterkin's boisterous laugh wassoon heard, as he slapped his host on the shoulder, and said:

'You see, we are here on time, though May Jane said it was too early. But I s'posed half-past seven meant half-past seven and then I wanted alittle time to talk up the ropes with you. We are going to run you in, you bet!' and again his coarse laugh thrilled every nerve in Mrs. Tracy's body, and she longed for fresh arrivals to help quiet thisvulgar man. 

Soon they began to come by twos, and threes, and sixes, and Harold waskept busy with his 'Ladies this way, and gentlemen that. '

After Mrs. Peterkin had gone down stairs, leaving her wraps in thegentlemen's rooms, Harold, who knew they did not belong there, hadcarried them to the ladies' room and deposited them upon the bed, justas the girl who was to be in attendance appeared at her post, asked himsharply why he was in there rummaging the ladies' things. 

'I'm not rummaging. They are Mrs. Peterkin's. She left them in the otherroom, and I brought them here, ' Harold said, as he returned to the hall, never dreaming that this little circumstance, trivial as it seemed, would be one of the links in the chain of evidence which must for a timeovershadow him so darkly. 

Now, he was eager and excited, and interested in watching the people asthey came up the stairs and went down again. With the quick instinct ofa bright, intelligent boy, he decided who was accustomed to society andwho was not, and leaning over the banister when not on duty, watchedthem when they entered the drawing-room and were received by Mr. AndMrs. Tracy. Unconsciously he began to imitate them, bowing when theybowed, and saying softly to himself:

'Oh, how do you do? Good evening. Happy to see you. Pleasant to-night. Walk in. Ye-as!'

This was the monosyllable with which he finished every sentence, and wasthe affirmation to the thought in his mind that he, too, would some daygo down those stairs and into those parlors as a guest, while some otherboy in the upper hall bade the ladies go this way and the gentlementhat. 

It was after nine when Mr. And Mrs. St. Claire arrived, with SquireHarrington, from Collingwood. Harold had been looking for them, anxiousto see the crimson satin trimmed with ermine, of which Dick had toldhim. Many of the guests he had mentally criticised unsparingly, but Mrs. St. Claire, he knew, was genuine, and his face beamed, when in passinghim, she smiled upon him with her sweet, gracious manner, and said, pleasantly:

'Good evening, Harold. I knew you were to be here. Dick told me, and hewanted to come and assist you, but I thought he'd better stay home withNina. '

Up to this time no one had spoken to Harold, and he had spoken to no oneexcept to tell them where to go, but had, as far as possible, followedMrs. Tracy's injunction to be a machine. But the machine was getting alittle tired. It was hard work to stand for two hours or more, and Mrs. Tracy had impressed it upon him that he was not to sit down. But whenMrs. St. Claire came from the dressing-room and stood before him amoment in her crimson satin and pearls, he forgot his weariness andforgot that he was not to talk, and said to her, involuntarily:

'Oh, Mrs. St. Claire, how handsome you look! Handsomer than anybody yet, and different, too, somehow. '

Edith knew the compliment was genuine, and she replied:

'Thank you, Harold, ' then, laying her hand on the boy's head and partinghis soft, brown hair, she said, as she noticed a look of fatigue in hiseyes, 'are you not tired, standing so long? Why don't you bring a chairfrom one of the rooms and sit when you can?'

'She told me to stand, ' Harold replied, nodding toward the parlors, fromwhich a strain of music then issued. 

The dancing had commenced, and Harold's feet and hands beat time to thelively strains of the piano and violin, until he could contain himselfno longer. The dancing he must see at all hazards and know what it waslike, and when the last guests came up the stairs there was no hall boythere to tell them, 'Ladies this way, gentlemen that, ' for Harold was inthe thickest of the crowd, standing on a chair so as to look over theheads of those in front of him and see the dancers. But, alas, for poorHarold! He was soon discovered by Mrs. Tracy, who, asking him if he didnot know his place better than that, ordered him back to his post, wherehe was told to stay until the party was over. 

Wholly unconscious of the nature of his offence, but very sorry that hehad offended, Harold went up the stairs, wondering why he could not seethe dancing, and how long the party would last. His head was beginningto ache with the glare and gas; his little legs were tired, and he wasgrowing sleepy. Surely he might sit down now, particularly as Mrs. St. Claire had suggested it, and bringing himself a chair from one of therooms he sat down in a corner of the hall and was soon in a sound sleep, from which, however, he was roused by the sound of Mr. Tracy's voice, ashe came up the stairs, followed by a tall, distinguished-looking man, who wore a Spanish cloak wrapped gracefully around him, and a large, broad-brimmed hat drawn down so closely, as to hide his features fromview. 

As he reached the upper landing he raised his head, and Harold, who wasnow wide awake and standing up, caught a glimpse of a thin, pale faceand a pair of keen, black eyes, which seemed for an instant to takeeverything in; than the head was dropped, and the two men disappeared ina room at the far end of the hall. 

'I'll bet that's Mr. Arthur. How grand he is! looks just like a piratein that cloak and hat, ' was Harold's mental comment. 

Before he had time for further thought, Frank Tracy came from the roomand hurried down the stairs to rejoin his guests. 

Five minutes later and the door at the end of the long hall whichcommunicated with the back staircase and the rear of the house, opened, and a man whom Harold recognized as the expressman from the stationappeared with a huge trunk on his shoulder and a large valise in hishand. These he deposited in the stranger's room and then went back formore, until four had been carried in. But when he came with the fifthand largest of all, a hand, white and delicate as a woman's, was thrustfrom the door-way with an imperative gesture, and a voice with a decidedforeign accent exclaimed:

'For heaven's sake, don't bring any more boxes in here. Why, I ampositively stumbling over them now. Surely there must be some place inthe house for my luggage besides my private apartment. '

Then the door was shut with a bang, and Harold heard the sliding of thebolt as Arthur Tracy fastened himself in his room. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

ARTHUR. 

All the time that Frank Tracy had been receiving his guests and tryingto seem happy and at his ease, his thoughts had been dwelling upon hisbrother's telegram and the ominous words, 'Send some one to meet us. 'How slowly the minutes dragged until it was ten o'clock, and he knewthat John had started for the station to meet the dreaded '_us_. ' He hadtold everybody that he was expecting his long-absent brother, and hadtried to seem glad on account of it. 

'You and he were great friends, I believe, ' he said to SquireHarrington. 

'Yes, we were friends, ' the latter replied; 'but when he lived here myhealth was such that I did not mingle much in society. I met him, however, in Paris four years ago, and found him very companionable andquite Europeanized in his manner and tastes. He spoke French or Germanaltogether, and might easily have passed for a foreigner. I shall beglad to see him. '

'And so shall I, ' chimed in Peterkin, whose voice was like a trumpet andcould be heard everywhere. 'A first-rate chap, though we didn't use tohitch very well together. He was all-fired big feelin', and them daysPeterkin was nowhere; but circumstances alter cases. He'll be glad tosee me now, no doubt;' and with the most satisfied air the halfmillionaire put his hand as if by accident to his immense diamond pin, and pulling down his swallow-tail, walked away. 

Frank saw the faint smile of contempt which showed itself in SquireHarrington's face, and his own grew red with shame, but paled almostinstantly as the outer door was opened by some one who did not seem tothink it necessary to ring; and a stranger, in Spanish cloak andbroad-brimmed hat, stepped into the hall. 

Arthur had come, and was _alone_. The train had been on time, and atjust half-past ten the long line of cars stopped before the Shannondalestation, where John, the coachman from Tracy Park, was waiting. Thenight was dark, but by the light from the engine and the office John sawthe foreign-looking stranger, who stepped upon the platform, and feltsure it was his man. But there was no one with him, though it seemed asif he were expecting some one to follow him from the car as he stood fora moment waiting. Then, as the train moved on, he turned with a puzzledlook upon his face to meet John, who said to him, respectfully:

'Are you Mr. Arthur Tracy?'

'Yes; who are you?' was the not very cordial response. 

'Mr. Frank Tracy sent me from the park to fetch you, ' John replied. 'Ithink he expected some one with you. Are you alone?'

'Yes--no, no!' and Arthur's voice indicated growing alarm and uneasinessas he looked rapidly around him, 'Where is she? Didn't you see her? Shewas with me all the way. Surely she got off when I did. Where can shehave gone?'

He was greatly excited, and kept peering through the darkness as hetalked; while John, a good deal puzzled, looked curiously at him, as ifuncertain whether he were in his right mind or not. 

'Was there some one with you in the car?' he asked. 

'Yes, in the car, and in New York, and on the ship. She was with me allthe way, ' Mr. Tracy replied. 'It is strange where she is now. Did no onealight from the train when I did?'

'No one, ' John answered, more puzzled than ever.... 'I was looking foryou, and there was no one else. She may have fallen asleep and beencarried by. '

'Yes, probably that is it, ' Mr. Tracy said, more cheerfully, 'she wasasleep and carried by. She will come back to-morrow. '

He seemed quite content with this solution of the mystery, and began totalk of his luggage, which lay upon the platform--a pile so immense thatJohn looked at it in some alarm, knowing that the carriage could nevertake it all. 

'Eight trunks, two portmanteaus, and a hat-box!' he said, aloud, counting the pieces. 

'Yes, and a nice sum those rascally agents in New York made me pay forhaving them come with me, ' Arthur rejoined. 'They weighed them all, andcharged me a little fortune. I might as well have sent them by express;but I wanted them with me, and here they are. What will you do withthem? This is hers, ' and he designated a black trunk or box, longer andlarger than two ordinary trunks ought to be. 

'I can take one of them with the box and portmanteau, and the expressmanwill take the rest. He is here. Hallo, Brown, ' John said, calling to aman in the distance, who came forward, and, on learning what was wanted, begun piling the trunks into his wagon, while Arthur followed John, tothe carriage, which he entered, and, sinking into a seat, pulled hisbroad-brimmed hat over his face and eyes, and sat as motionless as if hehad been a stone. 

For a moment John stood looking at him, wondering what manner of man hewas, and thinking, too, of the woman who, he said, had been with him inthe train, and who should have alighted with him. At last, rememberingsuddenly a message his master had given him, he began:

'If you please, sir, Mr. Tracy told me to tell you he was very sorrythat he could not come himself to meet you. If he had known that youwere coming sooner, he would have done different; but he did not getyour telegram till this morning, and then it was too late to stop it. Weare having a great break-down to-night. '

During the first of these remarks Arthur had given no sign that heheard, but when John spoke of a break-down, he lifted his head quickly, and the great black eyes, which Harold noticed later as peculiar, flashed a look of inquiry upon John, as he said:

'Break-down? What is that!'

'A party--a smasher! Mr. Tracy is running for Congress. ' was John'sreply. 

And then over the thin face there crept a ghost of a smile, which, faintas it was, changed the expression wonderfully. 

'Oh, a party!' he said. 'Well, I will be a guest, too. I have mydress-suit in some of those trunks. Frank is going to Congress, is he?That's a good joke! Drive on. What are you standing there for?'

The carriage door was shut, and, mounting the box, John drove as rapidlytoward Tracy Park as the darkness of the night would admit, while thepassenger inside sat with his hat over his eyes, and his chin almosttouching his breast, as if absorbed in thought, or else not thinking atall. Once, however, he spoke to himself, and said:

'Poor little Gretchen! I wonder how I could have forgotten and left herin the train. What will she do alone in a strange place? But perhapsHeaven will take care of her. She always said so. I wish I had her faithand could believe as she does. Poor little Gretchen!'

They had turned into the park by this time, and very soon draw up beforethe house, from every window of which lights were flashing, while thesounds of music and dancing could be distinctly heard. 

Something like Frank's idea came into Arthur's mind at the sight. 

'It makes me think of the return of the prodigal, only I have not wastedmy substance and my father does not come to meet me, ' he said, as hedescended from the carriage and went up the broad steps to the piazza, on which a few young people were walking, unmindful of the chill nightair. 

'I need not ring at my own house, ' Arthur thought, as he opened the doorand stepped into the hall; and thus it was that the first intimationwhich Frank had of his arrival was when he saw him standing in the midstof a crowd of people, who were gazing curiously at him. 

'Arthur!' he exclaimed, rushing forward and taking his brother's hand. 'Welcome home again! I did not hear the carriage, though I was listeningfor it. I am so glad to see you! Come with me to your room;' and he ledthe way up stairs to the apartment prepared for the stranger. 

He had seen at a glance that Arthur was alone, unless, indeed, he hadbrought a servant who had gone to the side door; and thus relieved froma load of anxiety, he was very cordial in his manner, and began at onceto make excuses for the party, repeating in substance what John hadalready said. 

'Yes, I know; that fellow who drove me here told me, ' Arthur said, throwing off his coat and hat, and beginning to lave his face, and neck, and hands in the cold water which he turned into the bowl until it wasfull to the brim, and splashed over the sides as he dashed it uponhimself. 

All this time Frank had not seen his face distinctly, nor did he havean opportunity to do so until the ablutions were ended and Arthur hadrubbed himself with, not one towel, but two, until it seemed as if hemust have taken off the skin in places. Then he turned, and running hisfingers through his luxuriant hair, which had a habit of curling aroundhis forehead as in his boyhood, looked full at his brother, who saw thathe was very pale and thin, and that his eyes were unnaturally large andbright, while there was about him an indescribable something whichpuzzled Frank a little. It was not altogether the air of foreign traveland cultivation which was so perceptible, but a something else--arestlessness and nervousness of speech and manner as he moved about theroom, walking rapidly and gesticulating as he walked. 

'You are looking thin and tired. Are you not well?' Frank asked. 

'Oh, yes, perfectly well, ' Arthur replied: 'only this infernal heat inmy blood, which keeps me up to fever pitch all the time. I shall have tobathe my face again, ' and, turning a second time to the bowl, he beganto throw water over his face and hands as he had done before. 

'I'd like a bath in ice water, ' he said, as he began drying himself witha fresh towel. 'If I remember right, there is no bath-room on thisfloor, but I can soon have one built. I intend to throw down the wallbetween this room and the next, and perhaps the next, so as to have asuite. '

He was asserting the ownership at once, and Frank had nothing to say, for his brother was master there, and had a right to tear the house downif he chose. The second washing must have cooled him, for there came achange in his manner, and he moved more slowly and spoke with greaterdeliberation, as he asked some questions about the people below. 

'Will you come down by-and-bye, ' Frank said, after having made someexplanations with regard to his guests. 

'No, you will have to excuse me, ' Arthur replied. 'I am too tired toencounter old acquaintances or make new. I do not believe I could standold Peterkin, who you say is a millionaire. I suppose you want hisinfluence; your coachman told me you were running for Congress, ' andArthur laughed the old merry musical laugh which Frank remembered sowell: then, suddenly changing his tune, he said: 'When does the nexttrain from the East pass the station?'

Frank told him at seven the next morning, and he continued:

'Please send the carriage to meet it. Gretchen will probably be there. She was in the train with me, and should have gotten out when I did, butshe must have been asleep and carried by. '

'Gr-gr-gretchen! Who is she?' Frank stammered, while the cold sweatbegan to run down his back. 

The 'us' in the telegram did mean something, and mischief, too, to hisinterests, he felt intuitively. 

Instantly into Arthur's eyes there stole a look of cunning, and apeculiar smile played round his mouth as he replied:

'She is Gretchen. See that the carriage goes for her, will you?'

His voice and manner indicated that he wished the conference ended, andwith a great sinking at his heart Frank left the room and returned tohis guests and his wife, who had not seen the stranger when he enteredthe hall, and thus did not know of Arthur's arrival until her husbandrejoined her. 

'He has come, ' he whispered to her, while she whispered back:

'Is he alone?'

'Yes, but somebody is coming to-morrow; I do not know who; Gretchen, hecalls her, ' was Frank's reply. 

'Gretchen!' Mrs. Tracy repeated, in a trembling voice. 'Who is she?'

'I don't know. He merely said she was Gretchen; his daughter, perhaps, 'was Frank's answer, which sent the color from his wife's cheeks, andmade her so faint and sick that she would have given much to be aloneand think over this evil coming upon her the next day in the shape ofthe mysterious Gretchen. 

Meantime when left to himself, Arthur changed his mind with regard togoing down into the parlors to see his brother's guests, and, unlockingthe trunk which held his own wardrobe he took out an evening suit freshfrom the hands of a London tailor, and, arraying himself in it, stoodfor a moment before the glass to see the effect. Everything wasfaultless, from his neck-tie to his boots; and, opening the door, hewent out into the hall, which was empty, except for Harold, who wassitting near the stairs, half asleep again. Most of the guests were inthe supper-room, but a few of the younger portion were dancing, and thestrains of music were heard with great distinctness in the upper hall. 

'Ugh!' Arthur said, with a shiver, as he stopped a moment to listen, while his quick eye took in every detail of the furniture and itsarrangement in the hall. 'That violinist ought to be hung--the pianist, too! Don't they know what horrid discord they are making? It brings thatheat back. I believe, upon my soul, I shall have to bathe my faceagain. '

Suiting the action to the word, he went back and washed his face for thethird time; then returning to the hall, he advanced toward Harold, whowas now wide awake and stood up to meet him. As Arthur met theclear-brown eyes fixed so curiously upon him, he stopped suddenly, andput his hand to his head as if trying to recall something; then going astep or two nearer to Harold, he said:

'Well, my little boy, what are you doing up here?'

'Telling the folks which way to go, ' was Harold's answer. 

'Who are you?' Arthur continued. 'What is your name?'

'Harold Hastings, ' was the reply; and instantly there came over thewhite, thin face, and into the large, bright eyes, an expression whichmade the boy stand back a little as the tall man came up to him and, laying a hand on his shoulder, said, excitedly:

'Harold Hastings! He was once my friend, or, I thought he was; but Ihate him now. And he was your father, and Amy Crawford was your mother?_N'est ce pas?_ Answer me!'

'Yes, sir--yes, sir; but I don't know what you mean by "_na-se par_, "'Harold said, in a frightened voice; and Arthur continued, as hetightened his grasp on his shoulder:

'Don't you know you ought to have been my son, instead of his?'

'Yes, sir--yes, sir; I'll never do so again, ' Harold stammered, too muchalarmed now to know what he was saying, or of what he was accused. 

'No, you never will do it again. I hated your father, and I hate you, and I am going to throw you over the stair railing!' Arthur said, andseizing Harold's coat-collar, he swung him over the banister as if hehad been a feather, while the boy struggled and fought, and held ontothe rails, until help appeared in the person of Frank Tracy, who cameswiftly up the stairs, demanding the cause of what he saw. 

He had been standing near the drawing-room door, and had caught thesound of his brother's voice and Harold's as if in altercation. Excusinghimself from those around him, he hastened to the scene of action intime to save Harold from a broken limb, if not a broken neck. 

'What is it? What have you been doing?' he asked the boy, who replied, amid his tears:

'I hain't been doing anything, only minding my business, and he came andasked me who I was, and when I told him, he was going to chuck me overthe railing--darn him! I wish I was big; I'd lick him!'

Harold's cheeks were flushed, and the great tears glittered in his eyes, as he stood up, brave and defiant, and resentful of the injustice donehim. 

'Are you mad, Arthur?' Frank said. 

And whether it was the tone of his voice, or the words he uttered, something produced a wonderful effect upon his brother, whose moodchanged at once, and who advanced toward Harold with outstretched hand, saying to him:

'Forgive me, my little man. I think I must have been mad for theinstant; there is such a heat in my head, and the crash of that musicalmost drives me wild. Shall it be peace between us, my boy?'

It was next to impossible to resist the influence of Arthur Tracy'ssmile, and Harold took the offered hand and said, between a sob and alaugh:

'I don't know now why you wanted to throw me down stairs. '

'Nor I, and I will make it up to you some time, ' was Arthur's reply, ashe took his brother's arm and said: 'Now introduce me to your guests. '

The moment the gentlemen disappeared from view Harold's resolution wastaken. He was of no use there any longer, as he could see. It was nearlymidnight. He was very tired and sleepy, and his head was achingterribly. He could not see the dancing. He had had nothing to eat; hehad stood until his legs were ready to drop off, and to crown all alunatic had tried to throw him over the banister. 

'I won't stay here another minute, ' he said. 

And leaving the hall by the rear entrance, and slipping down a backstairway, he was soon in the open air, and running swiftly through thepark toward the cottage in the lane. 

Meanwhile the two brothers had descended to the drawing-room, whereArthur was soon surrounded by his friends and old acquaintances, whom hegreeted with that cordiality and friendliness of manner which had madehim so popular with those who knew him best. Every trace of excitementhad disappeared, and had he been master of ceremonies himself, at whosebidding the guests were there, he could not have been more gracious oraffable. Even old Peterkin, when he came into notice, was treated with aconsideration which put that worthy man at ease, and set his tongueagain in motion. At first he had felt a little overawed by Arthur'selegant appearance, and had whispered to his neighbor:

'That's a swell, and no mistake. I s'pose that's what you call foreignget up. Well, me and ma is goin' to Europe some time, and hang me if Idon't put on style when I come home. I'd kind of like to speak to thefeller. I wonder if he remember that I was runnin' a boat when he wentaway?'

If Arthur did remember it he showed no sign when Peterkin at lastpressed up to him, claiming his attention, as Captain Peterkin, of the_'Liza Ann_, the fastest boat on the canal, and by George, theall-tiredest meanest, too, I guess, he said: 'but them days is past, andthe old captain is past with them. I dabbled a little in ile, and if Ido say it, I could about buy up the whole canal if I wanted to; but Iain't an atom proud, and I don't forget the old boatin' days, and I'vegot the old '_Liza Ann_ hauled up inter my back yard as a relict. Thechildren use it for a play-house, but to me it is a--a--what do you callit? a--gol darn it, what is it?'

'Souvenir, ' suggested Arthur, vastly amused at this tirade, which hadassumed the form of a speech, and drawn a crowd around him. 

'Wall, yes; I s'pose that's it, though 'taint exactly what I was tryingto think of, ' he said. It's a reminder, and keeps down my pride, forwhen I get to feelin' pretty big, after hearin' myself pointed out asPeterkin the millionaire, I go out to that old boat in the back yard, and says I, '_'Liza Ann_, ' says I, 'you and me has took many a trip upand down the canal, with about the wust crew, and the wust hosses, andthe wust boys that was ever created, and though you've got a new coat ofpaint onto you, and can set still all day and do nothing while I canwear the finest broadcloth and set still, too, it won't do for us toforget the pit from which we was dug, and I don't forget it neither, nomore than I forgit favors shown when I was not fust cut. You, sir, rodeon the _'Liza Ann_ with that crony of yours--Hastings was his name--andyou paid me han'some, though I didn't ask nothin'; and ther's yourbrother--Frank, I call him. I don't forgit that he used to speak to mecivil when I was nobody, and now, though I'm a Dimocrat, as everybodyknows me knows, and everybody most does know me, for Shannondale alluswas my native town, I'm goin' to run him into Congress, if it takes mybottom dollar, and anybody, Republican or Dimocrat; who don't vote himain't my friend, and must expect to feel the full heft of my--my--'

'Powerful disapprobation, ' Arthur said, softly, and Peterkin continued:

'Thank you, sir, that's the word--powerful, sir, powerful, powerful, 'and he glowered threateningly at two or three young men in white kidsand high shirt collars, who were known to prefer the opposing candidate. 

Peterkin had finished his harrangue, and was wiping his wet face withhis handkerchief, when Arthur, who had listened to him with well-bredattention, said:

'I thank you, Captain Peterkin, for your interest in my brother, who, ifhe succeeds, will, I am sure, owe his success to your influence, and begrateful in proportion. Perhaps you have a bill you would like him tobring before the House?'

'No, ' Peterkin said, with a shake of the head. 'My Bill is a littleshaver, eight or nine years old; too young to go from home, but'--and helowered his voice: a little--'I don't mind saying that if there shouldbe a chance, I'd like the post-office fust-rate. It would be a kind ofhist, you know, to see my name in print, Captain Joseph Peterkin, P. M. '

Here the conversation ended, and the aspirant for the post-office, whohad tired himself out, stepped aside and gave place to others who wereanxious to renew their acquaintance with Arthur. It was between one andtwo o'clock in the morning when the party finally broke up, and, as thePeterkins had been the first to arrive, so they were the last to leave, and Mrs. Peterkin found herself again in the gentlemen's dressing-room, looking after her wraps. But they were not there, and after a vain andanxious search she said to her husband:

'Joe, somebody has stole my things, and 'twas my Indian shawl, too, andgold-headed pin, with the little diamond. '

Mrs. Tracy was at once summoned to the scene, and the missing wraps werefound in the ladies' room, where Harold had carried them, but thegold-headed shawl-pin was gone and could not be found. 

Lucy, the girl in attendance, said, when questioned, that she knewnothing of the pin or Mrs. Peterkin's wraps either, except that on firstgoing up to the room after the lady's arrival, she found Harold Hastingsfumbling them over, and that she sent him out with a sharp reprimand. Harold was then looked for and could not be found, for he had been athome and in bed for a good two hours. Clearly, then, he knew somethingof the pin; and Peterkin and his wife said good-night, resolving to seethe boy the first thing in the morning, and demand their property. 

When the Peterkins were gone, Arthur started at once for his room, butstopped at the foot of the stairs and said to his brother:

'Don't forget to have the carriage at the station at seven o'clock. Gretchen is sure to be there. '

'All right, ' was Frank's reply. 

While Mrs. Tracy asked:

'Who is Gretchen?'

If Arthur heard her he made no reply, but kept on up the stairs to hisroom, where they heard him for a long time walking about, opening andshutting windows, locking and unlocking trunks, and occasionallysplashing water over his face and hands. 

'Your brother is a very elegant-looking man, ' Mrs. Tracy said to herhusband as she was preparing to retire. 'Quite like a foreigner, but howbright his eyes are, and they look at you sometimes as if they wouldsee through you and know what you were thinking. They almost make meafraid of him. '

Frank made no direct reply. In his heart there was an undefined fearwhich he then could not put into words, and with the remark that he wasvery tired, he stepped into bed, and was just falling into a quiet sleepwhen there came a knock upon his door loud enough, it seemed to him, towaken the dead. Starting up he demanded who was there and what waswanted. 

'It is I, ' Arthur said. 'I thought I smelled gas, and I have beenhunting round for it. There is nothing worse to breathe than gas, whether from the furnace, the pipes, or the drain. I hope that is allright. '

'Yes, ' Frank answered, a little crossly. 'Had a new one put in two weeksago. '

'If there's gas in the main sewer it will come up just the same, and Iam sure I smell it, ' Arthur said. 'I think I shall have all thewaste-pipes which connect with the drain cut off. Good-night. Am sorry Idisturbed you. '

They heard him as he went across the hall to his room, and Frank wassettling down again to sleep when there came a second knock, and Arthursaid, in a whisper:

'I hope I do not trouble you, but I have decided to go myself to thestation to meet Gretchen. She is very timid, and does not speak muchEnglish. Good-night once more, and pleasant dreams. '

To sleep now was impossible, and both husband and wife turned restlesslyon their pillows, Frank wondering what ailed his brother, and Dollywondering who Gretchen was and how her coming would affect them. 

CHAPTER IX. 

WHO IS GRETCHEN?

This was the question which Mr. And Mrs. Tracy asked of themselves andeach other many times during the hours which intervened between theirretiring and rising. But speculate as they might they could reach nosatisfactory conclusion, and were obliged to wait for what the morningand the train might bring. The party had been a success, and Frank feltthat his election to Congress was almost certain; but of what availwould all this be if he lost his foothold at Tracy Park, as he was sureto do if a woman appeared upon the scene. Both he and his wife hadoutgrown the life of eleven years ago, and could not go back to itwithout a struggle, and it is not strange if both wished that thetroublesome brother had remained abroad instead of coming home sosuddenly and disturbing all their plans. They heard him moving in hisroom before the clock struck six, and knew he was getting himself inreadiness to meet the dreaded Gretchen. Then, long before the carriagecame round they heard him in the hall opening the windows and admittinga gust of wind which blew their door open, and when Frank arose to shutit he saw the top of Arthur's broad-brimmed hat disappearing down thestairs. 

'I believe he is going to walk to the station; he certainly is crazy, 'Frank said to his wife, as they dressed themselves and waited withfeverish impatience for the return of the carriage. 

Arthur did walk to the station, which he reached just as the ticketagent was unlocking the door, and there, with his Spanish cloak wrappedaround him, he stalked up and down the long platform for more than anhour, for the train was late, and it was nearer eight than seven when itfinally came in sight. 

Standing side by side Arthur and John looked anxiously for some one toalight, but nobody appeared and the expression of Arthur's face waspitiable as he turned it to John, and said:

'Gretchen did not come. Where do you suppose she is?'

'I am sure I don't know. On the next train, may be, ' was John's reply, at which Arthur caught eagerly. 

'Yes, the next train, most likely. We will come and meet it; and nowdrive home as fast as you can. This disappointment has brought that heatto my head, and I must have a bath. But, stop a bit; who is the bestcarpenter in town?'

John told him that Belknap was the best, and Burchard the highestpriced. 

'I'll see them both, ' Arthur said. 'Take me to their houses;' and in thecourse of half an hour he had interviewed both Burchard and Belknap, and made an appointment with both for the afternoon. 

Then he was driven back to Tracy Park, where breakfast had been waitinguntil it was spoiled, and the cook's temper was spoiled, too, and whenFrank and Dolly met him at the door, both asked in the same breath:

'Where is she?'

'She was not on this train. She will come on the next. We must go andmeet her, ' was Arthur's reply, as he passed up the stairs, while Frankand his wife looked wonderingly at each other. 

The spoiled breakfast was eaten by Mr. And Mrs. Tracy alone, for thechildren had had theirs and gone to their lessons, and Arthur had saidthat he never took anything in the morning except a cup of coffee and aroll, and these he wished sent to his room, together with a time-table. 

After breakfast Mrs. Tracy, who was suffering from a sick headache, declared her inability to sit up a moment longer and returned to herbed, leaving her husband and the servants to bring what order they couldout of the confusion reigning everywhere, and nowhere to a greaterextent than in Arthur's room, or rather the rooms which he hadappropriated to himself, and into which he had had all his numerousboxes and trunks brought, so that he could open them at his leisure. There were more coming by express, he said, boxes which came through thecustom-house, for he had brought many valuable things, such as pictures, and statuary, and rugs and inlaid tables and chinas, with which to adornhis home. 

The house, which was very large, had a wing on either side, while themain building was divided by a wide hall, with three rooms on each side, the middle one being a little smaller than the other two, with each ofwhich it communicated by a door. And it was into this middle room on thesecond floor Arthur had been put, and which he found quite too small forhis use. So he ordered both the doors to be opened and took possessionof the suite, pacing them several times, and then measuring theirlength, and breadth, and height, and the distance between the windows. Then he inspected the wing on that side of the house, and, going intothe yard, looked the building over from all points, occasionallymarking a few lines on the paper he held in his hand. Before noon everyroom in the house, except the one where Dolly lay sick with a headachehad been visited and examined minutely, while Frank watched himnervously, wondering if he would think they had greatly injuredanything, or had expended too much money on furniture. But Arthur wasthinking of none of these things, and found fault with nothing exceptthe drain and the gas fixtures, all of which he declared bad, sayingthat the latter must be changed at once, and that ten pounds of copperasmust be bought immediately and put down the drain, and that quantitiesof chloride of lime and carbolic acid must be placed where there was theleast danger of vegetable decomposition. 

'I am very sensitive to smells, and afraid of them, too, for they breedmalaria and disease of all kinds, ' he said to the cook, whose nose andchin both were high in the air, not on account of any obnoxious odor, but because of this unreasonable meddling with what she considered herown affairs. If things were to go on in this way, she said to thehouse-maid, and if that man was going to poke his nose into drains, andgas-pipes, and kerosene lamps, and bowls of sour milk which she mighthave forgotten, she should give notice to quit. 

But when, half an hour later, some boxes and trunks which had come byexpress were deposited in the back hall, and Arthur, who wassuperintending them, said to her, as he pointed to a large black trunk, 'I think this has the dress patterns and shawls I brought for you, girls; for though I did not know you personally, I knew that women werealways pleased with anything from Paris' her feelings underwent aradical change, and Arthur was free to smell the drain and the gasfixtures as much as he liked. 

He was very busy, and though always pleasant, and even familiar attimes, there was in all he said and did an air of ownership, as if hehad assumed the mastership. And he had. Everything was his, and he knewit, and Frank knew it, too, and gave no sign of rebelling when the reinswere taken from him by one who seemed to be driving at a break-neckspeed. 

At lunch, while the brothers were together, Arthur announced hisintentions in part, but not until Frank, who was anxious to get it offhis mind, said to him:

'By the way, I suppose you will be going to the office this afternoon, to see Colvin and look over the books. I believe you will find themstraight, and hope you will not think I have spent too much, or drawntoo large a salary. It you do, I will--'

'Nonsense!' was Arthur's reply, with a graceful shrug of his shoulders. 'Don't bother about that there is money enough for us both. What Iinvested in Europe has trebled itself, and more too, and would make me arich man if I had nothing else. I am always lucky. I played but once atMonte Carlo, just before I came home, and won ten thousand dollars, which I invested in--But no matter; that is a surprise--something foryour wife and Gretchen. I have come home to stay. I do not think I amquite what I used to be. I was sick all that time when you heard from meso seldom, and I am not strong yet. I need quite a rest. I have seen theworld, and am tired of it, and now I want a house for Gretchen andmyself, and you too. I expect you to stay with me as long as we pulltogether pleasantly and you do not interfere with my plans. I am goingto take the three south rooms on the second floor for my own. I shallput folding-doors, or rather a wide arch between two of them, makingthem almost like one, and these I shall fit up to suit my own taste. Inthe smaller and middle room, where I slept last night, I shall have alarge bow window, with shelves for books in the spaces between andbeneath, and by the sides of the windows. I got the idea in a villa alittle way out of Florence. Opposite this bow window, on the other sideof the room, I shall have niches in the wall and corners for statuary, with shelves for books above and below. I have some beautiful pieces ofmarble from Florence and Rome. The Venus de Milo, Apollo Belvidere, Nydra and Psyche, and Ruth at the Well. But the crowning glory of thisroom will be the upper half of the middle window of the bow. This is tobe of stained glass, bright but soft colors which harmonize perfectly, two rows on the four sides, and in the centre a lovely picture ofGretchen, also of cathedral glass, and so like her that it seems tospeak to me in her soft German tongue. I had it made from a photograph Ihave of her, and it is very natural--the same sad, sweet smile aroundthe lips which never said an unkind word to any one--the same bright, wavy hair, and eyes of blue, innocent as a child--and Gretchen is littlemore than that. She is only twenty-one--poor little Gretchen!' and, leaning back in his chair, Arthur seemed to be lost in recollections ofthe past. 

Not pleasant, all of them, it would seem, for there was a moisture inhis eyes when he at last looked up in response to his brother'squestioning. 

'Who did you say Gretchen was?'

Instantly the expression of the eye changed to one of weariness andcaution, as Arthur replied:

'I did not say who she was, but you will soon know. I saw by thetime-table that the train which passes here at eleven does not stop, butthe three o'clock does, and you will please see that John goes with thecarriage. I may be occupied with the carpenters, Burchard and Belknap, who were coming to talk with me about the changes I purpose to make, andwhich I wish commenced immediately. It is a rule of mine that when I amto do a thing, to do it at once. So I shall employ at least twenty men, and before Christmas everything will be finished, and I will show yourooms worthy of a palace. It is of Gretchen I am thinking, more than ofmyself. Poor little Gretchen!'

Arthur's voice was inexpressibly sad and pitiful as he said 'PoorGretchen, ' while his eyes again grew soft and tender, with a far-awaylook in them, as if they were seeing things in the past rather than inthe future. 

There was not a particle of sentiment in Frank's nature, and Gretchenwas to him an object of dread rather than a romance. So far as he couldjudge, his brother had no intention of routing him; but a woman in thefield would be different, and he should at once lose his vantage-ground. 

'You seem to be very fond of Gretchen, ' he said, at last. 

'Fond!' Arthur replied, 'I should say I am, though the poor child hasnot much cause to think so. But I am going to atone, and this suite ofrooms is for her. I mean to make her a very queen, and dress her insatin and diamonds every day. She has the diamonds. I sent them to herwhen I wrote to her to join me in Liverpool. '

'And she did join you, I suppose?' Frank said, determined by adroitquestioning to learn something of the mysterious Gretchen. 

'Yes, she joined me, ' was the reply. 

'Was she very seasick?' Frank continued. 

'Not a minute. She sat by me all the time while I lay in my berth, butshe would not let me hold her hand, and if I tried to touch even herhair, she always moved away to the other side of the state-room, whereshe sat looking at me reproachfully with those soft blue eyes of hers. '

'And she was with you at the Brevoort in New York!' Frank said. 

'Yes, with me at Brevoort. '

'And in the train?'

'Yes, and in the train. '

'And you left her there?'

'No; she left herself. She did not follow me out. She went on bymistake, but is sure to come back this afternoon, ' Arthur replied, rather excitedly, just as a sharp ring at the bell announced the arrivalof Burchard and Belknap, the leading carpenters of the town, with whomhe was closeted for the next two hours, and both of whom he finallyhired in order to expedite the work he had in hand. 

At precisely three o'clock the carriage from Tracy Park drew up beforethe station, awaiting the arrival of the train and Gretchen, but thoughthe former came, the latter did not, and John returned alone, mentallyavowing to himself that he would not be sent on a fool's errand a thirdtime; but five o'clock found him there again with the same result. Gretchen did not come, and Arthur's face wore a sad, troubledexpression, and looked pale and worn, notwithstanding the many times hebathed it in the coldest water and rubbed it with the coarsest towels. 

He had unpacked several of his trunks and boxes, and made friends of allshe servants by the presents, curious and rare, which he gave them, while Dolly's headache had been wholly cured at sight of the exquisitediamonds which her husband brought to her room and told her were hers, the gift of Arthur, who had bought them in Paris, and who begged her toaccept them with his love. 

The box itself, which was of tortoise shell, lined with blue velvet, wasa marvel of beauty, while the pin was a cluster of five diamonds with alarger one in the center, but the ear-rings were solitaires, large andbrilliant, and Dolly's delight knew no bounds as she took the dazzlingstones in her hands and examined them carefully. Diamond were the jewelsof all others which she coveted, but which Frank never felt warranted inbuying, and now they were hers, and for a time she forgot even Gretchen, whose arrival, or rather non-arrival, troubled her as much as it did herbrother-in-law. 

Arthur had been very quiet and gentle all the afternoon, showing no signof the temper he had exhibited the previous night at sight of Harolduntil about six o'clock, when Tom, his ten-year-old nephew, came rushinginto the library, followed by Peterkin, very hot and very red in theface, which he mopped with his yellow silk handkerchief. 

'Oh, mother, ' Tom began, 'what do you think Harold Hastings has done? Hestole Mrs. Peterkin's gold pin last night. It was stuck in her shawl, and she couldn't find it, and Lucy saw him fumbling with the things, andhe denies it up hill and down, and Mr. Peterkin is going to arrest him. I guess Dick St. Claire won't think him the nicest boy in town now. Thethief! I'd like--

But what he would like was never known, for with a spring Arthur boundedtoward him, and seizing him by the coat collar, shook him vigorously, while he exclaimed:

'Coward and liar! Harold Hastings is not a thief! No child of AmyCrawford could ever be a thief, and if you say that again, or eveninsinuate it to any living being, I'll break every bone in your body. Doyou understand?'

'Yes, sir; no sir, I won't; I won't, ' Tom gasped, as well as he could, with his head bobbing forward and back so rapidly that his teeth cutinto his under lip. 

'But _I_ shall, ' Peterkin roared. 'I'll have the young dog arrested, too, if he don't own up and give up. '

There was a wicked look in Arthur's black eyes, which he fastened uponPeterkin, as he said;

'What does it all mean, sir? Will you please explain?'

'Yes, in double quick time, ' replied Peterkin, a little nettled byArthur's manner, which he could not understand. 'You see, me and MaryJane was early to the doin's; fust ones, in fact, for when your invitesays half past seven it means it, I take it. Wall, we was here on time, and Mary Jane has been on a tear ever since, and says Miss St. Clairenor none of the big bugs didn't come till nine, which I take isimperlite, don't you?'

'Never mind, we are not discussing etiquette. Go on with the pin and theboy, ' Arthur said haughtily. 

'Mary Jane, ' Peterkin continued, 'had a gold-headed shawl pin, with asmall diamond in the head--real, too, for I don't b'lieve in shams, andhaint sense the day I quit boatin' and hauled ther 'Liza Ann up inter myback yard. Well, she left this pin stickin' in her shawl, and no one upthere but this boy of that Crawford gal's, and nobody knows who else. '

Something in Arthur's face and manner made Frank think of a tiger aboutto pounce upon its prey, and he felt himself growing cold with suspenseand dread as he watched his brother, while Peterkin continued:

'When Mary Jane came to go home, her things wa'n't there, and the pinwas missin'; and Lucy, the girl, said she found the boy pullin' themover by himself, when he had no call to be in there; and, sir, thereain't a lawyer in the United States that would refuse a writ on thatevidence, and I'll get one of St. Claire afore to-morrow night. I told'em so, the widder and the boy, who was as brassy as you please, andfaced me down and said he never seen the pin, nor knowed there was one;while she--wall, I swow, if she didn't start round lively for a womanwith her leg bandaged up in vinegar and flannel. When I called the brata thief and said I'd have him arrested, she made for the door andordered me out--me, Joe Peterkin, of the 'Liza Ann! I'll make her smart, though, wus than the rheumatiz. I'll make her feel the heft--'

He did not have time to finish the sentence, for the tiger in Arthur wasfully roused, and with a bound toward Peterkin he opened the door, and, in a voice which seemed to fill the room, although it was only awhisper, he said:

'Clown! loafer! puff-ball! Leave my house instantly, and never enter itagain until you have apologized to Mrs. Crawford and her grandson forthe insult offered them by your vile accusations. If it were not forsoiling my hands, I would throw you down the steps, ' he continued, as hestood holding the door open, and looking with his flashing eyes anddilated nostrils, as if he were fully equal to anything. 

Like most men of the boasting sort, Peterkin was a coward, and though heprobably had twice the strength of Arthur, he went through the door-wayout upon the piazza, where he stopped, and, with a flourish of his fist, denounced the whole Tracy tribe, declaring them but a race of upstarts, no better than he was, and saying he would yet be even with them, andmake them feel the heft of his powerful disapprobation. Whatever else hesaid was not heard, for Arthur shut the door upon him, and returning tothe library, where his brother stood, pale, trembling, and anxious forthe votes he felt he had lost, he became on the instant as quiet andgentle as a child, and, consulting his watch, said in his natural tone:

'Quarter of seven, and the train is due at half-past. Please tell Johnto have the carriage ready. I am going myself this time. '

Frank opened his lips to protest against it, but something in hisbrother's manner kept him quiet and submissive. He was no longer masterthere--unless--unless--he scarcely dared whisper to himself what; butwhen the carriage went for the fourth time to the station after Gretchenand returned without her, he said to his wife:

'I think Arthur is crazy, and possibly we shall have to shut him up. '

'Yes, I wish you would, ' was Dolly's reply, in a tone of relief, for, thus far, Arthur's presence in the house had not added to her comfort. 'Of course he is crazy, and ought to be taken care of before he tearsthe house down over our heads, or does some dreadful thing. '

'That's so, and I will see St. Claire to-morrow and find out the propersteps to be taken, ' said Frank. 

That night he dreamed of windows with iron bars across them, andstrait-jackets, into which he was thrusting his brother, while a face, the loveliest he had ever seen, looked reproachfully at him, with tearsin the soft blue eyes, and a pleading pathos in the voice which saidwords he could not understand, for the language was a strange one to himwho only knew his own. 

With a start Frank awoke, and found his wife sitting up in bed, listening intently to sounds which came from the hall, where some onewas evidently moving around. 

'Hark!' she said, in a whisper. 'Do you hear that? There's a burglar inthe house after my diamonds. What shall I do?'

But Frank knew that no burglar ever made the noise this disturber oftheir rest was making and stepping out of bed he opened the doorcautiously, and looking out, saw his brother, wrapped in a longdressing-gown, with a candle in his hand, opening one window afteranother until the hall was filled with the cold night wind, which sweptdown the long corridor banging a door at the farther end and setting allthe rest to rattling. 

'Oh! Frank, is that you?' Arthur said. 'I am sorry I woke you, but Ismelled an awful smell somewhere, and traced it to the hall, which yousee I am airing; better shut the door or you will take cold. The houseis full of malaria. '

He was certainly crazy; there could be no doubt of it; and next morning, when Mr. St. Claire entered his office, he found Frank Tracy waitingthere to consult him with regard to the legal steps necessary to procurehis brother's incarceration in a lunatic asylum. 

Arthur St. Claire's face wore a grave, troubled look as he listened, forhe remembered a time, years before, when he, too, had been interested inthe lunatic asylum at Worcester, where a beautiful young girl, his wife, had been confined. She was dead now, and the Florida roses were growingover her grave, but there were many sad, regretful memories connectedwith her short life, and not the least sad of these were those connectedwith the asylum. 

'If it were to do over again I would not put her there, unless shebecame dangerous, ' he had often said to himself, and he said much thesame thing to Frank Tracy with regard to his brother. 

'Keep him at home, if possible. Do not place him with a lot of lunaticsif you can help it. No proof he is crazy because he smells everything. My wife does the same. Her nose is over the registers half the time inwinter to see if any gas is escaping from the furnace. And as to thisGretchen, it is possible there was some woman with him on the ship, orin New York, and he may be a little muddled there. You can inquire atthe hotel where he stopped. '

This was Mr. St. Claire's advice, and Frank acted upon it, and tookimmediate steps to ascertain if there had been a lady in company withhis brother at the Brevoort House, where he had stopped, or if there hadbeen any one in his company on the ship, which was still lying in thedock at New York. But there no one had been with him. Arthur Tracy alonewas registered among the list of passengers, and only Arthur Tracy wason the books at the hotel. He had come alone, and been alone on the seaand at the hotel. 

Gretchen was a myth, or at least a mystery, though he still persistedthat she would arrive with every train from Boston; and for nearly aweek they humored him, and the carriage went to meet her, until at lastthere seemed to dawn upon his mind the possibility of a mistake, andwhen the carriage had made its twentieth trip for nothing, and Mr. St. Claire, who was standing by him on the platform when the train came upand brought no Gretchen, said to him:

'She did not come. '

'I am afraid she will never come, ' he answered, sadly. 'No, she willnever come. There has been some mistake. She will never come. Poorlittle Gretchen!' Then, after a moment he added, but there _is_ aGretchen, and I wrote to her to join me in Liverpool, and I thought shedid and was with me on the ship and in the train, but sometimes, when myhead is so hot, I get things mixed, and am not sure but--' and he lookedwistfully in his companion's face, while his voice trembled a little. 'Don't let them shut me up; I have a suspicion that they will try it, but it will do no good. I was in an asylum nearly three years nearVienna; went of my own accord, because of that heat in my head. '

'Been in an asylum?' Mr. St. Claire said, wonderingly. 

'Yes, ' Arthur continued, 'I was only out three months ago. I wroteoccasionally to Frank and Gretchen, but did not tell them where I was. They called it a _maison de santé_, and treated me well because I paidwell, but the sight of so many crazy people made me worse, and if I hadstaid I should have been mad as the maddest of them. As it was, I forgotalmost everything that ever happened, and fancied I was an Austrian. Assoon as I came out I was better, though I was not quite myself till Igot to Liverpool. Then things came back to me. Stand by me, St. Claire. I can see I am in the way, and Frank would like to be rid of me; butstand by me, and don't let them do it. '

His manner was very pleading, and like one who was in fear of something, and remembering the past when a golden-haired girl had begged him tosave her from iron bars and bolts, Mr. St. Claire assured him of hissupport against any steps which might be taken to prove him mad enoughfor the asylum. 

'But I would not come for Gretchen any more, ' he said. 'I would give hera rest. Who is she?'

Instantly the old look of cunning came into Arthur's eyes, as hereplied:

'She is Gretchen;' and then he walked toward the carriage, while Mr. St. Claire looked curiously after him, and said to himself:

'That fellow is not right, but he is not a subject for a mad house, andI should oppose his being sent there. I do not believe, however, thatthey will try it on. '

CHAPTER X. 

ARTHUR SETTLES HIMSELF. 

They did try it on, but not until after the November election, at whichFrank was defeated by a large majority, for Peterkin worked against himand brought all the 'heft of his powerful disapprobation' to bear uponhim. Although Frank had had no part in turning him from the door thatmorning after the party, he had not tried to prevent it by a word, andthis the low, brutal man resented, and swearing vengeance upon the wholeTracy tribe, declared his intention to defeat Frank if it cost him halfhis fortune to do so. And it did cost him at least two thousand dollars, for Frank Tracy was popular with both parties; many of the Democratsvoted for him, but the rabble, the scum, those who could be bought onboth sides, went against him, even to the Widow Shipley's four sons; andwhen all was over, Frank found himself defeated by just as many votes asold Peterkin had paid for, not only in Shannondale, but in the adjoiningtowns, where his money carried 'heft, ' as he expressed it. 

It was a terrible disappointment to Frank and his wife, who had lookedforward to enjoying a winter in Washington, where they intended to takea house and enjoy all society had to offer them in the nationalmetropolis. Particularly were they anxious for the change now thatArthur had come home, for it was not altogether pleasant to be ruledwhere they had so long been rulers, and to see the house turned upsidedown without the right to protest. 

'I can't stand it, and I won't, ' Frank said to his wife in the firstflush of his bitter disappointment. 'Ever since he came home he hasraised Cain generally, with his carpenters, and masons, and painters, and stewing about water-pipes, and sewer-gas, and smells. He's mad as aMarch hare, and if I can't get rid of him by going to Washington, I'lldo it in some other way. You know he is crazy, and so do I, and I'llswear to it on a stack of Bibles as high as the house. '

And Frank did swear to it, not on a stack of Bibles, but before two orthree physicians and Mr. St. Claire, who, at his solicitation, came toTracy Park, and were closeted with him for an hour or more, while herelated his grievances, asserting finally that he considered his brotherdangerous, and did not think his family safe with him, citing as proofthat he had on one occasion threatened to kill his son Tom for accusingHarold Hastings of theft. 

How the matter would have terminated is doubtful, if Arthur himself hadnot appeared upon the scene, calm, dignified, and courtly in his manner, which insensibly won upon his hearers, as in a few well-chosen andeloquent words, he proceeded to prove that though he might be peculiarin some respects, he was not mad, and that a man might repair his ownhouse, and cut off his own water-pipes, and take up his sewer, anddetect a bad smell, and still not be a subject for a lunatic asylum. 

'And, ' he continued, addressing his brother, 'it ill becomes you totake this course against me--you, who have enriched yourself at myexpense, while I have held my peace. Suppose I require you to give anaccount of all the money which you have considered necessary for yoursupport and salary--would you like to do it? Would the world consideryou strictly honorable, or would they call you a lunatic on the subjectof money and not responsible for your acts? But I have no wish to harmyou. I have money enough, and cannot forget that you are my brother. Butmolest me, and I shall molest you. If I go to the asylum you will leaveTracy Park. If I am allowed to stay here in peace, you can do so, too--at least, until Gretchen comes, when it will, perhaps, be betterfor us to separate. Two masters may manage to scramble along in the samehouse, but two mistresses never can, and Dora and Gretchen would not becongenial. Good morning, gentlemen!' and he bowed himself from the room, leaving Frank covered with confusion and shame as he felt that he wasbeaten. 

The physicians did not think it a case in which they were warranted tointerfere. Neither could conscientiously sign a certificate which shoulddeclare Arthur a lunatic, and their advice to Frank was that he shouldsuffer his brother to have his own way in his own house, and when hefelt that he could not bear with his idiosyncracies he could goelsewhere. But it was this going elsewhere which Frank did not fancy;and, after a consultation with his wife, he decided to let matters taketheir course for a time at least, or until Gretchen came, if she everdid. 

Arthur's allusion to the sums of money his brother had appropriated tohis own use had warned Frank that he was not quite so indifferent orignorant of his business affairs as he had seemed, and this of itselfserved to keep him quiet and patient during the confusion which ensued, as walls were torn down, and doors and windows cut, while the house wasfilled with workmen, and the sound of the hammer and saw was heard frommorning till night. 

It was in the middle of October when Arthur fairly commenced hisrepairs, but so many men did he employ, and so rapidly was the workpushed on, that the first of January found everything finished andArthur installed in his suite of rooms, which a prince might haveenvied, so richly and tastefully were they fitted up. Beautiful picturesand rich tapestry covered the walls in the first room, where the floorwas inlaid with colored woods in lovely Mosaic designs, and the centrewas covered with a costly Oriental rug, which Arthur had bought at afabulous price in Paris, where it had once adorned a room in theTuileries. But the gem of the whole was the library, where the statuarystood in the niches, and where, from the large bow-window at the south, a young girl's face looked upon the scene with an expression of shysurprise and half regret in the soft blue eyes, as if their ownerwondered how she came there, and was always thinking of the fields andforests of far-away Germany. For it was decidedly a German face of thehigher type, and such as is seldom found among the lower or even middleclasses. And yet you instinctively felt that it belonged to the latter, notwithstanding the richness of the dress, from the pearl-embroideredcap set jauntily on the reddish golden hair to the velvet bodice and thesatin peasant waist. The hands, small and dimpled like those of a child, were clasped around a prayer-book and a bunch of wild flowers which hadevidently just been gathered. It was a marvelously beautiful face, pureand sweet as that of a Madonna, and the workmen involuntarily bowedtheir heads before it, calling it, not without some reason, a memorialwindow, for the name Gretchen was under the picture, and oneunconsciously found himself looking for the date of birth and death. Butonly the one word 'Gretchen' was there, with no sign to tell who shewas, or where, if living, she was now, or what relation she bore to thestrange man who often stood before her whispering to himself:

'Poor little Gretchen! Will you never come?'

For a few days after the rooms were completed, they were thrown open tosuch of Arthur's friends as cared to see them, and the question 'Who isGretchen?' was often asked, but the answer was always the same: 'She isGretchen. I am expecting her every day. '

But if he were expecting her, he no longer asked that the carriage besent to meet her. That had been one of the proofs of his insanity asalleged by his brother, and Arthur was sane enough and cunning enough toavoid a repetition of that offence, but he often went himself to thestation, when the New York trains were due, for it was from the westrather than the east that he was now looking for her. 

Frank, who watched him nervously, with all his senses sharpened, guessedwhat had caused the change and grew more nervous and morbid on thesubject of Gretchen than ever. At first his brother, who was greatlyaverse to going out, had asked him to post his letters; business lettersthey seemed to be, for they were addressed to business firms in NewYork, London, and Paris, with all of which Arthur had relations. But onemorning when Frank went as usual to his brother's room asking if therewas any mail to be taken to the office, Arthur, who was just finishing aletter, replied:

'No, thank you, I will post this myself. I have been writing toGretchen. '

'Yes, to Gretchen?' Frank said, quickly, as he advanced nearer to thewriting desk, hoping to see the address on the envelope. 

But Arthur must have suspected his motive, for he at once turned overthe envelope and kept his hand upon it, while Frank said to him:

'Is she in London now?'

'No; she was never in London, ' was the curt reply, and then, turningsuddenly, Arthur faced his brother and said: 'Why are you so curiousabout Gretchen? It is enough for you to know that the is the sweetest, truest little girl that ever lived. When she comes I shall tell youeverything, but not before. You have tried to prove me crazy; have saidI was full of cranks; perhaps I am, and Gretchen is one of them, but itdoes not harm you, so leave me in peace, if you wish for peaceyourself. '

There was a menacing look in Arthur's eyes which Frank did not like, andhe retreated from the room, resolved to say no more to him of Gretchen, whose arrival he again began to look for and dread. But Gretchen did notcome, or any tidings of her, and Christmas came and went, and the lovelybracelets which Arthur brought from the trunk he said was hers, and intowhich no one had ever looked but himself, remained unclaimed upon histable, as did the costly inlaid work-box, and the cut-glass bottles withthe gold stoppers. All these were to have been Gretchen's Christmaspresents; but when she did not come they disappeared from view and werenot seen again, while Arthur seemed to be settling into a state of greatdepression, caring nothing for the outside world, but spending all histime in the lovely rooms he had prepared for himself and one who nevercame. 

As far as was possible he continued his foreign habits, having hiscoffee and rolls at eight in the morning, his breakfast, as he calledit, at half-past twelve, and his dinner at half-past six. All thesemeals were served in his room as elaborately, and with as much ceremony, as if lords and ladies sat at the table instead of one lone man, whonever let himself down a particle, but required the utmost subservienceand care in the waiting. The finest of linen, and china, and glass, andsilver adorned his table, with bits of fanciful crockery gathered hereand there in his extended wanderings, and always flowers for acentre-piece--roses mostly, if he could get them--tea roses and MarshalNeils, for Gretchen, he said, was fond of these, and, as she mightsurprise him at any moment, he wished to be ready for her, and show thathe was expecting her. 

Opposite him, at the end of the table, was always an empty plate withits surroundings, and the curiously-carved chair, which had seen thelion at Lucerne. But no one ever sat in it. No one ever used thedecorated plate, or the glass mug at its side, with its twisted handleand the letter 'G. ' on the silver cover. Just what this mug was for noneof the household knew until Grace Atherton, who had travelled in Europe, and to whom Mrs. Tracy showed it one day when Arthur was out, said:

'Why, it is a beer-mug, such as is used in Germany, though moreparticularly among the Bavarian Alps and in the Tyrol. This Gretchen isprobably a tippler, with a red nose and a double chin. I wish togoodness she would come and satisfy our curiosity. '

This wish of Grace's was not shared by Mrs. Tracy, who felt an uneasysense of relief as the days went on, and the beer-drinking Gretchen didnot appear, while Arthur became more and more depressed and remainedaltogether in his room, seeing no one and holding no intercourse withthe outside world. He had returned no calls, and had been but once tothe cottage in the lane to see Mrs. Crawford. That interview had been along and sad one, and when they talked of Amy, whose grave Arthur hadvisited on his way to the cottage, both had cried together, and Gretchenseemed for the time forgotten. They talked of Amy's husband, who, Arthursaid, had died at Monte Carlo; and then he spoke of Amy's son, who wasnot present, and whom he seemed to have forgotten entirely, for whenMrs. Crawford said to him, 'You saw him on the night of your returnhome, ' he looked at her in a perplexed kind of way, and if trying torecall something which had gone almost entirely from his mind. It wasthis utter forgetfulness of people and events which was a marked featureof his insanity, if insane he were, and he knew it and struggled againstit; and when Mrs. Crawford told him he had seen Harold he tried torecall him, and could not until the boy came in, flushed and excitedfrom a race with Dick St. Claire through the crisp November wind, whichhad brought a bright color to his cheek and a sparkle to his eye. ThenArthur remembered everything, and something of his old prejudice cameback to him, and his manner was a little constrained as he talked to theboy, whose only fault was that Harold Hastings had been his father andthat he bore his name. 

Arthur did not stay long after Harold came in, but said good-morning toMrs. Crawford and walked slowly away, going again to Amy's grave, andtaking from it a few leaves of the ivy which was growing around themonument. And this was all the intercourse he held with Mrs. Crawford, except to send her at Christmas a hundred dollars, which he said was forthe boy Harold, to whom he had done an injustice. 

After this he seldom went out, but gave himself heart and soul to thecompletion of his rooms, and when they were finished he settled downinto the life of a recluse, seeing very few and talking but little, except occasionally to himself, when he seemed to be carrying on aconversation with some unseen visitant, who must have spoken in aforeign tongue or tongues, for sometimes it was French, sometimesItalian, and oftener German, in which he addressed his fancied guest, and neither Frank nor Dolly could understand a word of the strangejargon. On the whole, however, he was very quiet and undemonstrative, and but for the habit of talking to himself and smelling odors wherethere were none, he would not have seemed very different from manypeculiar people who are never suspected of being crazy. 

If he were still expecting Gretchen, he gave no sign of it, except theplace at his table always laid for her, and Frank was beginning tobreathe freely, and to look upon his brother's presence in the house asnot altogether unbearable, when an event occurred which excited allShannondale, and for a time made Frank almost as crazy as his brother. 

CHAPTER XI. 

THE STORM. 

The winter since Christmas had been unusually severe, and the oldestinhabitant, of whom there are always many in every town, pronounced thedays as they came and went the coldest they had ever known. Ten, twelve, and even fourteen degrees below zero the thermometers marked more thanonce, while old Peterkin's, which was hung inside the Lizy Ann andalways took the lead, went down one morning to seventeen, and all thewater-pipes and pumps in town either froze or burst, and Arthur Tracy, who, with his absorption of self, never forgot the poor, sent tons andtons of coal to them, and whispered to himself:

'Poor Gretchen! It is hard for her if she is on the sea in such weatheras this. Heaven protect her, poor little Gretchen!'

That night when Frank went, as his custom was, to sit a few moments withhis brother, he found him on his knees, with his face toward thepicture, repeating the prayer for those upon the sea. 

The next day there was a change for the better, and the next, and thenext, until when the last day of February dawned Peterkin's thermometerregistered only two, and people began to show themselves in thestreets, while the sun tried to break through the grey clouds whichshrouded the wintry sky. But this was only temporary, for before noonthe mercury fell again to eight below, the wind began to rise, and whenthe New York train came panting to the station at half-past six, cloudsof snow so dense and dark were driving over the hills and along the lineof track that nothing could be distinctly seen. 

It was not until the train had moved on that the station-master, who, half blinded with the sleet, was gathering up the mail-bag, which hadbeen unceremoniously dropped, saw across the track at a little distancefrom him the figure of a woman who seemed to be trying to examine apaper she held in her hand, while clinging to her skirts and cryingpiteously was a little child, but whether boy or girl, he could nottell. 

'Can I do anything for you?' he said advancing toward the stranger, who, thrusting the paper from sight, caught up the child in her arms, andwithout word of answer, hurried away in the storm and rapidly-increasingdarkness. 

'Curis! She must have got off t'other side of the cars. I wonder who sheis and where she is goin'. Not fur, I hope, such a night as this. Ugh!the wind is like so many screech owls and almost takes a feller off hisfeet, the agent said to himself, as he looked after the stranger, andthen went back to the light and warmth of his office, where he soonforgot the woman, who, with the child held closely in her arms, walkedrapidly on, her eyes strained to their utmost tension as they peeredthrough the darkness and the storm until she reached a gate opening intoa grassy road which led through the fields in a straight line to TracyPark and Collingwood beyond. 

Carriages seldom traversed this road, but in the summer time the peoplefrom Collingwood and Tracy Park frequently walked that way, as it was amuch nearer route to town than the main highway. Here the woman stopped, and looking up at the tall arch over the gate, said aloud, as ifrepeating a lesson learned by heart, 'Leave the car on your right hand;take the road to the right, as I have drawn it on paper; go straight onfor a quarter of a mile until you come to a wide iron gate with a tallarch over it. This gate is also at your right. You cannot mistake it. '

'No, ' she continued, 'I cannot mistake it. This is the place. We arealmost there, ' and putting down the child, she tugged with all herstrength at the ponderous gate, which she at last succeeded in opening, and resuming her burden, passed through into the field where the snowlay on the ground in great white drifts, while the blinding flakes andcutting sleet from the leaden clouds above, beat pitilessly upon her asshe struggled on the wearisome way. 

And while she toiled on, fighting bravely with the storm, andoccasionally speaking a word of encouragement to the little childnestled in her bosom, Arthur Tracy stood at one of the windows in hislibrary, with his white face pressed close against the pane, as helooked anxiously out into the gathering darkness, shudderinginvoluntarily as the wind came screaming round a corner of the house, bending the tall evergreens until their slender tops almost touched theground, and then rushing on down the carriage-drive with a shriek likeso many demons let loose from the ice-caves of the north, where thewinds are supposed to hold high carnival. 

They were surely holding carnival to-night, and their king was out withall his legions, and as Arthur listened to the roar of the tempest hewhispered to himself:

'A wild, wild night for Gretchen to arrive, and her dear little feet andhands will be so cold; but there is warmth and comfort here, and lovesuch as she never dreamed of, poor Gretchen! I will hold her in my armsand chafe her cold fingers and kiss her tired face until she feels thather home-coming is a happy one. It must be almost time, ' and he glancedat a small cathedral clock which stood upon the mantel. 

In the adjoining room the dinner table was as usual laid for two, butone could see that more care than usual had been given to itsarrangement, while the roses in the centre were the largest and finestof their kind. In the low, wide grate a bright fire was burning, andArthur placed a large easy chair before it, and then brought from thelibrary a covered footstool, with a delicate covering of blue and gold. No foot had ever yet profaned this stool with a touch, for it was one ofArthur's specialties, bought at a great price in Algiers; but he broughtit now for Gretchen and saw in fancy resting upon it the cold littlefeet his hands were to rub and warm and caress until life came back tothem, and Gretchen's blue eyes smiled upon him and Gretchen's sweetvoice said:

'Thank you, Arthur. It is pleasant coming home. '

For the last two or three weeks, Arthur had been very quiet andtaciturn, but on the morning of this day he had seemed restless andnervous, and his nervousness and excitability increased until a violentheadache came on, and Charles, the servant, who attended him, reportedto Mrs. Tracy that his midday meal had been untouched and that he reallyseemed quite ill. Then Frank went to him, and sitting down beside him ashe lay upon a couch in the room with Gretchen's picture, said to him, not unkindly:

'Are you sick to-day? What is the matter?'

For a few moments Arthur made no reply, but lay with his eyes closed asif he had not heard. Then suddenly rousing himself, he burst out, vehemently:

'Frank, you think me crazy, or you have thought so, and you have basedthat belief in part on the fact that I am always expecting Gretchen. Andso for a long time I have suppressed all mention of her, though I havenever ceased to look for her arrival, since--since--well, I may as welltell you the truth. I know now that she could not have been with me onthe ship and in the train, although I thought she was. I wrote her tojoin me in Liverpool, and fancied she did. But my brain must have been alittle mixed. She did not come with me, but I wrote to her weeks ago, telling her to come at once, and giving her directions how to find thepark if she should arrive at the station and no one there to meet her. She has had more than time to get here, but I have said nothing aboutsending the carriage for her, as that seemed to annoy you. But to-day, Frank, to-day'--and Arthur's voice grew softer and pleading, andtrembled as he went on. 'I dreamed of her last night, and to-day sheseems so near to me that more than once I have put out my hand to touchher. Frank, it is not insanity, this presentiment of mine that she isnear me, that she is coming to me, or tidings of her; it is mind actingupon mind; her thoughts of me reaching forward and fastening upon mythoughts of her, making a mental bridge on which to see her coming tome. And you will send for her. You will let John go again. Think if sheshould arrive in this terrible storm and no one there to meet her. Youwill send this once, and if she is not there I will not trouble youagain. '

There was something in Arthur's white face which Frank could not resist, and though he had no idea that anything would come of it, he promisedthat John should go. 

'Oh, Frank, ' Arthur exclaimed, his face brightening at once, 'you havemade me so happy! My headache is quite gone, ' and then he began to planfor the dinner, which was to be more elaborate than usual, and served anhour later, so as to give plenty of time for Gretchen to rest and dressherself if she wished to do so. 

'And she will when she sees the lovely dress I have for her, ' he thoughtto himself, and after his brother had gone he went to the large closetwhere he kept the long black trunk which he called Gretchen's, and intowhich Dolly's curious eyes had never looked, although she longed to knowthe contents. 

This Arthur now opened, and had Dolly been there she would have heldher breath in wonder at the many beautiful things it contained. Folded in one of the trays, as only a French packer accustomed tothe business could have arranged it, was an exquisite dinner-dress ofsalmon-colored satin, with a brocaded front and jacket of blue and gold, and here and there a knot of duchess lace, which gave it a more airyeffect. This Arthur took out carefully and laid upon the bed in hissleeping-apartment, together with every article of the toilet necessaryto such a dress, from a lace pocket handkerchief to a pair of pale-bluesilk hose, which he kissed reverently as he whispered to himself:

'Dear little feet, which, no doubt, are so cold now in the wretched car;but they will never be cold when once I have them here. '

He was talking in German, as he always did when Gretchen was the subjectof his thought, and so Dolly, who came to say that some things which hehad ordered for dinner were impossible now, could not understand him, but she caught a glimpse of the dress upon the bed, and advanced quicklytoward the open door, exclaiming:

'Oh, Arthur, what a lovely gown! Whose--?'

But before she completed her question Arthur was upon the threshold andhad closed the door, saying as he did so:

'It is Gretchen's. I had it made at Worth's. She is coming to-night, youknow. '

Dolly had heard from her husband of Arthur's fancy, and though she hadno faith in it, she replied:

'Yes, Frank told me you were expecting her again, and I came to say thatwe cannot get the fish you ordered, for no one can go to town in thisstorm, and I doubt if we could find it if we did. You will have to skipthe fish. '

'All right; all right. Gretchen will be too much excited to care, 'Arthur replied, standing with his hand upon the door-knob until Dollyleft the room and went to this kitchen, where Frank was interviewing thecoachman. 

He had found that important personage before the fire, bending nearlydouble and complaining bitterly of a fall he had just had on his wayfrom the stable to the house. According to his statement, the wind hadtaken him up bodily, and carrying him a dozen rods or so, had set himdown heavily upon a stone flowerpot which was left outside in thewinter, nearly breaking his back, as he declared. This did not look verypromising for the drive to the station, and Frank opened the businesshesitatingly, and asked John what he thought of it. 

'I think I would not go out in such a storm as this with my back ifQueen Victoria was to be there, ' John answered gruffly. 'And what wouldbe the use?' he continued. 'I have been to meet that woman, if she is awoman, with the outlandish name, more than fifty times, I'll bet; hedon't know what he is talking about when he gets on her track. Ands'posin' she does come, she can find somebody to fetch her. She ain'tgoing to walk. '

This seemed reasonable; and as Frank's sympathies were with his coachmanand horses rather than with Gretchen and his brother, he decided withJohn that he need not go, but added, laughingly, as he saw the man walkacross the floor as well as he ever did on his way to the woodshed:

'Seems to me your broken back has recovered its elasticity very soon. '

To this John made no reply except an inaudible growl, and Frank returnedto the library, resolving not to go near his brother until after traintime, but to let him think that John had gone to the station. 

At half-past five, however, Arthur sent for him, and said:

'Has he gone? It must be time. '

'Not quite; it is only half-past five. The train does not come untilhalf-past six, and is likely to be late, ' was Frank's reply. 

'Yes, I know, ' Arthur continued, 'but he should be there on time. Tellhim to start at once, and take an extra robe with him, and say toCharles that I will have sherry to-night, and champagne, too, andHamburg grapes, and--'

The remainder of his speech was lost on Frank, who was hurrying down thestairs with a guilty feeling in his heart, although he felt that the endjustified the means, and that under the circumstances he was justifiedin deceiving his half-crazy brother. Still he was ill at ease. He had nofaith in Arthur's presentiments, and no idea that any one bound forTracy Park would be on the train that night, but he could not shake offa feeling of anxiety, amounting almost to a dread of some impendingcalamity, which possibly the sending of John to the station might haveaverted, and going to a window in the library, he, too, stood lookingout into the night, trying not to believe that he was watching for somepossible arrival, when, above the storm, he heard the shrill scream ofthe locomotive as it stopped for a moment and then dashed on into thewhite snow clouds; trying to believe, too, that he was not glad, as theminutes became a quarter, the quarter a half, and the halfthree-quarters, until at last he heard the clock strike the half-hourpast seven, and nobody had come. 

'I shall have to tell Arthur, ' he thought, and, with something likehesitancy, he started for his brother's room. 

Arthur was standing before the fire, with his arm thrown caressinglyacross the chair where Gretchen was to sit, when Frank opened the doorand advanced a step or two across the threshold. 

'Has she come? I did not see the carriage. Where is she?' Arthur cried, springing swiftly forward, while his bright, eager eyes darted past hisbrother to the open door-way and out into the hall. 

'No, she has not come. I knew she wouldn't; and it was nonsense to sendthe horses out such a night as this, ' Frank said, sternly, with amistaken notion that he must speak sharply to the unfortunate man, who, if rightly managed, was gentle as a child. 

'Not come! Gretchen not come! There must be some mistake!' Arthur said, all the brightness fading from his face, which seemed to grow pinchedand pallid as he turned it piteously toward his brother and continued:'Not come! Oh, Frank! did John say so? Was no one there? Let me go andquestion him--there must be a mistake. '

He was hurrying toward the door, when Frank caught his arm and detainedhim, while he said, decidedly:

'No use to see John. Can't you believe me when I tell you no one wasthere--and I knew there would not be. It was folly to send. '

For a moment a pale, haggard face, which looked still more haggard andpale with the firelight flickering over it, confronted Frank steadily;then the lips began to quiver, and the eyelids to twitch, while greattears gathered in Arthur's eyes, until at last, covering his face withhis hands, he staggered to the couch, and throwing himself upon it, sobbed convulsively. 

'Oh, Gretchen, my darling!' he said. 'I was so sure, and now everythingis swept away, and I am left so desolate. '

Frank had never seen grief just like this, and, with his consciencepricking him a little for the deception he had practised, he foundhimself pitying his brother as he had never done before; and when atlast the latter cried out loud, he went to him, and laying his handgently upon his bowed head, said to him, soothingly:

'Don't, Arthur; don't feel so badly. It is terrible to see a man cry asyou are crying. '

'No, no; let me cry, ' Arthur replied. 'The tears do me good, and mybrain would burst without them. It is all on fire, and my head is achingso hard again. '

At this moment Charles appeared, asking if his master would have dinnerserved. But Arthur could not eat, and the table which had been arrangedwith so much care for Gretchen was cleared away, while Gretchen's chairwas moved back from the fire and Gretchen's footstool put in its place, and nothing remained to show that she had been expected except thepretty dress, with its accessories, which lay upon Arthur's bed. Thesehe took care of himself, folding them with trembling hands and tear-weteyes, as a fond mother folds the clothes her dead child has worn, sorrowing most over the half-worn shoes, so like the dear little feetwhich will never wear them again. So Arthur sorrowed over thehigh-heeled slippers, with the blue rosettes and pointed toes, fashionable in Paris at that time. Gretchen had never worn them, it istrue, but they seemed so much like her that his tears fell fast as heheld them in his hands, and, dropping upon the pure white satin, left astain upon it. 

When everything was put away and the long trunk locked again, Arthurwent back to the couch and said to his brother, who was still in theroom:

'Don't leave me, Frank; at least not yet, till I am more composed. Mynerves are dreadfully shaken to-night, and I feel afraid of something, Idon't know what. How the wind howls and moans! I never heard it likethat but once before, and that was years ago, among the Alps inSwitzerland. Then it blew off the roof of the chalet where I wasstaying, and I heard afterward that Amy died that night. You rememberAmy, the girl I loved so well, though not as I love Gretchen. If she hadcome, I should have told you all about her, but now it does not matterwho she is, or where I saw her first, knitting in the sunshine, with thehalo on her hair and the blue of the summer skies reflected in her eyes. Oh, Gretchen, my love, my love!'

He was talking more to himself than to Frank, who sat beside him untilfar into the night, while the wild storm raged on and shook the solidhouse to its very foundations. A tall tree in the yard was uprooted, anda chimney-top came crushing down with a force which threatened to breakthrough the roof. For a moment there was a lull in the tempest, and, raising himself upon his elbow, Arthur listened intently, while he said, in a whisper which made Frank's blood curdle in his veins:

'Hark! there's more abroad to-night than the storm! Something ishappening or has happened which affects me. I have heard voices in thewind--Gretchen calling me from far away. Frank, Frank, _did_ you hearthat? It was a woman's cry; her voice--Gretchen's. Yes, Gretchen, I amcoming!'

And with a bound he was at the window, which he opened wide, and leaningfar out of it, listened to hear repeated a sound which Frank, too, hadheard--a cry like the voice of one in mortal peril calling for help. 

It might have been the wind, which on the instant swept round the cornerin a great gust, driving the snow and sleet into Arthur's face, andmaking him draw in his body, nearly half of which was leaning from thewindow as he waited for the strange cry to be repeated. But it did notcome again, though Frank, whose nerves were strung to almost as high atension as his brother's, thought he heard it once above the roar of thetempest, and a vague feeling of disquiet took possession of him as hesat for an hour longer watching his brother and listening to the noisewithout. 

Gradually the storm subsided, and when the clock struck one the wind hadgone down, the snow had ceased to fall, and the moon was strugglingfeebly through a rift of dark clouds in the west. After persuading hisbrother to go to bed, Frank retired to his own room and was soon asleep, unmindful of the tragedy which was being enacted not very far away, where a little child was smiling in its dreams, while the woman besideit was praying for life until her mission should be accomplished. 

CHAPTER XII. 

THE TRAMP HOUSE. 

About midway between the entrance to the park and the Collingwoodgrounds, and fifty rods or more from the cross-road which the strangewoman had taken on the night of the storm, stood a small stone building, which had been used as a school-house until the Shannondale turnpike wasbuilt and the cross-road abandoned. After that it was occupied by onepoor family after another, until the property of which it was a partcame into the hands of the elder Mr. Tracy, who, with his English ideas, thought to make it a lodge and bring the gates of his park down to it. But this he did not do, and the house was left to the mercy of thewinds, and the storms, and the boys, until Arthur became master there, and with his artistic taste thought to beautify it a little and turn itto some use. 

'I would tear it down, ' he said to his neighbor, Mr. St. Claire, whostood with him one day looking at it, 'I would tear it down, and haveonce or twice given orders to that effect, but as often countermandedthem. I do not know that I am exactly superstitious, but I am subject tofancies, or presentiments, or whatever you choose to call those moodswhich take possession of you and which you cannot shake off, and, singularly enough, one of these fancies is connected with this old hut, and as often as I decide to remove it something tells me not to; andonce I actually dreamed that a dead woman's hand clutched me by the armand bade me leave it alone. A case of "Woodman spare that tree, " yousee. '

And Arthur laughed lightly at his own morbid fancies, but he left thehouse and planted around it quantities of woodbine, which soon crept upits sides to the chimney-top and made it look like the ivy-coveredcottages so common in Ireland. It was the nicest kind of rendezvous forlovers, who frequently availed themselves of its seclusion to whispertheir secrets to each other, and it was sometimes used as a dining-roomby the people of Shannondale, where in summer they held picnics in thepretty pine grove not far away. But during Arthur's absence it had beensuffered to go to decay, for Frank cared little for lovers or picnics, and less for the tramps who often slept there at night, and for whom itcame at last to be called the Tramp House. So the winds, and the storms, and the boys did their work upon it unmolested, and when Arthurreturned, the door hung upon one hinge, and there was scarcely a wholelight of glass in the six windows. 

'Better tear the old rookery down. It is of no earthly use except toharbor rats and tramps. I've known two or three to spend the night in itat a time, and once a lot of gipsies quartered themselves here for aweek and nearly scared Dolly to death, ' Frank said to his brother asthey were walking past it a few days after his return, and Arthur wascommenting upon its dilapidated appearance. 

'Oh, the tramps sleep here, do they?' Arthur said. 'Well, let them. Ifany poor, homeless wretches want to stay here nights they are verywelcome, I am sure, and I will see that the door is rehung and glass putin the windows. May as well make them comfortable. '

'Do as you like, ' Frank replied, and there, so far as he was concerned, the matter ended. 

But while the carpenters were at work at the Park Arthur sent one ofthem to the old stone house and had the door fixed and glass put in twoof the windows, while rude but close shutters were nailed before theothers, and then Arthur went himself into the room and pushed a longtable which the picnic people had used for their refreshments and thetramps for a bed into a corner, where one sleeping upon it would be moresheltered from the draught. All this seemed nonsense to Frank, wholaughingly suggested that Arthur should place in it a stove and a ton ofcoal for the benefit of his lodgers. But Arthur cared little for hisbrother's jokes. His natural kindness of heart, which was always seekinganother's good, had prompted him to this care for the Tramp House, inwhich he felt a strange interest, never dreaming that what he was doingwould reach forward to the future and influence not only his life butthat of many others. 

The storm which had raged so fiercely around the house in the park hadnot spared the cottage in the lane, which rocked like a cradle as gustafter gust of wind struck it with a force which made every timberquiver, and sent the boy Harold close to his grandmother's side as heasked, tremblingly:

'Do you think we shall be blown away?'

The rheumatism from which Mrs. Crawford had been suffering in the fallhad troubled her more or less during the entire winter, and now, aggravated by a cold, it was worse than it had ever been before, and onthe night of the storm she was suffering intense pain, which was onlyrelieved by the hot poultices which Harold made under her direction andapplied to the swollen limb. This kept him up later than usual, and theclock was striking eleven when his grandmother declared herself easier, and bade him go to bed. 

It was at this hour that Arthur Tracy had fancied he heard the cry forhelp, and the snow was sweeping past the cottage in great billows ofwhite when Harold went to the window and looked out into the night. Inthe summer when the leaves were upon the trees the old stone house couldnot he seen from the cottage, from which it was distant a quarter of amile or more, but in the winter when the trees were stripped of theirfoliage it was plainly discernible, and as Harold glanced that way agleam of light appeared suddenly, as if the door had been opened and theflickering rays of a candle had for a moment shone out into thedarkness. Then it disappeared, but not until Harold had cried out:

'Oh, grandma, there's a light in the Tramp House; I saw it plain as day. Somebody is in there. '

'God pity them. ' was Mrs. Crawford's reply, though she did not quitecredit Harold's statement, or think of it again that night. 

It was late next morning when Harold awoke to find the sun shining intothe room, and without any sign of the terrible storm, except the snow, which lay in great piles everywhere and came almost to the window'sedge. But Harold was not afraid of snow, and soon had the walks clearedaround the cottage, and when, after breakfast, which he preparedhimself, for his grandmother could not step, he was told that a doctormust be had and he must go for him, he did not demur at all, butcommenced his preparations at once for the long and wearisome walk. 

'Better go through the park, ' his grandmother said to him, as he wastying his warm comforter about his ears and putting on his mittens. 'Itis a little farther that way, but somebody has broken a path by thistime, and the cross-road, which is nearer, must be impassable. '

Harold made no reply, but remembering the light he had seen in the TrampHouse, resolved within himself to take the cross-road and investigatethe mystery. Bidding his grandmother good-by, and telling her he shouldbe back before she had time to miss him, he started on his journey, andwas soon plunging through the snow, which, in some places, was up to hisarmpits, so that his progress was very slow, but by kicking with hisfeet and throwing out his arms like the paddles of a boat, he managed toget on until he was opposite the Tramp House, which looked like animmense snow-heap, so completely was it covered. Only the chimney andthe slanting roof showed any semblance to a house as Harold made his waytoward it, still beating the snow with his arms, and thinking it was notquite the fun he had fancied it might be. 

He was close to the house at last, and stood for a moment looking at it, while a faint thrill of fear stirred in his veins as he remembered tohave heard that burglars and thieves sometimes made it their rendezvousafter a night's marauding. What if they were there now, and should rushupon him if he ventured to disturb them!

'I don't believe I will try it, ' he thought, as he glanced nervously atthe door, which was blockaded by a great bank of snow; and he was aboutto retrace his steps, when a sound met his ear which made him standstill and listen until it was repeated a second time. 

Then forgetting both burglar and thief, he started forward quickly, andwas soon at the door, from which he dug away the snow with a desperateenergy, as if working for his life. For the sound was the cry of alittle child, frightened and pleading. 

'Mah-nee! mah-nee!' it seemed to say; and Harold, thinking it was mamma, answered, cheerily:

'I am coming as fast I can. '

Then the crying ceased, and all was still inside, while Harold worked onuntil enough snow was cleared away to allow of his opening the doorabout a foot, and through this narrow opening he forced his way into thecold, damp room, where for a moment he could see nothing distinctly, forthe sunlight outside had blinded him, and there was but little lightinside, owing to the barred and snow-bound windows. 

Gradually, however, as he became accustomed to the place, he saw uponthe long table in the corner where Arthur Tracy had moved it monthsbefore, what looked like a human form stretched at full length and lyingupon its back, with its white, stony face upturned to the rafters above, and no sound or motion to tell that it still lived. 

With an exclamation of surprise, Harold sprang forward and laid his handupon the pale forehead of the woman, but started back as quickly with acry of horror, for by the touch of the ice-cold flesh he knew the womanwas dead. 

'Frozen to death!' he whispered, with ashen lips; and then, as somethingstirred under the gray cloak which partly covered the woman, heconquered his terror and went forward again to the table, over which hebent curiously. 

Again the cry, which was more like 'mah-nee' now than 'mamma, ' met hisear, and, stooping lower, he saw a curly head nestle close to the bosomof the woman, while a little fat white hand was clasping the neck as iffor warmth and protection. 

At this sight all Harold's fear vanished, and, bending down so that hislips almost touched the bright, wavy hair, he said:

'Poor little girl!'--he felt instinctively that it was a girl--'poorlittle girl! come with me away from this dreadful place!' and he triedto lift up her head, but she drew it away from him, and repeated thepiteous cry of 'Mah-nee, mah-nee!'

At last, however, as Harold continued to talk to her, the cries ceased, and, cautiously lifting her head, she turned toward him a fat, chubbyface and a pair of soft, blue eyes in which the great tears werestanding. Then her lips began to quiver in a grieved kind of way, as ifthe horror of the previous night had stamped itself upon her tender mindand she were asking for sympathy. 

'Mah-nee!' she said again, placing one hand on the cold, dead face, andstretching the other toward Harold, who put out his arms to take her. 

But something resisted all his efforts, and a closer inspection showedhim a long, old-fashioned carpet-bag, which enveloped her body from herneck to her feet, and into which she had evidently been put to protecther from the cold. 

'Not a bad idea either, ' Harold said, as he comprehended the situation;'and your poor mother gave you the most of her cloak, too, and hershawl, ' he continued, as he saw how carefully the child had beenwrapped, while the mother, if it were her mother, had paid for herunselfishness with her life. 

'What is your name, little girl?' he asked. 

The child, who had been staring at him while he talked as if he were alunatic, made no reply until he had her in his arms, when she, too, began to talk in a half-frightened way. Then he looked at her as if shewere the lunatic, for never had he heard such speech as hers. 

'I do believe you are a Dutchman, ' he said, as he wrapped both shawl andcloak around her and started for the door, which he kicked against sometime in order to make an opening wide enough to allow of his egress withhis burden. 

When at last they emerged from the cold, dark room into the brightsunshine, the child gave a great cry of delight, and the blue eyesfairly danced with joy as they fell upon the dazzling snow. Then she putboth arms around Harold's neck, and nestling her face close to his, kissed him as fondly as if she had known him all her life, while the boypaid her back kiss after kiss as he proceeded slowly toward home. 

The child was heavy, and the bag and shawl made such an unwieldy bundlethat his progress was very slow, and he stopped more than once to restand take breath, and as often as he stopped the blue eyes would look upenquiringly at him with an expression which made his boyish heart beatfaster as he thought what pretty eyes they were and wondered who shewas. Once he fell down, and bag and baby rolled in the snow; but onlythe vigorous kicking of a pair of little legs inside the bag showed thatthe child disapproved of the proceeding, for she made no sound, and whenhe picked her up she brushed the snow from his hair, and laughed as ifthe thing had been done for fun. 

He reached the cottage at last, and bursting into the room where hisgrandmother was sitting with her foot in a chair, exclaimed, as he putdown the child, who, as she was still enveloped in the bag, stood withdifficulty:

'Oh grandma, what do you think? I did see a light in the Tramp House, and there is somebody there--a woman--dead--frozen to death, withnothing over her, for she had given her cloak and shawl to her littlegirl. I went there. I found her, and brought the baby home in thecarpet-bag, and now I must go back to the woman. Oh, it was dreadful tosee her white face, and it is so cold there and dark;' and if the horrorof what he had seen had just impressed itself upon him, the boy turnedpale and faint, and, staggering to a chair, burst into tears. 

Too much astonished to utter a word, Mrs. Crawford stared at him amoment in a bewildered kind of way, and then when the child, seeing himcry, began also to cry for "Mah-nee, " and struggle in the bag, sheforgot her lame foot, on which she had not stepped for a week, and goingto the little girl, released her from the bag, and taking her upon herlap, began to untie the soft woollen cloak and to chafe the coldfingers, while she questioned her grandson. 

Having recovered himself somewhat, Harold repeated his story, and askedwith a shudder:

'Must I go for her alone? I can't, I can't. I was not afraid with thebaby there, but it is so awful, and I never saw any one dead before. '

'Go back alone! Of course not!' his grandmother replied. 'But you mustgo to the park at once and tell them; go as fast as you can. She may notbe dead. '

'Yes, she is, ' Harold answered, decidedly. 'I touched her face, andnothing alive could feel like that. '

He was buttoning his overcoat preparatory to a fresh start, but beforehe went he kissed the little girl who was sitting on his grandmother'slap, and who, as she saw him leaving her, began to cry for him and toutter curious sounds unintelligible to them both. But Harold brought hera piece of bread, which she began to devour ravenously, and then hestepped quietly out and was soon breaking through the drifts which laybetween the cottage and the park. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

THE WOMAN. 

They slept later than usual at the park house that morning, and Frankand his family were just sitting down to breakfast, and Arthur wastaking his rolls and coffee in his own room, when John, with a white, scared face, looked in and said:

'Excuse me, Mr. Tracy, but--but something dreadful has happened. There'sa woman frozen to death in the Tramp House, with a baby, and HaroldHastings found them, and--but he is here, sir; he will tell youhimself;' and he went for the boy, who soon entered the room, followedby every servant in the house. 

Harold had come upon John first in the stable, and sinking downexhausted upon the hay, had told his story, while the man, John, listened terror-stricken and open-mouthed. Then seeing how weak andtired Harold seemed, and how he sank back upon the hay when he attemptedto rise, he took him in his arms, and carrying him to the kitchen, lefthim there while he went with the news to his master. 

'A woman dead in the Tramp House, and a baby!' Frank exclaimed, and foran instant he felt as if he were dying, for there flashed over him aconviction that the woman had come in the train the previous night, andthat it was her cry for help which had been borne to him on the winds, and to which he had paid no heed. 

'Are you sick? Are you going to faint?' his wife said to him, as she sawhow white he grew, and how heavily he leaned back in his chair as Haroldrelated the particulars of his finding the woman and the child. 

'I am not going to faint; but it makes me sick and shaky to think of awoman freezing to death so near us that if she had cried for help wemight perhaps have heard her, ' Frank replied. 

Then turning to Harold, he continued:

'How did she look? Was she young? Was she pretty? Was she dark or fair?'

He almost gasped the last word, as if it choked him, and no one guessedhow anxiously he waited for Harold's answer, which did not afford himmuch relief. 

'I don't know; it was so dark in there, and cold, and I was afraid someof the time, and in a hurry. I only know that her nose was long andlarge, for I touched it when I was trying to get at the little girl, andit was so cold--oh, oh!'

And Harold shuddered as if he still felt the icy touch of the dead. 

'A long nose and a large one, ' Frank said, involuntarily, while a sighof relief escaped him as he remembered that the nose of the picture inhis brother's room was neither long nor large. 

Still Harold might be mistaken, and though he had no good cause forbelieving that the woman lying dead in the Tramp House was Gretchen, there was a horrible feeling in his heart, while a lump came into histhroat and affected his speech, which was thick and indistinct, as herose from his chair at last and said to John:

'We have no time to lose. Hitch up the horses to the long sleigh asquick as you can. We must go to the Tramp House after the woman, andsend to the village for a doctor, and telegraph to Springfield for thecoroner. I suppose there must be an inquest; and, Dolly, see that a roomis prepared for the body. '

'Oh, Frank, must it come here? Why not take it to the cottage? The childis there, ' Mrs. Tracy said, not because she cared so much for thetrouble, but because of her aversion to having the corpse of a strangerin the house, with all that it involved. 

'I tell you that woman must come here, ' was Frank's decided reply, as hebegan to make himself ready for the ride. 

'Don't tell Arthur yet, ' he said, as he left the house and took his seatin the sleigh, which was soon ploughing its way through the snow banksin the direction of the Tramp House. 

It was Harold who acted as master of ceremonies, for John was nervousand hung back from the half open door, while Frank was too much unstrungto know just what he was doing or saying, as he squeezed through thenarrow space and then stood for a moment, snow-blind and dizzy, in thecheerless room. 

Harold was not afraid now. He had been there before alone, had seen andtouched the white face of the corpse, and now, with companionship in itspresence, he went fearlessly up to it, followed by Frank, who couldscarcely stand, and who laid his hand for support on Harold's shoulder, and then turned curiously and eagerly toward the woman. 

John had lingered outside, shovelling the snow from the door which hesucceeded in opening wide, so that the full, broad sunlight fell uponthe face, which was neither young, nor pretty, nor fair, while the hairwas black as night. 

Frank noted all these points at a glance, and could have shouted aloudfor joy, so great was the revulsion of his feelings. It was not Gretchenlying there before him, and he was not a murderer, as he had accusedhimself of being, for she did not come by the train; she had noconnection with Tracy Park; she was going somewhere else--toCollingwood, perhaps--when, overcome by the storm and the cold, she hadsought shelter for the night in this wretched place. 

'I suppose the proper thing to do is to leave her here till the coronercan see her, ' he said to John; 'but no train can get through fromSpringfield to-day, I am sure, and I shall have her taken to the park. Bring me the blankets from the sleigh. '

He was very collected now, for a great load was lifted from his mind. 

'Had she nothing with her? nothing to cover her?' he asked, as theyproceeded to wrap her in the warm blankets, which, had they sooner come, would have saved her life. 

Harold told him again of the carpet-bag and the cloak and the shawl, which had covered the child, and added, 'That's all; there don't seem tobe anything else. Oh, what's this?' and stooping down, he picked up somehard substance which he had kicked against the table. 

It proved to be one of those olive wood candle sticks, so convenient intravelling, as when not in use, they can be made into a small round boxor ball, and take but little room. It contained but the remains of a waxcandle, which had burned down into the socket and then gone out. Nearby, upon the floor, was a tiny box of matches, with two or three charredones among them. 

'The poor woman must have had a light for at least a portion of thetime, ' Frank said, as he picked up the box. 

'She had, I know she had, ' Harold cried, excitedly; 'for I saw it andtold grandma so. It was like she had opened the door and let out a bigblaze, and then everything was dark, as if the door was shut or the windhad blown the candle out. '

'What time was that, do you think?' Frank asked. 

'It must have been about eleven, ' Harold replied, 'for I rememberhearing the clock strike and grandma's saying I must go to bed, it wasso late. I was up with her because her foot was so bad, and I warmed thepoultices. '

Frank groaned aloud, unmindful of the boy looking so curiously at him, for that was the time when he had heard the sound like a human voice isdistress. He had thought it a fancy then communicated to him by hisbrother's nervousness, but now he was certain it must have been thestranger calling through the storm, in the vain hope that somebody wouldhear and come. Somebody had heard, but no one had come; and so in thecold and the darkness, with the snow sifting through every crevice andblowing down the wide chimney to the hearth where it made a drift like agrave, she had battled for her own life and that of the child besideher, saving the latter but losing her own. 

'If I had only believed it was a cry, ' Frank thought, and as he wrappedthe body in the blankets and buffalo robe as tenderly and reverently asif the stiffened limbs had belonged to his mother, he saw distinctlybefore him as if painted upon canvas the driving gale, the inky sky, thehalf-opened door, through which the sleet was driving, the light behind, and the frantic, freezing woman, screaming for help, while only thewinds made answer, and the pitiless storm raged on. 

This was the picture which Frank was destined to see in his dreams formany and many a night, until the mystery was solved concerning the womanwhom they carried to the sleigh, which was driven back to the parkhouse, where, within fifteen or twenty minutes a crowd of anxious, curious people gathered. The messenger sent to town had done his workrapidly and thoroughly, and half the villagers who heard of the tragedyenacted at their very door started at once for Tracy Park. The boy hadstopped at the station and told his story there, making thebaggage-master feel as if he, too, were a murderer, or at least anaccessory. 

'If I had only gone after that woman, ' he said, as he told of thestranger who had come on the train and gotten off on the side of the carfarthest from the depot--'if I had gone after her and made her take aconveyance to where she was going, this would not have happened; but itwas so all-fired cold, and the wind was yelling so, and she walked offso fast, as if she knew her own business. So I just minded mine, orrather I didn't, for I never even seen the box, or trunk, which waspitched out helter-skelter, and which I found this morning, all coveredup with snow. It was hers, of course, and I shall send it right overthere, as it may tell who the poor critter was. '

This trunk, which was little more than a strong wooden box with twodouble locks upon it, was still further secured by a bit of rope woundtwice around it and tied in a hard knot. There was no name upon it totell whose it was, or whence it came, except the name of a Germansteamer, on which its owner had probably crossed the ocean, and thesignificant word 'Hold, ' showing that it had not been used in thestate-room. It had been checked at the Grand Central depot in New Yorkfor Shannondale, and the check was still attached to the iron handlewhen it was put down in the kitchen at Tracy Park, where the utmostexcitement prevailed, the servants huddling together with scared faces, and talking in whispers of the terrible thing which had happened, whileMrs. Tracy and the housekeeper, scarcely less excited than the servants, gave their attention to the dead. 

At the end of the rear hall was a small room, where Frank sometimesreceived business calls when at home, and there they laid the body, after the physician, who had arrived, declared that life had beenextinct for many hours. 

Seen in the full daylight, she seemed to be at least thirty-five yearsof age, and her features, though not unpleasing, were coarse and large, especially the nose. Her hair was black, her complexion dark, and thehands, which lay folded upon her bosom, showed marks of toil, for theywere rough and unshapely, though smaller in proportion than the othermembers of her body. Her woollen dress of grayish blue was short andscant; her knit stockings were black and thick, and her leather shoeswere designed fur use rather than ornament. A wide white apron was tiedaround her waist, and she wore a small black and white plaided shawlpinned about her neck. 

And there she lay, not a pleasant picture to contemplate, helpless anddefenceless against the curious eyes bent upon her and the remarksconcerning her, as one after another of the villagers came in to look ather and speculate as to who she was or how she came in the Tramp House. 

Among the crowd was Mr. St. Claire, who gave it as his opinion that shewas a Frenchwoman of the lower class, and asked if nothing had beenfound with her except the clothes she wore. Harold told him of theshawl, and cloak, and carpet-bag which he had carried with the child tothe cottage. 

'Yes, there is something more--her trunk, ' chimed in the baggage-master, who had just entered the room, trembling and breathless. 

'Her trunk! Did she come in the cars?' Frank asked, his hands droppinghelplessly at his side, and his lips growing pale, as the man replied:

'Yes; last night, on the quarter-past-six from New York; and what iscuri's, she got out on the side away from the depot, and I never seenher till the cars went on, when she was lookin' at a paper, and thechild cryin' at her feet. I spoke to her, but she did not answer, andsnatching up the child, she hurried off, almost on a run. It wasstorming so I did not see her trunk till this mornin', when I found iton the platform. I wish I had gone after her and made her take a sleigh. If I had she wouldn't now have been dead, and, I swow, I feel as if Ihad killed her. I wonder why under the sun she turned into the lots, unless she was goin' to Collingwood--'

'Or Tracy Park, ' Frank said, involuntarily. 

'Were you expecting any one?' Mr. St. Claire asked. 

Sinking into a chair, Frank replied:

'No, I was not, but Arthur, who has been worse than usual for a fewdays, has again a fancy that Gretchen is coming. He says now that shewas not in the ship with him, but that he has written her to join himhere, and yesterday he took it into his head that she would be here lastnight, and insisted that the carriage be sent to meet her; but John hadhurt his back, and as I had no faith in her coming, he did not go. Iwish he had; it might have saved this woman's life, although she is notGretchen. '

Frank had made his confession, except so far as deceiving his brotherwas concerned, and he felt his mind eased a little, though there wasstill a lump in his throat, and a feeling of disquiet in his heart, witha wish that the dead woman had never crossed his path, and a convictionthat he had not yet seen the worst of it. 

Mr. St. Claire looked at him thoughtfully a moment, and then said:

'I should not accuse myself too much. You could not know that any onewould be there, and this woman certainly is not the Gretchen of whomyour brother talks so much, and whose picture is in his room. Has heseen her? Does he know of the accident?'

'I have not told him yet. He is not feeling well to-day. Charles says heis still in bed, ' was Frank's reply. 

'We may find something in her trunk, ' Mr. St. Claire continued, 'whichwill give us a clue to her history. Where do you suppose she kept herkey?'

No one volunteered an answer, until Harold suggested that if she had apocket it was probably there, when half a dozen hands or more at oncefelt for the pocket, which was found at last, and proved to be one ofgreat capacity, and to contain a heterogeneous mass of contents: Apurse, in which were two or three small German coins, an Englishsovereign, and a five dollar green-back; two handkerchiefs, one soiledand coarse, bearing in German text the initials 'N. B. ' the other smalland fine, bearing the initial 'J. , ' also in German text: a pair ofscissors, a thimble, a small needle-case, a child's toy, a wornpicture-book, printed in Leipsic, a box of pills, some peanuts, somecloves, a piece of candy, a seed cake, a pocket comb, half a biscuit;and at the very bottom, the brass check whose number corresponded withthat upon the trunk; also a ring to which were attached three keys, onebelonging to the trunk, another evidently to the carpet-bag, while thethird, which was very small and straight, must have been used forfastening some box or dressing-case. 

It was Mr. St. Claire who opened the trunk, from which one of theservants had removed the rope, while Frank sat near still trembling inevery limb, and watching anxiously as article after article was takenout and examined, but afforded no satisfaction whatever, or gave anysign by which the stranger might be traced. 

There was a black alpaca dress and a few coarse garments which must havebelonged to the woman. Some of them bore the initials 'N. B. , ' some werewithout a mark, and all were cheap and plain, like the clothes of aservant before her head is turned and she apes her mistress' wardrobe. The child's dresses were of a better quality, and one embroideredpetticoat bore the name 'Jerrine, ' while the letter 'J. ' was upon themall, except a towel of the finest linen, on one corner of which was theletter 'M. ' worked with colored floss. 

'Jerrine!' Mr. St. Claire repeated, pronouncing it 'Jerreen. ' 'That is aFrench name, and a pretty one. It is the child's, of course. '

To this no one replied, and he continued his examination of the trunkuntil it was quite empty. 

'That is all, ' he said in a tone of disappointment; and Frank, who hadbeen sitting by and holding some of the things in his lap as they weretaken from the trunk, answered, faintly:

'No, here is a book. It was done up in a handkerchief, ' and he held upwhat proved to be a German Bible; but he did not tell that he had foundsomething else, which he had thrust into his pocket when no one waslooking at him. 

What he had found was a photograph, which had slipped from the leaves ofthe Bible, and at sight of the face, of which he only had a glimpse, every drop of blood seemed to leave his heart and came surging to hisbrain, making him so giddy and wild that he did not realise what he wasdoing when he hid away the picture until he could examine it by himself. Once in his pocket he dared not take it out, although he raised his handtwo or three times to do so, but was as often deterred by the thoughtthat everybody would think that he had intended to hide it and suspecthis motive. So he kept quiet and saw them examine the book, the blankpage of which had been torn half off, leaving only the last threeletters of what must have been the owner's name, '----ich'--that wasall, and might as well not have been there, for any light it shed uponthe matter. 

Opening the book by chance at 1st Corinthians, 2nd chapter, Mr. St. Claire, who could read German much better than he could speak it, sawpencil-marks around the ninth verse, and read aloud:

 'Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man the things which God hath prepared for them that love Him. '

On the margin opposite this verse was written, in a girlish hand:

 'Think of me as there when you read this, and do not be sorry. '

A lock of soft, golden hair, which might have been cut from a baby'shead, and a few faded flowers, which still gave forth a faint perfumelike heliotrope, were tied with a bit of thread, and lying between theleaves. And except that the book was full of marked passages, chieflycomforting and conciliatory, there was nothing more to indicate thecharacter of the owner. 

'If this Bible were hers, she was a good woman, ' Mr. St. Claire said, laying his hand reverently upon the forehead of the dead, while Frank, who saw another meaning between the lines, shook like one in an aguefit, for he did not believe that those hands, so pulseless and cold, hadever traced the words, 'Think of me as there when you read this, and donot be sorry. ' She who wrote them might be, and probably was dead, buther grave was far away, and the fact did not at all change the dutywhich he owed to her and him for whom the message was intended. 

'What shall I say to Arthur, and how shall I tell him, ' he was wonderingto himself, when Mr. St. Claire roused him by saying:

'You seem greatly unstrung by what has happened. I never saw you look soill. '

'Yes, I feel as if I had murdered her by not sending John to thestation, ' Frank stammered, glad to offer this as an excuse for hismanner, which he knew must seem strange and unnatural. 

'You are too sensitive altogether. John might not have seen her, shehurried off so fast, and you have no particular reason to think she wascoming here, ' Mr. St. Claire said, adding: 'We'd better leave her now. We can do nothing more until the coroner comes, which will hardly beto-day. I hear the roads are all blocked and impassable. Let everythingremain in the trunk where he can see them. '

Mechanically Mrs. Tracy, who was present, put the different articlesinto the trunk, leaving the Bible on the top, and then followed herhusband from the room. She knew there was more affecting him than thefact that a dead woman was in the house, or that he had not sent John tothe station. But what it was she could not guess, unless, and she, too, felt faint and giddy for a moment, as a new idea entered her mind. 

'Frank, ' she said to him when they were alone for a few moments, 'Arthurhad a fancy that Gretchen was coming last night. You do not think thiswoman is she?'

'Gretchen? No. Don't be a fool, Dolly. Gretchen is fair and young, andthe woman is old and black as the ace of spades. Gretchen! No, indeed!'

He did not show her the picture he had secreted; he knew she would notapprove of the act, and if she had no suspicion with regard to the womanand the child he did not care to share his with her, particularly as itwas only a suspicion, and so far as he could judge in his perturbedstate of mind, nothing he could do would ever make things sure. His wifeseemed to have forgotten the child at the cottage, and he would notbring it to her mind until it was necessary to do so. Just then Charlescame to the room and said that his master was very much excited andwished to know the reason for so much commotion in the house, and why somany people were coming and going down and up the avenue. 

'I thought it better that you should tell him, ' Charles added, and witha sinking heart Frank started for his brother's room. 

He had not seen him before that day, and now as he looked at him itseemed to him that he had grown older since the previous night, forthere were lines about his mouth, and his face was very thin and pale. But his eyes were unusually bright, and his voice rang out clear as abell as he said:

'What is it, Frank? What has happened that so many people are cominghere, banging doors and talking so loud that I heard them here in myroom, but I could not distinguish what they said. What's the matter? Anyone hurt or dead?'

He put the question direct, and Frank gave a direct reply. 

'Yes, a woman was found frozen to death in the Tramp House this morning, and was brought here. She is lying in the office at the end of the backhall. '

'A women frozen to death in the Tramp House!' Arthur repeated. 'Then Idid hear a cry. Oh, Frank, who is she? Where did she come from?'

'We do not know who she is, or where she came from!' Frank replied, 'Mr. St. Claire thinks she is French. There is nothing about her person toidentify her, but I would like you to see her, and--and--'

'I see her! Why should I see her, and shock my nerves more than they arealready shocked?' Arthur said, with a decided shake of his head. 

'But you must see her, ' Frank continued. 'Perhaps you know her. She camelast night. She--'

Before he could utter another word Arthur was at his side, Frank seizinghim by the shoulder with the grip of a giant, demanded, fiercely:

'What do you mean by her coming last night? How did she come? Not bytrain, for John was there. Frank, there is something you are keepingback. I know it by your face. Tell me the truth. Is it Gretchen dead inthis house?'

'No, ' Frank answered huskily. 'It is not Gretchen, if that picture islike her, for this woman is very dark and old, and, besides that, hasGretchen a child?'

For an instant Arthur stood staring at him, or rather at the spacebeyond him, as if trying to recall something too distant or too shadowyto assume any tangible form; then bursting into a laugh he said:

'Gretchen a child! That is the best joke I have heard. How shouldGretchen have a child? She is little more than one herself, or was whenI saw her last. No, Gretchen has no child. Why do you ask?'

'Because, ' Frank replied, 'there was a little girl found in the TrampHouse with this woman, a girl three or four years old, I judge. She isat the cottage now, where Harold carried her. He found the woman thismorning. Will you see her now?'

Arthur answered 'no, ' decidedly, and then Frank, who knew that he shouldnever again know peace of mind if his brother did not see her, summonedall his courage and said:

'Arthur, you must. I have not told you all. This woman did come by trainfrom New York. '

'Then why did not John see her?' interrupted Arthur. 

'He was not there, ' Frank replied. 'Forgive me, Arthur, I did not sendhim as you thought. It was so cold and stormy, and I had no faith inyour presentiments, and so--so--'

'And so you lied to me, and I will never trust you again as long as Ilive, and if this had been Gretchen, I would kill you, where I stand!'Arthur hissed in a whisper, more terrible to hear than louder toneswould have been, 'Yes, I will see this woman whose death lies at yourdoor, ' he continued, with a gesture that Frank should precede him. 

Arthur was very calm, and collected, and stern, as he followed to theoffice where the body lay, covered now from view, but showing terriblydistinct through the linen sheet folded over it. 

'Remove the covering, ' he said, in the tone of a master to his slave, and Frank obeyed. 

Then bending close to the stiffened form, Arthur examined the faceminutely, while Frank looked on alternately between hope and dread, theformer of which triumphed as his brother said, quietly:

'Yes, she is French: but I do not know her. I never saw her before. Hadshe nothing with her to tell who she was?'

His mood had passed, and Frank did not hear him now. 

'She had a trunk, ' he replied. 'Here it is, with her clothes, and thechild's, and--a Bible. '

'He said the last slowly, and, taking up the book, opened it as far aspossible from the writing on the margin, which might or might not bedangerous. 

'It is a German Bible, ' he continued, and then Arthur took it quicklyfrom him as if it had been a long-lost friend, turning the worn pagesrapidly, but failing to discover the marked passage and the message forsome one. 

The lock of baby hair and the faded flowers caught his attention, andhis breath came hard and pantingly, as for a moment he held the littlegolden tress which seemed almost to twine itself lovingly around hisfingers. 

'That must be her child's hair. You know I told you there was a littlegirl found with her. Would you like to see her?' Frank said. 

'No, no!' Arthur answered, hastily. 'Let her stay where she is, I don'tlike children as a rule. You know I can't abide the noise yourssometimes make. '

He was leaving the room with the Bible in his hand, but Frank could notsuffer that, and he said:

'I suppose all these things must stay here till the coroner sees them;so I will put the Bible where I found it. 

Arthur gave it up readily enough, and then, as he reached the door, looked back, and said:

'If forty coroners and undertakers come on this business, don't botherme any more. My head buzzes like a bee-hive. See that everything is donedecently for the poor woman, and don't let the town bury her. Do ityourself, and send the bill to me. There is room enough on the Tracylot; put her in a corner. '

'Yes, ' Frank answered, standing in the open door and watching him as hewent slowly down the long hall and until he heard him going up stairs. 

Then locking the door, which shut him in with the dead, he took thephotograph from his pocket and examined it minutely, feeling no shadowof doubt in his heart that it was Gretchen--if the picture in the windowwas like her. It was the same face, the same sweet mouth and sunny blueeyes, with curls of reddish-golden hair shading the low brow. The dresswas different and more in accordance with that of a girl who belonged tothe middle class, but this counted for nothing, and Frank felt himself athief, and a liar, and a murderer as he stood looking at the lovelyface; and debating what he should do. 

Turning it over he saw on the back a word traced in English letters, ina very uncertain scrawling hand, as if it were the writer's firstattempt at English. Spelling it letter by letter he made out what hecalled 'Wiesbaden, ' and knew it was some German town. Did Gretchen livethere, he wondered, and how could he find out, and what should he do? Hehad not yet seen the child at the cottage, but from some things Haroldsaid, he knew she was more like this picture than like the dead womanfound with her, and in his heart he felt almost sure who she was, andthat his course of duty was plain. He ought to show Arthur thephotograph, and tell him his suspicions, and take every possible step toascertain who the woman was and where she came from. 

Frank was not a bad man, nor a hard-hearted man, but he was ambitiousand weak. He had enjoyed money, and ease, and position long enough tomake him unwilling to part with them now, while for his children he wasmore ambitious than for himself. To see Tom master of Tracy Park was thegreat desire of his life, and this could not be, if what he feared wereproved true. If Arthur had no wife, no child, no will adverse to him, why, then his interest was safe, for no will his brother could now makewould be held as valid, and when he died everything would naturally goto him. Of all this Frank thought during the few minutes he staid inthe silent room. Then he said to himself:

'I will see the child first. After all I know nothing for certain--cannever know anything for certain, and I should be a fool to give up allmy children's interests for a fancy, an idea, which may have nofoundation. Arthur does not know half the time what he is saying, andmight not tell the truth about Gretchen. She may not have been his wife. On the whole, I do not believe she was. He would never have left her ifshe had been, and if so, this child, if she is Gretchen's, has no rightto come between me and mine. No, I shall wait a little while and think, though in the end I mean to do right. '

With these specious arguments Frank tried to quiet his conscience, buthe could not help feeling that Satan had possession of him, and as hehurried through the hall he said aloud, as if speaking to somethingseen:

'Go away--go away! I shall do right if I only know what right is. 

He did not see his brother again that day, or go to the cottage either, but as he was dressing himself next morning he said to his wife:

'That little girl ought to see her mother before she is buried. I shallsend for her to-day. The coroner will be here, too. Did I tell you I hada telegram last night? He is coming on the early train. '

Mrs. Tracy passed the allusion to the coroner in silence, but of thelittle girl she said:

'I suppose the child must come to the funeral, but you surely do notmean to keep her? We are not bound to do that because her mother frozeto death on our premises. '

'Would you let her go to the poor-house?' Frank asked, but Dolly did notreply. 

As the breakfast-bell just then rang, no more was said of the littlewaif until the sleigh was brought to the door, and Frank announced hisintention of stopping for the child on his way back from the station, where he was going to meet the coroner. 

CHAPTER XIV. 

LITTLE JERRY. 

It was nearly noon when Harold left Tracy Park the previous day andstarted for home, eager and anxious with regard to the child whom heclaimed as his own. He had found her. She was his and he should keepher, he said to himself, and then he wondered how his grandmother hadmanaged with her, and if she had cried for him or for her mother, and ashe reached the house he stood still a moment, to listen. But the soundswhich met his ear were peals of laughter, mingled with mild, and, as itwould seem, unavailing expostulations from his grandmother. 

Opening the door suddenly he found the child seated at the table in thehigh chair he used to occupy, and which Mrs. Crawford had brought fromthe attic, where it was stored. Standing before the child was a dish ofbread and milk, of which she had evidently eaten enough, for she wasplaying with it now, and amusing herself by striking the spoon into themilk, which was splashed over the table, while three or four drops of itwere standing on the forehead and nose of the distressed woman, who wasvainly trying to take the spoon from the little hand clenching it sofirmly. 

Mrs. Crawford had had a busy and exciting day with her charge, who, active and restless, and playful, kept her on the alert and made herforget in part how lame she was. As she could not put her foot to thefloor without great pain, and as she must move about, she adopted theexpedient of placing her knee on a chair to the back of which she held, while she hobbled around the room, followed by the child, who, delightedwith this novel method of locomotion, put her knee in a low chair, andholding to Mrs. Crawford's skirts, limped after her, imitating herperfectly, even to the groans she sometimes uttered when a twingesharper than usual ran up her swollen limb. It was fun for the child, but almost death to the woman, who, when she could endure it no longer, sank into a chair, and tried by speaking sharply, to make the littlegirl understand that she must keep quiet. But when she scolded, babyscolded back, in a language wholly unintelligible, shaking her curlyhead, and sometimes stamping her foot by way of emphasizing her words. 

When Mrs. Crawford laughed the child laughed, and when once a pangseverer than usual wrung the tears from her eyes, baby looked at hercompassionately a moment, while her little face puckered itself intowrinkles as if she too were going to cry; then, putting up her soft handshe wiped the tears from Mrs. Crawford's cheeks, and, climbing into herlap, became as quiet as a kitten. But a touch sufficed to start her up, for she was full of fun and frolic, and her laughing blue eyes, whichwere of that wide-open kind which see everything, were brimming overwith mischief. Once or twice she called out 'Mahnee, ' and going to thewindow, stood on tip-toe looking out, to see if she were coming. But onthe whole she seemed happy and content, exploring every nook and cornerof the kitchen and examining curiously every article of furniture as ifit were quite new to her. 

Once when Mrs. Crawford was talking earnestly to her, trying to make herunderstand, she stood for a moment watching and imitating the motion ofthe lady's lips and the expression of her face; then going up to her shebegan to examine her mouth and her teeth, as if she would know whatmanner of machinery it was which produced sounds so new and strange toher. She certainly was a remarkable child for her age, though Mrs. Crawford was puzzled to know just how old she was. She was very small, and, judging from her size, one would have said she was hardly three;but the expression of her face was so mature, and she saw things soquickly and understood so readily, that she must have been older. Shewas certainly very precocious, with a most inquiring turn of mind, andMrs. Crawford felt herself greatly interested in her as she watched heractive movements and listened to the musical prattle she could notunderstand. 

She had examined the carpet-bag, in which were found the articlesnecessary for an ocean voyage, and little else. Most of these weresoiled from use, but there was among them a little clean, white apron, and this Mrs. Crawford put upon the child, after having washed her faceand hands and brushed her wavy hair, which had a trick of coiling itselfinto soft, fluffy curls all over her head. 

The bread and milk had been given her about twelve o'clock, and thelaugh she gave when she saw it showed her appreciation of it quite asmuch as the eagerness with which she ate it. Her appetite appeased, however, she began to play with it and throw the milk over the table andinto Mrs. Crawford's face, just as Harold came in, full of what he hadseen at the park, and anxious to see his baby, as he called her. 

Taking her on his lap and kissing her rosy cheeks, he began to narrateto his grandmother all that had been done, and told her that Mr. St. Claire had given it as his opinion that the woman was French. 

'And if so, ' he continued, 'baby must be French, too, though she doesnot look a bit like her mother, who is very dark and not--well, not atall like you or Mrs. St. Claire. '

Then he told of the trunk which the baggage-master had taken to thepark, and of what it contained. 

'The woman's clothes were marked "N. B. "' he said, 'and some of thebaby's--such a funny name. Mr. St. Claire said it was French, andpronounced "Jerreen, " though it is spelled "Jerrine. "'

'That is the name of the child's things in the bag, ' Mrs. Crawford said. 

'Of course it is baby's, then, ' Harold replied; 'but, I shall call herJerry for short, even if it is a boy's name, and so my little lady, Ichristen you Jerry;' and kissing the forehead, the eyes, the nose, andthe chin, he marked the shape of the cross upon the face upturned tohis, and named his baby 'Jerry. '

Later, when he knew more of the world, he would change the 'y' into'ie, ' but now she was simply Jerry, and when he called her that shelaughed and nodded as if the sound were not new to her. She was abeautiful child, with complexion as pure as wax, and eyes which mighthave borrowed their color from the blue lakes of Italy, or from theskies of England when they are at their brightest. 

'I wish she could talk to me. I suppose she must speak French, ' he said, as he was trying in vain to make her understand him. 'Don't you know aword I say?' he asked her, and her reply was what sounded to him like'We, we. '

'That's English, ' he cried, delighted with her progress, but when hespoke to her again, her answer was, 'Yah, yah, ' which seemed to him sononsensical that after a few attempts to make her say 'yes, ' and toteach her what it meant, he gave up his lesson for the remainder of theday and talked to her by signs and gestures which she seemed tounderstand. 

Whatever he did she did, and he saw her more than once imitating hisgrandmother's motions as well as his own, to the life. 

Late in the afternoon Mr. St. Claire came to the cottage, curious to seethe child, who, at sight of him, retreated behind Harold, and thenpeered shyly up at him, with a look in her great blue eyes which puzzledhim on the instant, as one is frequently puzzled with a likeness tosomething or somebody he tries in vain to recall. In this instance itwas hardly the eyes themselves, but rather the way they looked at him, and the sweep of the long lashes, together with a firm shutting togetherof the lips, which struck Mr. St. Claire as familiar, and when with aswift movement of her little hand, she swept the mass of golden hairback from her forehead, he would have sworn that he had seen that tricka thousand times, and yet he could not place it. That she was the childof the dead woman he believed, and as the mother was French, so also wasshe. He had once passed two years in France, and was master of thelanguage; so he spoke to the child in French, but though she seemed tounderstand him she made no reply, until he said to her:

'Where is your mother, little one?'

'Then she answered, promptly, 'Dead, ' but the language was German, notFrench. 

'Ho-ho! You are a little Dutchman, ' Mr. St. Claire said, with somesurprise in his voice. 

Then as he noted the purity of her complexion, her fair hair and blueeyes, he said to himself:

'Her father was a German, and probably they lived in Germany, but themother was certainly French. '

His own knowledge of German was very limited, but he could speak it alittle, and turning again to the child he managed to say:

'What is your name!'

'Der-ree, ' was the reply, and Harold exclaimed:

'That's it; she means Jerry; that's short for the name on her clothes, which you said was pronounced Jereen. I have christened her Jerry, andshe is my little girl, ain't you, Jerry!'

'Yah--oui--'ess, ' was the answer, and there was a gleam of triumph inthe blue eyes which flashed up to Harold for approbation. 

She had not, of course, understood a word he said, except, indeed hername; but the tone of his voice was interrogatory, and seemed to expectan affirmative answer, which she gave in three languages, emphasizingthe ''ess' with a nod of her head, as if greatly pleased with herself. 

'Bravo!' Harold shouted. 'She can say yes. I taught her, and I shallhave her talking English in a few days as well as I do, shan't I, Jerry?'

'Yah--'ess, ' was the reply. 

Then Mr. St. Claire tried to question her further with regard to herselfand her home, but his phraseology was probably at fault, for nosatisfactory result was reached beyond the fact that her mother wasdead, that her name was Jerry, or Derree, as she called it, and that shehad been on a ship with Mah-nee, who did _so_--and she imitatedperfectly the motions and contortions of one who is deathly sea-sick. 

'I suppose she means her mother by Mah-nee, ' said Mr. St. Claire; andwhen he asked her if it were not so, she answered 'yah, ' and ''ess, ' asshe did to everything, adopting finally the latter word altogetherbecause she saw it pleased Harold. 

No matter what was the question put to her, her reply was ''ess, ' whichshe repeated quickly, with a prolonged sound on the 's. '

When at last Mr. St. Claire took his leave, it was with a strangefeeling of interest for the child, whose antecedents must always beshrouded in mystery, and whose future he could not predict. 

It seemed impossible for Mrs. Crawford to keep her, poor as she was, andas he had no idea that the Tracys would take her, there was noalternative but the poor-house, unless he took her himself and broughther up with his own little five-year-old Nina. He would wait until afterthe funeral and see, he decided, as he went back to his home at BrierHill, where his children, Dick and Nina, were eager to hear all he hadto tell them of the poor little girl whose mother had been frozen todeath. 

The next morning the sleigh from Tracy Park stopped before the cottagedoor, and Frank, who had been to meet the coroner, alighted from it. Hewas pale and haggard as he entered the room where Jerry was playing onthe floor with Harold's Maltese kitten. As he came in she looked up athim, and, lifting her hand, swept the hair back from her forehead justas she had done the day before when Mr. St. Claire was there. Thepeculiar motion had struck the latter as something familiar, though hecould not define it; but Frank did, or in his nervous condition hethought he did, and his knees shook so he could hardly stand as hetalked with Mrs. Crawford and told her he had come for the child, whoought to be where her mother was until after the funeral. '

'Then she will come back again. You will not keep her. She is mine, ain't you, Jerry?' Harold exclaimed, eagerly; while Jerry, who, with achild's instinct scented danger from Harold's manner and associated thatdanger with the strange man looking so curiously at her, sprang to herfeet, which she stamped vigorously, while she cried, ''ess, 'ess, 'ess, 'with her face all in wrinkles, and her blue eyes anything but soft andsunny, as they usually were. 

In this mood she was not much like Gretchen in the picture, but she waslike some one else whom Frank had seen in excited moods, and he grewfaint and sick as he watched her, and saw the varying expression of herface and eyes. The way she shook her head at him and flourished herhands was a way he had seen many times and remembered so well, and hefelt as if his heart would leap from his throat as he tried to speak toher. A turn of the head, a gesture of the hands, a curve of theeyelashes, a tone in the voice, seemed slight actions on which to base acertainty; but Frank did feel certain, and his brain reeled for a secondas his thoughts leaped forward years and years until he was an old man, and he wondered if he could bear it and make no sign. 

Then, just as he had decided that he could not, the tempter suggested aplan which seemed so feasible and fair that the future, with a secret toguard, did not look so formidable, and to himself he said:

'It is not likely I can ever be positive; and so long as there is adoubt, however small, it would be preposterous to give up what otherwisemust come to my children, if not to me; but I will not wrong her morethan I can help. '

'Come, little girl, go with me, ' he said, in his kindest tones, as headvanced toward her, while Harold went for her cloak and hood. 

Jerry knew then that she was expected to go with the stranger, andwithout Harold, and resisted with all her might. Standing behind him, asif safe there, and clinging to his coat, she sobbed piteously, intermingling her sobs with 'Ess, 'ess, 'ess, ' the only English word sheknew, and which she seemed to think would avail in every emergency. 

And it did help her now, for Harold pleaded that he might go, too, andwhen Jerry saw him with his coat and hat, and understood that he was tobe her escort, she ceased to sob, and allowing herself to be made ready, was soon in the sleigh, and on her way to Tracy Park. 

CHAPTER XV. 

JERRY AT THE PARK. 

And so this is the poor little girl. We'll take her right to thekitchen, where she can get warm, ' Mrs. Tracy said, as she met herhusband in the hall, with Harold and the mite of a creature wrapped inthe foreign looking cloak and hood. 

'No, Dolly!' and Frank spoke very decidedly, as Harold was turning inthe direction of the kitchen. 'She is going to the nursery, with theother children, and when they have their dinner she shall have hers withthem. '

'Ess, 'ess, 'ess, ' Jerry said, as if she comprehended that there was adifference of opinion between the man and woman, and that she was on theaffirmative side. 

'Take her to the nursery! Oh, Frank! she may have something about herwhich the children will catch, ' Mrs. Tracy said, blocking the way as shespoke. 

But Jerry, who through the half-open door had caught sight of the prettysitting-room, with its warm carpet and curtains, and cheerful fire, shook her head defiantly at the lady, and brushing past her, went boldlyinto the room, whose brightness had attracted her. 

Marching up to the fire, she stood upon the rug and looked about herwith evident satisfaction; then glancing at the three who were watchingher, she nodded complacently, and said, ''ess, 'ess, 'ess, ' while sheheld her little cold hands to the fire. 

'Acts as if she belonged here, doesn't she?' Frank said to his wife, whodid not reply, so intent was she upon watching the strange child, whodeliberately took off her cloak and hood and tossing them upon thefloor, drew a small low chair to the fire, and climbing into it, satdown as composedly as if she were mistress there instead of an intruder. 

Once she swept the hair back from her forehead with the motion Frankknew so well, and then the lump came into his throat again, and hesteadied himself against the mantel, while he looked curiously at theyoung girl, making herself so much at home and seeming so well pleasedwith her surroundings. 

'Take her to the nursery now. I must see to that coroner, ' he said tohis wife, adding: 'Harold must go too, or there will be the Old Harry topay. '

''Ess, 'ess, ' came decidedly from the child, who went willingly withHarold, and was soon ushered into the large upper room, which was usedas both nursery and school-room, for Mrs. Tracy could not allow her twosons, Tom and Jack, to come in contact with the boys at school; so shekept a governess, a middle-aged spinster, who, glad of a home, and therather liberal compensation, sat all day in the nursery and borepatiently with Tom's freaks and Jack's dullness: to say nothing of thetrouble it was to have the three-year-old Maude toddling about andinterfering with everything. 

'Hallo!' Tom cried, as his mother came in, followed by Harold and Jerry. 'Hallo, what's up?' And throwing aside the slate on which he had beentrying to master the difficulties of a sum in long division, he wenttoward them, and said: 'Has the coroner come, and can't I go and see theinquest? You said maybe I could if I behaved, and I do, don't I, MissHoward?'

Just then he caught sight of Jerry, and stopping short, exclaimed:

'By Jingo! ain't she pretty! I mean to kiss her. '

And he made a movement toward the little face, which looked up so shylyat him. But his mother caught his arm and held him back, as she said, sharply:

'Don't touch her, there is no tolling what you may catch. I wanted herto go to the kitchen, the proper place for her, but your father insistedthat she should be brought here. I hope, Miss Howard, you will see thatshe does not go near the children. '

'Yes, Madam, ' Miss Howard replied, 'but I am sure there can be nodanger. She looks as clean and sweet as a rose. '

Miss Howard was fond of children, and she held out her hand to thelittle girl, who seemed to have a most wonderful faculty fordiscriminating between friends and enemies, and who went to her readily, and leaning against her arm, looked curiously at the group ofchildren--at Tom, and Jack, and Maude, the latter of whom wished to goto her, but was restrained by the nurse. The moment the door closed onMrs. Tracy, Tom walked up to the child, and said:

'I shall kiss her now, anyhow. '

But Jerry hid her face, and could not be induced to look up until he hadmoved away from her. 

'Catty as well as pretty, ' Tom said. 'I wonder who she is anyway, andhow she will like the poor-house?'

'Who said she was going to the poor-house?' Harold exclaimedindignantly. 

'Mother said so, ' Tom replied. 'I heard her talking to the cook. Wherewould she go if she did not go to the poor-house? Who would take care ofher?'

'I!' Harold answered, and to Miss Howard he seemed to grow older a dozenyears, as he stood there with his arms folded and the light of a bravemanhood in his brown eyes. 'I shall take care of her. She will live withgrandmother and me. I found her, and she is mine. '

''Ess, 'ess, 'ess, ' came from Jerry, as she swung one little foot backand forth and looked confidingly at her champion. 

'_You_ take care of her!' Tom sneered, with that supercilious air healways assumed toward those he considered his inferiors. Why, you andyour grandmother can't take care of yourselves, or you couldn't if itwasn't for Uncle Arthur. Mother says so. You wouldn't have any house tolive in if he hadn't given it to you, '

Harold's arms were unfolded now and the doubled fists were in hispockets clenching themselves tighter and tighter as he advanced to Tom, who, remembering his black eye, began to back towards the nurse forsafety. 

'It's a lie, Tom Tracy, ' Harold said. 'Mr. Arthur does not take care ofus. We do it ourselves, and have for ever so long. He did give us thehouse, but it ain't for you to twit me of that. Whose house is this, I'dlike to know? It isn't yours, nor your father's, and there isn't a thingin it yours. It is all Mr. Arthur's. '

'Wall, we are to be his _hares_--Jack, and Maude, and me. Mother saysso, ' Tom stammered out, while Jerry, who had been looking intently, first at one boy, and then at the other, called out in her own language:

'Nein, nein, nein, ' and struck her hand toward Tom. 

'What does she mean by her "Nine, nine, nine, '" he asked of Miss Howard, who replied that she thought it was the German for 'No, no, no, ' andthat the child probably did not approve of him. 

Tom knew she did not, and though she was only a baby, be felt chagrinedand irritable. Had he dared, he would have struck Harold, who asked himwhat he meant by being his uncle's _hare. _ But he was afraid of MissHoward, and remembering it must be time for the inquest, he slipped fromthe room, whispering fiercely to Harold as he passed him:

'Darn you, Hal Hastings, I'll thrash you yet. '

'Let me know when you are ready, and also when you get to be youruncle's _hare_, ' was Harold's taunting reply, as the door closed uponthe discomfited Tom. 

 * * * * *

The inquest was a mere matter of form, for there was no doubt in anyone's mind that the woman had been frozen to death, and she had nofriends to complain that due attention had not been paid her. So after afew questions put to Mr. Tracy, and more to Harold, who was summonedfrom the nursery to tell what he knew, and a look at the cold rigidface, a verdict was rendered of 'Frozen to death. '

Then came the question of burial, as to when, and where, and at whoseexpense. Quite a number of people had assembled and the little room wasfull. Conspicuous among them was Peterkin, who, having been elected toan office, which necessitated a care for the expenditures of thevillage, was swelled with importance, and dying for a chance to beheard. 

When Harold came into the room Jerry was with him. She had refused tolet him leave her, and he led her by the hand into the midst of the men, who grew as silent and respectful the moment she appeared as if she hadbeen a woman instead of a little child, who could speak no word of theirlanguage, or understand what was said to her. It was her mother lyingthere dead, and they made way for her as, catching sight of the whiteface, she uttered a cry of joy, and running up to the body, patted thecold cheeks, while she kept calling 'Mah-nee, Mah-nee, ' and saying wordsunintelligible to all, but full of pathos and love, and child-likecoaxing for the inanimate form to rouse itself, and speak to her again. 

'Poor little thing, ' was said by more than one, and hands went up toeyes unused to tears, for the sight was a touching one--that lovelychild bending over the dead face, and imprinting kisses upon it. 

Harold took her away from the body, and lifting her into a chair, keptby her, as with her arm around his neck, she stood listening to, andwatching, and sometimes imitating the gestures of the men around her. 

It was Peterkin who spoke first; standing back so straight that hisimmense stomach, with the heavy gold watch-chain hanging across it, seemed to fill the room, he gave his opinion before any one had a chanceto express theirs. 

It was the first time he had been in the house since the morning afterthe party, when Arthur had turned him from the door. He had vowedvengeance against the Tracys then, and kept his vow by spending twothousand dollars in order to defeat Frank as member of Congress and toget himself elected as one of the village trustees, and now he had come, partly out of curiosity to see the woman, and partly to oppose her beingburied by the town, if such a thing were suggested. 

'Let them Tracys bury their own dead, ' he said to his wife before heleft home, and he said it again in substance now, as with a tremendous'ahem!' he commenced his speech standing close to little Jerry, whonever took her eyes from him, but watched him with a face which variedin its expression with every variation in his voice and manner, andreached its climax when he said: 'I don't b'lieve in saddlin' the townwith a debt we don't orto pay. Let the Tracys bury their own dead, Isay!'

''Ess, 'ess, 'ess, ' Jerry chimed in with an emphatic shake of her headwith each ''ess, ' and a flourish of her hand more threatening thanapproving toward the speaker, who glanced at her and went on:

'Do you see, gentlemen of the jury, who this cub looks like. I do! andso can you with half an eye. She looks like Arthur Tracy!'

Just then Jerry swept back her golden hair, and, opening her eyes, flashed them around the room until they rested by accident upon Frank, who, pale, and faint, and terrified, was leaning against the door-waytrying to seem only amused at the tirade which was concluded as follows:

'Yes, Arthur Tracy! Not her skin, perhaps, nor hair, nor her eyes, leastwise not the color, but something I can't describe; and this woman, her mother, you say is a furriner; that may be, but I've seen her afore, or I'm mistaken. She took passage once on the 'Liza Ann, I'm sure on't, and Arthur look passage same day as far as Chester and was as chipper asyou please with her. I don't say nothin', nor insinerate nothin', but Iwon't consent to have the town pay what belongs to the Tracys. Let 'emrun their own canoes and funerals, too, I say; and as for this young onewith the yaller hair--though where she got that the lord only knows;'tain't her's, ' pointing to the corpse; 'nor 'tain't his'n, ' pointing inthe direction of Arthur's rooms; 'as for her, I'm opposed to sendin' tothe poor-house another pauper. '

'She is not a pauper, and she is not going to the poor-house either, 'Harold exclaimed, while Jerry came in with her _nein, nein, nein_, whichmade the bystanders laugh, as Peterkin went on, addressing himself toHarold:

'You are her champion, hey, and intend to take care of her. Mighty fine, I'm sure, but hadn't you better fetch back May Jane's pin that you tookat the party. '

'It is false, ' Harold cried. 'I never saw the pin, never!' and the hottears sprang to his eyes at this unmanly assault. 

By this time Peterkin, who felt that everybody was against him, wasswelling with rage, and seizing Harold by the collar, roared out:

'Do you tell me I lie! You rascal! I'll teach you what belongs tomanners!' and he would have struck the boy but for Jerry, who had beenwatching him as a cat watches a mouse, and who, raising her war-cry of'_nein, nein, nein_, ' sprang at him like a little tiger, and by thefierceness of her gestures and the volubility of her German jargonactually compelled him to retreat step by step until she had him outsidethe door, which she barred with her diminutive person. No one could helplaughing at the discomfited giant and the mite of a child facing him sobravely, while she scolded at the top of her voice. 

Peterkin saw that he was beaten and left the house, vowing vengeanceagainst both Harold and Jerry, if he should ever have it in his power toharm them. 

When he was gone, Frank, who had recovered his composure during theludicrous scene, said to those present:

'I would not explain to that brute, but it is not my intention totrouble the town. I have no more idea who this woman is than you have, and I'll swear that Peterkin's vile insinuations with regard to her arefalse. My brother says he never saw her in his life, and he speaks thetruth. She may have been on Peterkin's boat, but I doubt it. She hasevery appearance of a foreigner, and her child'--here Frank's tonguefelt a little thick, but he cleared his throat and went on--'her childspeaks a foreign language--German, they tell me. This poor woman died onmy--or rather my brother's premises. I have consulted with him, and hethinks as I do, that she should be cared for at our expense. He says, further, that there is room on the Tracy lot; she is to be buried there. I shall attend to it at once, and the funeral will take place to-morrowmorning at ten o'clock from this house. What disposition will be made ofthe child I have not yet decided, but she will _not_ go to thepoor-house. '

'Oh, Mr. Tracy, ' Harold burst out, 'she is mine. She is to live withgrandma and me. You will not take her from me--say you will not?'

'_Vill not_, ' Jerry reiterated, imitating as well as she could Harold'slast words. 

For a moment Mr. Tracy looked fixedly at the boy, pleading for a burdenwhich would necessitate toil, and self-denial, and patience of noordinary kind and never had he despised himself more than he did then, when, believing what he did believe, he said at last:

'I will talk with your grandmother, and see what arrangements we canmake. I rather think you have the best right to her. But she must stayhere to-night and until after the funeral, when she can go with you, ifyou like. '

To this Harold did not object, and as Jerry seemed very happy andcontent, he left her, while she was exploring the long drawing-room, andexamining curiously the different articles of furniture. As she did notseem disposed to touch anything, she was allowed to go where she liked, although Mrs. Frank remonstrated against her roaming all over the houseas if she belonged there, and suggested again that she be sent to thekitchen. But Frank said 'no, ' decidedly, and Jerry was left to herself, except as the nurse-girl and Charles looked after her a little. 

And so it came about that towards evening she found herself in the upperhall, and after making a tour of the rooms, whose doors were open, shecame to one whose door was shut--nor could she turn the knob, althoughshe tried with all her might. Doubling her tiny fist, she knocked uponthe door, and then, as no one came, kicked against it with her foot, butstill with no result. 

Inside the room, with Gretchen's picture, Arthur sat in hisdressing-gown, very nervous and a little inclined to be irritable andcaptious. He knew there had been an inquest, and that many people hadcome and gone that day, for he had seen them from his window, and hadseen, too, the sleigh, with Frank, and the coroner, and Harold, and ablue hood, drive into the yard. But to the blue hood he never gave athought, as he was only intent upon the dead woman, whose presence inthe house made him so nervous and restless. 

'I shall be glad when she is buried. I have been so cold and shaky eversince they brought her here, ' he said to Charles, as, with a shiver, hedrew his chair nearer to the fire and leaning back wearily in it fixedhis eyes upon Gretchen's picture smiling at him from the window, 'Dearlittle Gretchen, ' he said in a whisper, 'you seem so near to me now thatI can almost hear your feet at the door, and your voice asking to comein. Hush!' and he started suddenly, as Jerry's kicks made themselvesheard even to the room where he sat. 'Hush! Charles, who is that bangingat the door? Surely not Maude? They would not let her come up here. Goand see, and send her away. '

He had forgotten that he was listening for Gretchen, and when Charles, who had opened the door cautiously and described the intruder, said tohim. 'It is that woman's child. Shall I let her in? She is a prettylittle thing, ' he replied, 'Let her in? No; why should you and why isshe allowed to prowl around the house? Tell her to go away. '

So Jerry was sent away with a troubled disappointed look in her littleface, and as the chill March night came on and the dark shades creptinto the room and Gretchen's picture gradually faded from sight in thegathering gloom until it seemed only a confused mixture of lead andglass, Arthur felt colder, and drearier, and more wretched than he hadever felt before. It was a genuine case of homesickness, if one can behomesick who is in his own house, surrounded by every possible comfortand luxury. He was tired, and sick, and disappointed, and his head wasaching terribly, while thoughts of the past were crowding his brainwhere the light of reason seemed struggling to reinstate itself. He wasthinking of Gretchen, and longing for her so intensely that once hegroaned aloud and whispered to himself:

'Poor Gretchen! I am so sorry for it all. I can see it clearer now, howI left her and did not write, and I don't know where she is, or if shewill ever come; and yet, I feel as if she had come, or tidings of her. Perhaps my letter reached her. Perhaps she is on her way. God grant it, and forgive me for all I have made her suffer. '

It was very still in the room where Arthur sat, for Charles had goneout, and only the occasional crackling of the coal in the grate andticking of the clock broke the silence which reigned around him; and atlast, soothed into quiet, he fell asleep and dreamed that on his door heheard again the thud of baby feet, while Gretchen's voice was calling tohim to let the baby in. 

CHAPTER XVI. 

THE FUNERAL AND AFTER. 

Long before ten o'clock, the hour appointed for the funeral, the nextmorning, people began to gather at the Park House, and the avenue seemedfull of them. The news that an unknown woman had been frozen to death inthe Tramp House had spread far and wide, awakening in many a curiosityto see the stranger, and discover, if possible, a likeness to some onethey might have known. 

It was strange how many reminiscences were brought to mind by thiscircumstance of girls who had disappeared years before and were supposedto be dead--or worse. And this woman might be one of them; indeed, Peterkin had said that she was, and they came in crowds to see her, andto see, as well, the inside of the handsome house, of which they hadheard so much, especially since Mr. Arthur's return. But in this theywere disappointed, for all the front rooms were locked against them, andonly the large dining-room, the breakfast-room, the servants' hall, andthe little back office were thrown open to the public. In the first ofthese the corpse was lying in a substantial, handsome coffin, for Frank, who ordered it, would have no other; and when the undertaker suggested acheaper one would answer just as well, had said, decidedly:

'I mean to bury her decently. Give me this one, and send the bill to me, not to Arthur. '

It was _his_ funeral, and, judging from his face, he was burying all hisfriends, instead of a poor, unknown woman, whose large, coarse featuresand plain woollen dress looked out of place in that handsome blackcoffin, with its silver-plated trimmings. Frank had suggested that sheshould have a white merino shroud, but his wife had overruled him. Itwas _not_ her funeral, and she had no interest in it, except that itshould be over as soon as possible, and the house cleansed from theatmosphere of death. So when her husband asked if the child ought not tohave a mourning-dress, she scoffed at him for the suggestion saying shedid not like to see children in black anyway, and even if she diedherself she should not wish hers to wear it. 

'I cannot imagine, ' she continued, 'why you have taken so unaccountablea fancy to and interest in these people, especially the child. One wouldthink she belonged to royalty, the fuss you make over her. What are weto do with her to-night? Where is she to sleep?'

'In the nursery, ' was his reply; and he saw his wishes carried out andordered in a crib, which used to be Jack's, and bade the nurse see thatshe was comfortable. 

So Jerry was put to bed in the nursery and slept very quietly untilabout, ten o'clock when she awoke and cried piteously for both 'Man-nee'and 'Ha-roll. ' Frank, who was sitting alone in the library, heard thecry, and knew it was not Maude's. Had it been he would not have mindedit, for he knew that she would be cared for without his interference. But something in the crying of this little foreign girl stirred himstrangely, and after listening to it a few moments he arose, and goingsoftly to the door of the nursery, stood listening until a sharp hushfrom the nurse girl decided him to enter, and going to the crib he bentover the sobbing child and tried to comfort her. She could notunderstand him, but the tone of his voice was kind, and when he put hishand on her hot head she took it in hers and held it fast, as if sherecognized in him a friend. And Frank as he felt the clasp of the soft, warm fingers, and saw the confiding look in the wide-open eyes, grewfaint and cold, and asked himself again, as he had many times that day, _if he could do it_. 

Jerry was asleep at last, but she sobbed occasionally in her sleep, andthere were great tears on her eyelashes, while her fingers clutchedFrank's hand tightly as if fearing to let it go. But he managed todisengage it and stealing cautiously from the room went back to thelibrary where he sat late into the night, facing the future andwondering if he could meet it. 

He had Jerry at the table next morning and saw that she was helped toeverything she wanted without any regard to its suitability for her, andwhen his wife said rather curtly that she never knew that he was so fondof children before, he answered her:

'I am only doing as I would wish some one to do to Maude if she werelike this poor little girl. '

When, at last, the hour for the funeral arrived he placed her himselfupon the high chair close to the coffin, where she sat through the shortservice, conspicuous in her gray cloak and blue hood, with her goldenhair falling on her neck and piled in wavy masses on her forehead, whileher bright eyes scanned the crowd curiously as if asking why they werethere and why they were all looking so intently at her. More than onekind-hearted woman went up and kissed her, and when, at the close of theservices, Mr. Tracy held her in his arms for a last look at her mother, their tears fell fast for the child, so unconscious of the meaning ofwhat was passing around her. 

'Isn't she beautiful! Such lovely hair, and eyes, and dazzlingcomplexion!' was said by more than one; and then they speculated as toher future. 

Would she go to the poor-house? Would Frank Tracy keep her with all hischildren, or was it true, as they had heard, that Mr. Arthur Tracy wasto adopt her at his own? And where was Mr. Arthur? He might, at least, have shown enough respect for the dead woman to come into the room, andthey wanted so much to see him, for there was a great deal of curiositywith regard to the lunatic of Tracy Park among the lower class of peoplewho had come to Shannondale during the eleven years of his absence. 

But Arthur was sick in bed, suffering alternately from chills and araging fever, which set his brain on fire and made him wilder thanusual. He had not slept well during the night. Indeed, he said, he hadnot slept at all. But this was a common assertion of his, and one towhich Charles now paid little heed. 

'A man can't snore and not sleep, ' was the unanswerable argument withwhich he refuted the sleepless nights of his master. 

On this occasion, however, he had heard no snoring, and Arthur's face, seen by the morning light, was a sufficient proof of the wakeful hourshe had passed. He, too, had heard the distant crying, and feltinstinctively that it was not Maude's. Starting up in bed to listen, hesaid:

'What's that? Is that child here yet?'

'Yes sir: she is to stay till after the funeral, ' was Charles' reply, and Arthur continued:

'Bring me some cotton for my ears. I never can stand that noise. It is apeculiar cry. '

The cotton was brought. A window in the hall which had a habit ofrattling with every breath of wind was made fast with a bit of shinglewhittled out for that purpose, and then Arthur became tolerably quietuntil morning, when he began to talk to himself in the German language, which Charles could not understand. But he caught the name Gretchen, andknew she was the subject of the sick man's thoughts. Suddenly turning tohis attendant, to whom he always spoke in English, Arthur said:

'The funeral is to-day?'

'Yes, sir, at ten o'clock. '

'Well, lock every door leading up this way, and shut out the gossippingblockheads who will come by hundreds, and, if we would let them, swarminto my room as thick as the frogs were in the houses of the Egyptians. Shut the doors, Charles, and keep them out. '

So the doors were shut and bolted, and then Arthur lay listening withthat intensity which so quickens one's hearing, that the faintest soundsare distinct at great distances. He heard the trampling footsteps as thepeople came crowding in, and the tread of horses' feet as sleigh aftersleigh drove up the avenue, and once, with a shudder, he said:

'That is the hearse. I am sure of it. '

Then all was still, and listen as he might he could not distinguish thefaintest sound until the services were over and the people began toleave the house. 

'There, ' he said, with a sigh of relief; 'it will soon be over. Bring memy clothes, Charles. I am going to get up and see the last of this poorwoman. God help her, whoever she was. '

He was beginning to feel a great pity for the woman whose coffin theywere putting in the hearse, which moved off a few rods, and then stoppeduntil the open sleigh came up, the sleigh in which Frank Tracy sat, muffled in his heavy overcoat, for the day, though bright and sunny, wascold, and a chill March wind was blowing. Dolly had taken refuge in aheadache which had prevented her from being present at the funeral andkept her from going to the grave as her husband had wished her to do. Soonly Harold and Jerry occupied the sleigh with Frank, and these satopposite him, with their backs to the horses, Jerry in her gray cloakand blue hood showing conspicuously as she came into full view of thewindow where Arthur stood looking at the procession with a feeling athis heart, as if in some way he were interested in the sad funeral, where there was no mourner, no one who had ever seen or known thedeceased, save the little helpless girl, looking around her in perfectunconcern save as she rather liked the stir and all that was going on. 

They had tied a thin veil over her head to shield her from the cold, andthus her face was not visible to Arthur. But he saw the blue hood andthe golden hair on the old gray cloak, and the sight of it moved himmightily, making him hold fast to the window-casing for support, whilehe stood watching it. Just as far as he could see it his eye followedthat hood, and when it disappeared from view, he turned from the window, deathly sick, and tottering back to his bedroom, vomited from sheernervous excitement. 

'Thank Heaven it is over and the rabble gone, ' he said, when he becameeasier. 'Go now and open all the doors and windows to let in the freshair and out the smell they are sure to have left. Ugh! I get a whiff ofit now. Burn some of that aromatic paper; but open the hall windowsfirst. '

Charles did as he was ordered, and the wind was soon sweeping throughthe wide hall, while Arthur's rooms were filled with an odor like thesweet incense burned in the old cathedrals. 

'I am very giddy and faint, ' Arthur said, when Charles came back to himafter his ventilating operation. 'I have looked at the bright snow toolong, and there are a thousand rings of fire dancing before my eyes, andin every ring I see a blue hood and veil, with waves of hair likeGretchen's, when she was a child. There is a redder tinge now onGretchen's hair, because she is older. Wheel me out there, Charles, where I can see her. '

Charles obeyed, and moved the light bed-lounge into the library, wherehis master could feast his eyes upon the sweet face which knew nochange, but which always, night and day, smiled upon him the same. Thepicture had a soothing effect upon Arthur, and he gazed at it now untilit began to fade away and lose itself in the blue hood and veil he hadseen in the sleigh far down the avenue; and when, a few minutes later, Charles came in to look at him, he found him fast asleep. 

Meantime the funeral train had reached the cemetery, where the snow waspiled in great drifts, and where, in a corner of the Tracy lot, theyburied the stranger, with no tear to hallow her grave, and no pang ofregret save that she had ever come there, with the mystery and the doubtwhich must always cling to her memory. Frank Tracy's face was very paleand stern as he held little Jerry in his arms during the committal ofthe body to the grave, and then bade her take one last look at the boxwhich held her mother. But Jerry, who was growing cold and tired, beganto cry, and so Frank took her back to the sleigh, which was driven tothe cottage in the lane. Here she felt at home, and drawing to the firethe low rocking chair she had appropriated to herself, was soonsupremely happy devouring the ginger cookie which Mrs. Crawford hadgiven her, and in trying to pronounce English words under Harold'steaching. 

While the children were thus employed, Mr. Tracy was divulging to Mrs. Crawford the object of his visit. He could hardly explain, he said, whyhe was so deeply interested in the child, except it were that her motherhad died on his premises and she seemed to be thrown upon his care. 

'I cannot see her go to the poor-house, ' he continued, with a tremblingin his voice which made Mrs. Crawford wonder a little, as she had nevercredited him with much sympathy for anything outside his own family. 'Icannot see her go to the poor-house, and I cannot well take her into myfamily, as we have three children of our own. But I have made up my mindto care for her, and I have come to ask if, for a compensation, you willkeep her here?'

'Yes, grandma--say yes!' Harold cried; while Jerry, with her mouth fullof cookie, repeated, 'ay 'ess. '

'You see, the children plead for me, ' Mr. Tracy said, with a smile atthe little girl, whose hand just then swept back the hair from her eyes, which looked steadily at him as he went on: 'While she is young--say, until she is ten years old--I will pay you three dollars a week, andafter that more, if necessary. I know you will be kind to her, and thatshe will be happy here and well brought up. Is it a bargain?'

Mrs. Crawford had never seen him so interested in anything and feltsomewhat surprised and puzzled, but she expressed her willingness totake the child and do what she could for her. 

'It will be a good thing for Harold, ' she said, 'as he is in danger ofgrowing selfish here alone with me. '

And so Jerry's future was settled, and counting out twelve dollars, Frank handed them to Mrs. Crawford, saying:

'I will pay you for four weeks in advance, as you may need the money, and--and--perhaps--' His face grew very red as he stammered on, 'perhapsit may be as well not to tell how much I pay you. People--orrather--well, Mrs. Tracy might think it strange, and not understand whyI feel such an interest in the child. I don't understand it myself. '

But he did understand, and his knees were shaking under him as, when thetransaction was over, and he was on his way to the Park, he felt that hehad sold himself to Satan. 

'And yet I know nothing for sure, ' he kept repeating to himself. 'Arthuris expecting Gretchen, whoever she may be. He says he has written toher, and he has one of his presentiments that she is coming on the nightwhen this woman arrives, who is no more like the Gretchen he raves aboutthan I am. This woman has a child. He says Gretchen has none, and thathe never saw this woman. And yet I find among the things a photographexactly like the picture in the window, and also like the child, whocertainly bears a resemblance to my brother, though no one else, perhaps, would see it. Now, sir, ' he appeared to be addressing himselfto some person unseen, from whom he shrank, for he drew himself as faras was possible to his side of the sleigh and shivered as he went on:'Now, sir, is that sufficient proof to warrant me in turning everythingtopsy-turvy, and making Arthur crazier than he is?'

'Certainly not, ' he seemed to hear in reply, either from within orwithout, he hardly knew which, and he went on:

'I shall try to find out who the woman was, and where she came from; buthow am I to do it? how begin? Arthur will not tell me a word aboutGretchen, who she is, or what she is to him. Still, I mean to be on thesafe side, and do right by the child. Arthur cannot live many years. Hisnerves will wear him out, if nothing else, and when he does, his moneywill naturally come to me. '

'Naturally, ' his spectral companion replied, and he continued:

'Well, what I intend doing is this: I shall make my will, in which Jerrywill share equally with my children, and I shall further draw up awritten request that in case I die before my brother, any money whichmay fall to my children from him shall be shared equally with her. Ishall, out of my own private funds, provide for her support andeducation, until she comes of age, or marries, and if possible, I shallbring about a marriage between her and Tom, who will probably one day bemaster of Tracy Park. Can anything more be required of me?'

'Nothing, ' was the consoling reply; and as the sleigh just then drew upbefore his door, Frank alighted from it, and said to himself as he ranup the steps:

'I believe I have been riding with the devil, and have made a leaguewith him!'

He found the house thoroughly aired and cleansed from all signs of therecent funeral; and when, at one o'clock, he sat down to lunch in thehandsome dining-room, and sipped his favorite claret, and ate hisforeign preserves, and thought how much comfort and luxury money couldbuy, he was sure he had done well for himself and his children afterhim. But, like Bishop Hatto, of Mouse-Tower memory, Frank Tracy neverknew real peace of mind from the day he deliberately sold himself to theEvil One for filthy lucre, until the day, years after, when fullrestitution was made, and, with the sin confessed, he held his head upagain, free from the shadow which he did not leave in the sleigh, butwhich followed him day and night, walking by him when he walked, sittingby him when he sat, and watching by him when he slept, so as to be readywhen he woke with the specious argument that he was acting justly andeven generously by the little waif, who was like a sunbeam in thecottage in the lane, whom many people went to see, marvelling at herbeauty and wondering in vain whose likeness they sometimes saw in her asshe frolicked around the house, full of life, and fun, and laughter. 

Frank made his will, as he promised his shadow he would, but he went toSpringfield to have it drawn up, for he knew that Colvin, or any lawyerwhom he might employ in Shannondale, would wonder at it. He also wroteout himself what he called his dying request to his children, in case heshould die before his brother. In this he stated emphatically his wishthat Jerry should have her share of whatever might come to them from theTracy estate, the same as if she were his own child. 

'I have a good and sufficient reason for this, ' he wrote in conclusion, 'and I enjoin it upon you to carry out my wishes as readily as you wouldwere I to speak to you from my grave, '

This done, Frank felt a little better, and the shadow at his side wasnot quite as real as it had been before. He put his will and his dyingrequest together in a private drawer with Gretchen's photograph, and thetestament with the handwriting in it. He had kept this back when thestranger's trunk was sent to the cottage, thinking that if it weremissed and inquired for, he could easily produce it as having beenmislaid. At the suggestion of Mr. St. Claire he went to New York, to theoffice of the German line of steamers, and made inquiries with regard tothe passengers who had come on a certain ship at such a time. Butnothing could be learned of any woman with a child, and after insertingin several of the New York papers a description of the woman, with arequest for any information concerning her which could be given, hereturned home, with a feeling that he had done all that could berequired of him, and that he might now enjoy himself. 

He was accordingly kind and even tender to his brother, who for severalweeks suffered from low nervous depression, which kept him altogether inhis room, to which he refused to admit any one except his attendant andFrank. He had ceased for the time being, to talk of Gretchen, or toexpect her, and he never inquired for the child, whose blue hood had soaffected him. Once Frank spoke of her to him and told him where she was, and that she was learning to speak English very rapidly, and growingprettier every day. But Arthur did not seem at all interested and onlysaid:

'How can Mrs. Crawford afford to keep the child?'

Others than Arthur asked that question, and among them Dolly, who with awoman's quick wit, sharpened by something she accidentally saw, divinedthe truth, which she wrung at last from her husband. There was a fiercequarrel--almost their first--a sick headache which lasted three days, and a month or more of coldness between the married pair, and then, finding she could accomplish nothing, for Frank was as firm as a rock, Dolly gave up the contest, and tried by economizing in various ways, tosave the money which she felt was taken from her children by the littlegirl, who had become so dear to Mrs. Crawford, that she would not haveparted with her had nothing been paid for her keeping. 

CHAPTER XVII. 

"MR. CRAZYMAN, DO YOU WANT SOME CHERRIES?"

More than two years had passed away since the terrible March night whenthe strange woman was frozen to death in the Tramp House, and herhistory was still shrouded in mystery. Not a word had been heardconcerning her, and her story was gradually being forgotten by thepeople of Shannondale. Her grave, however, was tolerably well kept, andevery Saturday afternoon, in summer time, a few flowers were put upon itby Harold. Not so much for the sake of the dead as for the beautifulchild who always accompanied him, laughing, and frolicking, andsometimes dancing around the grave where he told her her mother wasburied. 

As there had been no date on which to fix Jerry's birth, they had calledthe first day of March her birthday, so that when more than two yearslater we introduce her to our readers on a hot July morning, she wassaid to be six years and four months old. In some respects, however, sheseemed much older, for there was about her a precocity only found inchildren who have always associated with people much older thanthemselves, or into whose lives strange experiences have come. Instature she was very short, though round and plump as a partridge. 'Dutchy, ' Mr. Tracy called her, for Mrs. Tracy did not like her, andtook no pains to conceal her dislike, though it was based upon nothingexcept the money which she knew was paid regularly to Mrs. Crawford forthe child's maintenance. 

There could be no reason, she said to her husband, why he should supportthe child of a tramp, and the woman had been little better, judging fromappearances, unless, indeed--and then she told what old Peterkin hadsaid more than once, to the effect that Jerry Crawford, as she wascalled, was growing to be the image of the Tracys, especially Arthur. 

'And if so, ' she added, 'you'd better let Arthur take care of her, andsave your money for your own children, '

To this Frank never replied. He knew better than old Peterkin that Jerrywas like the Tracys, or, rather, like his brother, and that it was notso much in the features as in the expression and certain movements ofthe head and hands, and tones of the voice when she was very much inearnest, and raised it to a higher pitch than usual. She could speakEnglish very well now, and sometimes, when Frank, who was a frequentvisitor at the cottage, sat watching her at her play, and listening toher as she talked to herself, as was her constant habit, he could haveshut his eyes and sworn it was his brother's voice calling to him fromthe hay-loft or apple tree where they had played together when boys. 

Jerry's favorite amusement when alone was to make believe that eitherherself, or a figure she had made out of a shawl, was a sick woman, lying on a settee which she converted into a bed. Sometimes she was thenurse and took care of the sick woman to whom she always spoke inGerman, bending fondly over her, and occasionally holding up before hera doll which Mrs. St. Claire had given her, and which she played was thewoman's baby. Then she would be the sick woman herself, and trying onthe broad frilled cap which had been found in the trunk, would slipunder the covering, and laying her head upon the pillow, go through withall the actions of some one very sick, occasionally hugging to her bosomand kissing the doll. 

Once she enacted the pantomime of dying. Folding her hands together andclosing her eyes, her lips moved as if in prayer, for a moment, thenstretching out her feet she lay perfectly motionless, with a setexpression in the little face which looked so comical under the broadfrilled cap. Then, as if it had occurred to her that action wasnecessary from some one, she exchanged places with the lay figure, andtying the cap upon its head, tucked it carefully in the bed, by whichshe knelt, and covering her face with her hands imitated perfectly thesobs and moans of a middle-aged person, mingled occasionally with theclearer, softer notes of a child's crying. 

The first time Frank witnessed this piece of acting was on a Saturdayafternoon, when he had come to the cottage as usual to pay his weeklydue. Both Mrs. Crawford and Harold were gone, but knowing they wouldsoon return, as it was not their habit to leave Jerry long alone he satdown to wait, while she went back to the corner in the kitchen, whichshe used as her play-house. 

'Somebody is sick and I am taking care of her, ' she said to Mr. Tracy, who watched her through the pantomime of the death scene with a feeling, when it was over, that he had seen Gretchen die. 

There was not a shadow of doubt in his mind that the sick woman wasGretchen, the nurse the stranger found in the Tramp House, and the dollbaby the little girl upon whose memory that scene had been indeliblystamped, and who, with her wonderful powers of imitation, could rehearseit in every particular. To herself she always spoke in German, which noone could understand sufficiently to make out what she meant. Once Mr. St. Claire suggested to Frank that he take her to his brother, to whomGerman was as natural as English, and who might be able to learnsomething of her antecedents. And Frank had answered that he would doso, knowing the while that nothing could tempt him to bring her and hisbrother together until all the recollections of her babyhood, if she hadany, were obliterated, and she had in part forgotten her own language. 

His first step in evil doing had to be followed by others until he wasso far committed that he could not retrace his steps, and two shadowswere with him constantly now, one always reproaching him for what he haddone, and the other telling him it was now too late to turn back. 

He was very fond of Jerry, and on the Saturday afternoon when he satwatching her strange play, noticing how graceful was every movement, andhow lovely the constantly varying expression of her face--from concernand anxiety when she was the nurse to distress and pain and thenresignation and quietude in death when she took the role of the sickwoman--he felt himself moved by some mighty influence to right her atonce and put her in her proper place. 

'It is more than I can bear. I can't even look Dolly straight in theeye, ' he said to his evil shadow, which answered back. 

'You know nothing sure. Will you give up your prospects for a photographand a likeness which may be accidental?'

So his conscience was smothered again; but he would question the child, and after her play was over he called her to him and taking her in hislap, kissed the little grave face upon which the shadow of the scene shehad been enacting had left its impress. 

'Jerry, ' he said, 'that lady who just died in the bed with the cap onwas your mamma, was it not?'

''Ess, ' was Jerry's reply, for she still adhered to her firstpronunciation of the word. 

'And the other was the nurse?'

''Ess, ' Jerry said again; 'Mah-nee. '

This was puzzling, for he had always supposed that by 'mah-nee' thechild meant 'mam-ma;' but he went on:

'Try to understand me, Jerry; try to think away back before you came inthe ship. '

''Ess, I vill, ' she said, with a very wise look on her face, while Mr. Tracy continued:

'Had you a papa? Was he there with you?'

'_Nein_, ' was the prompt reply, and Mr. Tracy continued:

'Where did your mamma live? Was it in Wiesbaden?'

He knew he did not pronounce the word right, and was surprised at thesudden lighting up of the child's eyes as she tried to repeat the name. 'Oo-oo-ee, ' she began, with a tremendous effort, but the W mastered her, and she gave it up with a shake of her head. 

'I not say dat oo-oo-ee, ' she said, and he put the question in anotherform:

'Where did your mamma die?'

'Tamp House; f'oze to deff, ' was now the ready answer, a natural one, too, for she had been taught by Harold that such was the case, and hadoften gone with him to the house where he found her, and where the oldtable still stood against the wall. 

No one picnicked there now, for the place was said to be haunted, andthe superstitious ones told each other that on stormy nights, when thewild winds were abroad, lights had been seen in the Tramp House, where apale-faced woman, with her long, black hair streaming down her back, stood in the door-way, shrieking for help, while the cry of a childmingled with her call. But Harold shared none of these fancies. He wasnot afraid of the building, and often went there with Jerry, and sittingwith her on the table, told her again and again how he had found hermother that wintry morning, and how funny she herself had looked in theold carpet-bag, and so it is not strange that when Mr. Tracy asked herwhere her mother died, she should answer, 'In the Tramp House, ' althoughshe had acted a pantomime whose reality must have taken place under verydifferent circumstances. 

'Of course your mother died in the Tramp House, and I have nothing withwhich to reproach myself. I am altogether too morbid on the subject, 'Frank said, and he had decided that he was a pretty good sort of fellow, after all, when at last Mrs. Crawford came in and he paid her forJerry's board. 

It was a part of Frank's plan to save the money out of his own personalexpenses, so he smoked two cigars less each day and went without claretfor dinner, except on Sunday, and never touched champagne, and wore hishats and coats until his wife said they were shabby and insisted uponnew ones. In this way he saved more than three dollars a week, but theoverplus was laid aside for the time when Jerry must necessarily costhim more because she would be older. In some respects he was doing hisduty by the child, who, next to Harold and Mrs. Crawford, whom shecalled grandma, loved him better than any one else. She always ran tomeet him when he came, and sometimes, when he went away, accompanied himdown the lane, holding his hand and asking him numberless questionsabout Tracy Park and about his little girl, and why she never came tosee her. 

Frank could not tell Jerry of his wife's bitter prejudice against her, and that this was the reason why Maude had never been to the cottage orJerry to the park. But if Jerry had not visited it in person, she wasgreatly interested in the handsome house and grounds, and the lovelyrooms where the crazy man lived. This was Harold's designation of Mr. Arthur--the crazy man--and perhaps of all the things at Tracy Park, Jerry was most desirous to see him and his rooms. Harold, who, on one ofthe rare occasions when Arthur was out to dine, had been sent to thehouse on an errand, had gone with Jack into these rooms, which hedescribed minutely to his grandmother and Jerry, dwelling longest uponthe beautiful picture in the window. 'Gretchen, he calls it, ' he said;and then Jerry, who was listening intently, gave a sudden upward andsidewise turn to her Lead, just as she had done when Mr. Tracy spoke toher of Wiesbaden. 

'Detchen, ' she repeated, with a little hesitancy. 'Vat the name vas? Sayagain. '

He said it again, and over the child's face there came a puzzledexpression, as if she were trying to recall something which baffled allher efforts. But she did not forget the name, and that evening Mrs. Crawford heard her singing to herself, 'Detchen, Detchen, who are you? Detchen, Detchen, where are you?' andshe noticed that the doll baby with which Jerry played the most was everafter called 'Detchen, ' instead of Maude, as it had been christened whenfirst given to her. 

Jerry had seen Maude Tracy many times and had admired her greatly, withher pretty white dresses and costly embroideries; and once, at church, when Maude passed near where she was standing, she stood back as far aspossible out of the way and held her plain gingham dress aside, as ifneither it nor herself had any right to come in close contact with sosuperior a being. Of the house in the park she knew nothing, except whatHarold had told her, and that it was a place to be admired and gazed atbreathlessly at a respectful distance. She had never been there sincethe day of the funeral But she was going at last with Harold, who hadpermission to gather cherries for his grandmother from some of the manytrees which grew upon the place. 

It was a hot morning in July, and the air seemed thunderous and heavywhen she set off on what to her was as important an expedition as is atrip to Europe to an older person. She had wanted to wear her pinkgingham dress, the one kept sacred for Sunday, and had even hoped thatshe might be allowed to display her best straw hat with the blue ribbonsand cluster of apple blossoms. She had no doubt that she should go intothe house and see the crazy man, and Mrs. Tracy, who she had heard woresilk stockings every day, and she wished to be suitably attired for suchhonor. 

But Mrs. Crawford dispelled her air castles by telling her that she wasonly to go into the side yard where the cherry trees were, and that shemust be very quiet, so as not to disturb Mr. Arthur, whose windowslooked that way. To wear her pink dress was impossible, as she would getit stained with the juice of the cherries, while the best hat was notfor a moment to be thought of. 

So Jerry submitted to the dark calico frock and high-necked, long-sleeved apron which Mrs. Crawford thought safe and proper for herto wear on a cherry expedition. A clean, white sun-bonnet with a widecape covered her head and concealed her face when she started from thecottage, with her quart tin pail on her arm; but no sooner was she onthe path which led to the park that the obnoxious bonnet was removed andwas swinging on her arm, while she was admiring the shadow which, herlong, bright curls made in the sunshine as she shook her head from sideto side. 

To tell the truth, our little Jerry was rather vain. Passionately fondof pictures and flowers, and quick to detect everything beautiful bothin art and nature, she knew that the little face she sometimes saw inMrs. Crawford's old-fashioned mirror was pretty, and after the day whenDick St. Claire told her that her hair was 'awful handsome, ' she hadfelt a pride in it and in herself, which all Mrs. Crawford'sasseverations that 'Handsome is that handsome does' could not destroy. Maude Tracy's hair was black and straight, and here she felt she had theadvantage over her. 

'I do hope we shall see her, ' she said to Harold, as she danced along, swaying her bonnet and shaking her hair. 'Do you think we shall?'

Harold thought it doubtful, and, even if they did, it was not likely shewould speak to them, he said. 

'Why not?' Jerry asked, and he replied:

'Oh, I suppose they feel big because they are rich and we are poor. '

'But why ain't I rich, too? Why don't I live at the park like Maude, andwear low-necked aprons instead of this old high one?' Jerry asked; butHarold could not tell, and only said:

'Would you rather live at the park than with me?'

'No, ' Jerry answered, promptly, stopping short and digging her heel intothe soft loam of the path. 'I would not stay anywhere without you; andwhen I live at the park you will live there, too, and have codfish andtatoe every day. '

Strangely enough this was Harold's favorite dish, and, as it was not hisgrandmother's, his taste was not gratified in that respect as often ashe would have liked, hence Jerry's promise of the luxury. 

Just here, at a sudden turn in the path, they came upon Jack and MaudeTracy playing on a bench under a tree, while the nurse was at a distanceeither reading or asleep. Harold would have passed them at once, as heknew his grandmother was in a hurry for the cherries, but Jerry had nosuch intention. 

Stopping short in front of Maude, she inspected her carefully, from herwhite dress and bright plaid sash to the string of amber beads aroundher neck; while, side by side with this picture, she saw herself in herdark calico frock and high-necked apron, with her sun-bonnet and tinpail on her arm. Jerry did not like the contrast, and a lump began toswell in her throat. Then, as a happy thought struck her, she said, withsomething like exultation in her tone:

'My hair curls and yours don't. '

'No, ' Maude answered, slowly--'no it don't curl, but it's black, andyours is yaller. '

This was a set back to Jerry, who hated everything yellow, and who hadnever dreamed of applying that color to her hair. She only knew thatDick St. Claire had called it pretty, but in this new light thrown uponit all her pride vanished, for she recognized like a flash that it mightbe 'yaller, ' and stood there silent and vanquished, until Maude, who inturn had been regarding her attentively, said to her:

'Ain't you Jerry Crawford?'

That broke the ice of reserve, and the two little girls were soontalking together familiarly, and Jerry was asking Maude if she worebeads and her best clothes every day. 

'Phoo! These ain't my best clothes. I have one gown all brawdery andlace, ' was Maude's reply, while Jack, who was standing near, chimed in:

'My father's got lots of money, and so has Uncle Arthur, and when hedies we are going to have it; Tom says so. '

Slowly the shadows gathered on Jerry's brow as she said, sadly;

'I wish I had an Uncle Arthur, and could wear beads and a sash everyday' Then, as she looked at Harold, her face brightened immediately andshe exclaimed. 

'But I have Harold and a grandma, and you hain't, ' and running up toHarold, she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him lovingly, asif to make amends for the momentary repining. 

'We must go now, ' Harold said, and taking her hand in his, he led heraway toward the house, which impressed her with so much awe that as shedrew near to it, she held her breath and walked on tiptoe, as if afraidthat any sound from her would be sacrilege in that aristocraticatmosphere. 

'Oh, isn't it grand, Harold?' Isn't it grand!' she kept repeating, withher mouth full of cherries, after they had reached the trees on whichthe ripe, red fruit hung so thickly. 'Do you s'pose we shall see thecrazy man?' she asked, and Harold replied:

'I don't know. I guess not, unless he comes to the window. Those are hisrooms, and that window which looks so ugly outside, is the one with thepicture in it, ' and he pointed to the south wing, most of the windows ofwhich were open, while against one a long ladder was standing. 

It had been left there by a workman who had been up on it to fix thehinge of a blind, and who had gone to the village in quest of somethinghe needed, Jerry saw the ladder and its close proximity to the openwindow, and she thought to herself. 

'I mean to fill my pail with cherries, and go up that ladder and takethem to him, I wonder if he would bite me?'

Suiting the action to the word she stopped eating; and began to pickfrom the lower limbs as rapidly as possible until her pail was full. 

'Pour them into the basket, ' Harold called to her from the top of thetree, but Jerry did not heed him. She had seen the tall figure of a manpass before the window, and a pale, thin face had for a moment, lookedout, apparently to discover whence the talking came. 

'I'm going to take the crazyman some cherries, ' she tried, and almostbefore Harold could protest, she was half way up the ladder, which sheclimbed with the agility of a little cat. 

'Jerry, Jerry! What are you doing!' Harold exclaimed, 'Come back thisminute. He doesn't like children; he tried to throw me over the banisteronce; he will knock you off the ladder; oh, Jerry!' and Harold's voicewas almost a sob as he watched the girl going up round after round untilthe top was reached, and she stood with her flushed, eager face, just ona level with the window so that by standing on tiptoe, she could lookinto the room. 

It was Arthur's bedroom, and there was no one in it, but she heard thesound of footsteps in the adjoining apartment, and raising herself asfar as possible, and holding up her pail, she called out in a clear, shrill voice;

'Mr. Crazyman, Mr. Crazyman, don't you want some cherries?'

CHAPTER XVIII. 

ARTHUR AND JERRY. 

Arthur had passed a restless night. Indeed all his nights were restless, but this one had been especially so. Thoughts of Gretchen had troubledhim in his dreams, and two or three times he had started up to listen, thinking that he heard her calling to him from a distance. He haddreamed also of the blue hood seen that day of the funereal, now morethan two years ago, and of the child who had come knocking at his door, first with her hands and then with her feet, but whom he had refused toadmit. He had never seen her since, and had never inquired for her ofhis own accord. Two or three times his brother had spoken of her in acasual way, telling him once that she was with Mrs. Crawford. Arthur hadthen asked how she could afford to keep her, and Frank had made noreply. But the second time when he spoke of Jerry, and Arthur, moreinterested in Mrs. Crawford than in her, had asked the same question, Frank had said:

'She cannot afford it, I pay her three dollars a week. '

For a moment Arthur looked inquiringly at him; then he said:

'You are a good fellow after all, even if you did deceive me aboutsending John for Gretchen. Tell Colvin, when Christmas comes, to giveMrs. Crawford a hundred dollars for me. '

After this Mrs. Crawford and her affairs passed completely out ofArthur's mind. He never went to the cottage, or near it. He never wentanywhere, in fact, but lived the life of a recluse, growing thinner, andpaler, and more reticent every day, talking now but seldom of Gretchen, though he never arose in the morning or retired at night without kissingher picture and murmuring to it some words of tenderness in German. 

He had measured the length of his three rooms and dressing-room, andfound them to be nearly one hundred feet, or six rods do that by passingback and forth twenty-five times he would walk almost a mile. 

Regularly each morning, when it was not too cold or stormy, he wouldthrow open his windows and take his daily exercise, which was but a poorsubstitute for what might be had in the fresh air outside, but wasnevertheless much better than nothing. 

On this particular morning, when Harold and Jerry were at the park, hewas taking his walk as usual, though very slowly, for he felt weak andsick, and, oh, so inexpressibly lonely and desolate that it seemed tohim he would gladly lie down and die. 

'If I thought Gretchen were dead, nothing would seem so desirable to meas the grave, for then there would be nothing to live for, ' he wassaying to himself, when the sound of voices outside attracted hisattention, and going to the window, he saw the children, Harold in thetop of the tree, and Jerry at the foot, with her white sun-bonnetshading her face. 

Recognizing Harold, he guessed who the little girl was, and a strangefeeling of interest stirred in his heart for her, as he said:

'Poor little waif! I wonder where she came from, or what will become ofher?'

'Then resuming his walk, he forgot all about the little waif, untilstartled by a voice which rang, clear and bell-like, through the rooms:

'Mr. Crazyman! Mr. Crazyman! don't you want some cherries?'

It was not so much the words as something in the tone, the foreignaccent, the ring like a voice he never could forget, and which theprevious night had called to him in his dreams. And now it was callingagain--not in his sleep, but in reality, for he knew he wasawake--calling from the adjoining room, which no one could enter withouthis knowledge. 

Mentally weak as he was, and apt to be superstitious, his limbs shook, and his heart beat faster than its wont, as he went toward hissleeping-apartment, from which the voice came again a little louder andmore peremptory:

'Mr. Crazyman! where are you? I've brought you some cherries!'

He had reached the door by this time, and saw the pail on the broadwindow-ledge where Jerry had put it, and to which she was clinging, withher white sun-bonnet just in view. 

'Oh, Gretchen! how did you get here?' he said, bounding across thefloor, with no thought of Jerry in his mind, no thought of any one butGretchen, whom he was constantly expecting to come, though not exactlyin this way. 

'I climbed the ladder to fetch you some cherries, and I'm standing onthe toppest stick, ' Jerry said, craning her neck until her bonnet fellback, disclosing to view her beautiful face flushed with excitement, andher bright, wavy hair, which, moist with perspiration, clung in massesof round curls to her head and forehead. 

'Great Heaven!' Arthur exclaimed, as he stood staring at the wide-openblue eyes confronting him so steadily. 'Who are you, and where did youcome from?'

'I'm Jerry, and I comed from the carpet-bag in the Tramp House. Take mein, won't you?' Jerry said; and, mechanically leaning from the window, Arthur took her in, while Harold from below looked on, horror-struckwith fear as to what the result might be if Jerry were left any timealone with a madman who did not like children. 

'He may kill her; I must tell the folks, ' he said; and, going round tothe side door, he entered, without knocking, and asked for Mrs. Tracy. 

But she was not at home, and so he told the servants of Jerry's danger, and begged them to go to her rescue. 

'Pshaw, he won't hurt her. Charles will come pretty soon, and I'll sendhim up. Don't look so scared; he is harmless, ' the cook said to Harold, who, in a wild state of nervous fear, went back to the cherry trees, where he could listen and hear the first scream which should proclaimJerry's danger. 

But none came, and could he have looked into the room, where Jerry sat, or rather stood, he would have been amazed. 

As Arthur lifted Jerry through the window, and put her down upon thefloor, he said to her:

'Take off that bonnet and let me look at you. '

She obeyed and stood before him with all her wealth of hair tumblingabout her glowing face, and an eager, questioning expression in her blueeyes, which looked at him so fearlessly. Arthur knew perfectly well whoshe was, but something about her so dazed and bewildered him that for amoment he could not speak, but stared at her with the hungry, wistfullook of one longing for something just within his reach, but stillunattainable. 

'Do you like me?' Jerry asked at last. 

'Like you?' he replied. 'Yes. Why did you not come to me sooner?'

And, stooping, he kissed the cherry-stained mouth as he had never kisseda child before. 

Sitting down upon the lounge, he took her in his lap and said to heragain:

'Who are you, and where did you come from? I know your name is Jerry, which is a strange one for a girl, and I know you live with Mrs. Crawford, but before that night where did you live? Where did you comefrom?'

'Out of the carpet-bag in the Tramp House. I told you that once, ' Jerrysaid. 'Harold found me. I am his little girl. He is out in the cherrytree, and said I must not come up, because you were crazy and would hurtme. You won't hurt me, will you? And be you crazy?'

'Hurt you? No, ' he answered, as he parted the rings of her hair from herlow brow. 'I don't know whether I am crazy or not They say so, andperhaps I am, when my head is full of bumble-bees. '

'Oh--h!' Jerry gasped, drawing back from him. 'Can they get out? Andwill they sting?'

Arthur burst into a merry laugh, the first he had known since he cameback to Shannondale. Jerry was doing him good. There was something verysoothing in the touch of the little warm hands he held in his, andsomething puzzling and fascinating, too, in the face of the child. Hedid not think of a likeness to any one; he only knew that he felt drawntoward her in a most unaccountable manner, and found himself wonderinggreatly who she was. 

'Harold told me there were pictures and marble people up here withnothing on, and everything, and that's why I comed--that and to bringyou some cherries. I like pictures. Can I see them?' Jerry said. 

'Yes, you shall see them, ' Arthur replied; and he led her into the roomwhere Gretchen's picture looked at them from the window. 

'Oh, my!' Jerry exclaimed, with bated breath, 'Ain't she lovely! Is sheGod's sister?' and folding her hands together, she stood before thepicture as reverently as a devout Catholic stands before a Madonna. 

It was some time since Jerry had spoken a word of German, but as shestood before Gretchen's picture old memories seemed to revive, and withthem the German word for _pretty_, which she involuntarily spoke aloud. 

Low as was the utterance, it caught Arthur's ear, and grasping hershoulder, he said:

'What was that? What did you say, and where did you learn it?'

His manner frightened her; perhaps the bumble-bees were coming out, andshe drew back from him, forgetting entirely what she had said. 

'It was a German word, ' he continued, 'and the accent is German, too;can you speak it. '

Unconsciously as he talked, he dropped into that language, and Jerrylistened intently, with a strained look on her face, as if trying torecall something which came and went, but went more than it came, ifthat could be. 

'I talked that once, ' she said, 'when I lived with mamma; but she isdead. Harold found her, and I put flowers on her grave. '

Half the time she was speaking in German, or trying to, and Arthurlistened in amazement, while his interest in her deepened every moment, as he took her through the rooms and showed her 'the marble people withnothing on them, ' and the beautiful pictures which adorned his walls. 

'How would you like to come and be my little girl?' he asked her atlast, when, remembering Harold and the cherries, she told him she mustgo, and started toward the window as if she would make her egress as shehad come in. 

'Can Harold come, too? I can't leave Harold, ' she said Then, as shecaught sight of him still standing at a distance, gazing curiously up atthe window through which she had disappeared, she called out, 'YesHarold; I'm coming. I have seen him and everything, and he did not hurtme. Good-bye!' and she turned toward Arthur with a little nod. 

Then, before he could stop her, she sprang out upon the ladder, and wentdown faster than she had come up, leaving the pail of cherries upon thewindow-sill, and leaving, too, in Arthur's breast a tumult of emotionswhich he could not define. 

That night, when Frank, who had heard in much alarm of Jerry's visit tohis brother, went up to see him, he found him more cheerful and naturalthan he had seen him in weeks. As Frank expected, his first words wereof the little girl who had come to him through the window and left himthe cherries, of which he said he had eaten so many that he feared theymight make him sick. What did Frank know of the child? What had helearned of her history? Of course he had made enquiries everywhere?

It was just in the twilight, before the gas was lighted, and so Arthurdid not see how his brother's face flamed at first and then grew whiteas he recapitulated what the reader already knows, dwelling at lengthupon the enquiries he had made in New York, all of which had beenfruitless. There was the name Jerrine on the child's clothing, he saidand the initials 'N. B. ' on that of her mother, who was evidently French, although she must have come from Germany. '

'Yes, ' Arthur replied, 'the child is a German, and interests me greatly. Her face and something in her voice has haunted me all the afternoon. Was there nothing in that trunk or the carpet-bag which would be aclue?'

'Nothing, ' Frank replied, although it seemed to him it was the shadowspeaking for him, or at least putting the lie into his mouth. There werearticles of clothing, all very plain, and a picture book printed atLeipsic, I can get that for you if you like, though it tells nothingunless it he that the mother lived in Leipsic. '

Frank talked very rapidly, and laid so much stress on Leipsic, thatArthur got an idea that Jerry had actually come from there, just as hisbrother meant he should, and he began to speak of the town and recallall he knew of it. 

'I was never there but once, ' he said, 'for although I spent a greatdeal of time in Germany, it was mostly in Heidleberg and Wiesbaden. Oh, that is lovely, --Wiesbaden--and nights now, when I cannot sleep, I fancythat I am there again, in the lovely park, and hear the music of theband, and see the crowds of people strolling through the grounds, and Iam there with them, though apart from the rest, just where a narrowpath turns off from a bridge, and a seat is half hidden from viewbehind the thick shrubberies. There I sit again with Gretchen, and feelher hand in mine and her dear head on my arm. Oh, Gretchen--'

There was a sob now in his voice, and he seemed to be talking to himselfrather than to his brother, who said to him:

'Gretchen lived in Wiesbaden, then?'

'Yes; but for heaven's sake pronounce it with a V, and not a W, and intwo syllables instead of three, ' Arthur answered, pettishly, his earoffended as it always was with a discordant sound or mispronounciation. 

'Veesbaden, then, ' Frank repeated, understanding now why Jerry hadstumbled over the name when he once spoke it to her. 

Clearly she had come from Wiesbaden, where Gretchen had lived, and wherehe believed she had died, though he did not tell Arthur so; he merelysaid:

'Gretchen was your sweetheart, I suppose?'

But Arthur did not reply; he never replied to direct questions as to whoGretchen was, but after a moment's silence, he said:

'You speak of her as something past. Do you believe she is dead?'

'Yes, I do, ' was Frank's decided answer. You have never told me who shewas, though I have my own opinion on the subject, and I know that youloved her very much, and if she loved you so much--'

'She did--she did; she loved me more--far more than I deserved, ' wasArthur's vehement interruption. 

'Well, then, ' Frank continued, 'if she did, and were living, she wouldhave come to you, or answered your letters, or sent you some messenger. '

Frank's voice trembled here, and be seemed to see again the cold, stillface of the dead woman, whose lips, could they have spoken, might haveunlocked the mystery and brought a message from Gretchen'

'True, true, ' Arthur replied. 'She would have come or written. How longis it since I came home?'

'Four years next October, ' Frank said. 

'Four years;' Arthur went on, 'is it so long as that? And it, was thenmore than three years since I had seen her. Everything was blotted outfrom my mind from the time that I entered that accursed _maison desanté_ until I found myself in Paris. I am afraid she _is_ dead. '

Just then Charles came in with lights and the chocolate his masteralways took before retiring, and so Frank said good-night, and went outupon the broad piazza, hoping the night air would cool his heated brow, or that the laughter and prattle of Jack and Maude, who were frolickingon the gravel walk, would drown the voice of the shadow which said tohim:

'But for the number of years he says it is since he saw Gretchen, therecould be no doubt, and you would be the biggest rascal living. As it is, you need not distress yourself--Jerry is nothing to him; and if shewere, you have gone too far now to go back. People would never respectyou again. And then there is Maude. You cannot disgrace her. '

No, he could not disgrace his darling Maude, who, as if guessing that hewas thinking of her, came up the steps to his side, and seating herselfupon his lap, pushed the hair from his forehead with her soft fingers, and kissed him lovingly as she was wont to do. 

'My beautiful Maude, ' he thought, for he knew she would be beautiful, with her black hair, and starry eyes, and brilliant complexion, and heloved her with all the strength of his nature. To see her grow intowomanhood, admired and sought after by everyone, was the desire of hisheart, and as he believed that money was necessary to the perfectfulfilment of his desire, for her sake he would carry his secret to thegrave. 

'Are you sick, papa?' Maude asked, looking into his pale face, on whichthe moon shone brightly. 

'No, pet, ' he answered, 'only tired. I am thinking of little JerryCrawford. She was here this afternoon, '

'Yes, I saw her in the park with Harold. Isn't he handsome, papa? andsuch a nice boy! so different from Tom, ' said Maude, and then she wenton: 'Jerry is pretty too; prettier than I am; her hair curls and minedoesn't, but her dress is so ugly--that old high apron and calico gown. What makes her so poor and me so rich?'

Mr. Tracy groaned inwardly, as he replied:

'You are not rich, my child. '

'Oh, yes, I am, ' Maude said, 'I heard mamma tell Mrs. Brinsmade so. Shesaid Uncle Arthur was worth a million, and when he died we should haveit all, because he could not make a will if he wanted to, and he had nochildren of his own, '

Although little more than seven years old, Maude Tracy was very knowingand precocious in some respects, and, like her brother Tom, had heard somuch from her mother and others of their prospective wealth, that sheunderstood the situation far better than she ought, and was alreadycounting on the thousands waiting for her when her uncle died. And yetMaude Tracy had in her nature qualities which were to ripen into a noblewomanhood. Truthful and generous, her instincts of right and wrong werevery keen, and young as she was she had no respect for anything likedeception or trickery. This her father knew, and his bitterest pang ofremorse came from this thought, 'What would Maude say if she knew?' Andit was more for her sake he was sinning than for his own or that of anyother. She was so pretty, or would be when grown to young ladyhood, andthe adornments which money could bring would so well become her. 

'Maude, ' he said at last, 'how would you like to change places withJerry? That is, let her come here and live, while we go away and bepoor; not quite as she is, but like many people. '

'And not wear a sash, and beads, and buttoned boots every day?' Maudeinterrupted him quickly. 'I should not like it at all. Why, Jerrydresses herself, and wipes the dishes, and wears those big aprons allthe time. No, I don't want to be poor;' and as if something in herfather's mind had communicated itself to her, she raised her head fromhis shoulder and looked beseechingly at him. 

'Nor shall you be poor, if I can help it, ' he said; 'but you must bevery kind to Jerry, and never let her feel that you are richer than she. Do you understand?'

'I think I do, ' Maude answered, adding as she kissed him fondly: 'Andnow I s'pose I must go, for there is Hetty come for me; so, good-night, you dearest, best papa in the world. '

He knew that she believed in him fully; that should he confess hisfault she would understand it, and lose faith in him. He would bear theburden, he said to himself. There should be no more repining or lookingback, Maude must never know; and so Jerry's chance was lost. 

The next morning Arthur awoke with a racking headache. He was accustomedto it, it is true; but this one was particularly severe. 

'It's the cherries; no wonder; a quart of those sour things would turnupside down any stomach, ' Charles said, as he glanced at the empty tinpail which was adorning an inlaid table, and then suggested a dose ofipecac as a means of dislodging the offending cherries. 

But Arthur declined the medicine. His stomach was well enough, he said. It was his head which ached, and nothing would help that like the touchof the cool little hands he had held in his the previous day. Charlesmust go for Jerry--go at once, for he wanted her, and as when Arthurwanted a thing he wanted it immediately, Charles was soon on his way tothe cottage in the lane, where he found the little girl under a talllilac bush, busy with the mud pies she was making, and talking toherself, partly in English and partly in broken German, which she hadresumed since visiting the park. 

'Seemed like something I had dreamed, when he talked like that, and Icould almost do it myself, ' she said to Harold when describing theparticulars of her interview with Mr. Tracy, and her tongue fellnaturally into the language of her babyhood. 

On hearing Charles' errand, her delight was unbounded. 

'Iss. You'll let me go, ' she cried, as she stood before Mrs. Crawford, with the mud-spots on her hands and face; 'and you'll let me wear mybest gown now, and my white apron with the shoulder-straps, and mymorocco shoes, because this visiting. '

As Mrs. Crawford could see no objection to the plan, Jerry was soondressed, and on her way to the Park House, which seemed to her to be avery palace, and until the day before a place to be looked upon withawe, and admired breathlessly at a distance. Indeed, she had sometimes, when passing near the house, walked on tiptoe, as if on sacred ground, and held back her humble dress lest it should harm a shrub or vine bycontact. But matters now were changed. She had been there, and wasgoing there again by special invitation from the master, and she trippedalong airily with a sense of dignity and importance unusual in one soyoung. 

Mrs. Tracy, who seldom troubled herself with her brother-in-law'saffairs, knew nothing of his having sent for Jerry, and was surprisedwhen she saw her coming up the walk with Charles, whose manner indicatedthat he knew perfectly what he was about. She had heard of Jerry's visiton the previous day, and had wondered what Arthur could find in thatchild to interest him, when he would never allow Maude in his room. Sheknew nothing of the shadow which night and day was nearer to her husbandthan she was herself, but she did not fancy Jerry, because of the threedollars a week, which she felt was so much taken from herself. Why theyshould be burdened with the support of the child, just because hermother happened to be found dead upon their premises, she could notunderstand. 

Had Jerry been older, she might, she said, have taken her into thekitchen as maid of all work, for Dolly had reached a point where sheliked a great many servants in the household, and prided herself uponemploying more help than either Grace Atherton or Edith St. Claire. Onlythat morning she had spoken to her husband of Jerry, and asked him howlong he proposed to support her. 

'Just as long as I have a dollar of my own, and she needs it, ' was hisreply, as he left the room, slamming the door behind him and leaving herto think him almost as crazy as his brother. 

Thus it was not in a very quiet frame of mind that she went out upon thecool, broad piazza, and, taking one of the large willow chairs standingthere, began to rock back and forth and wonder what had so changed herhusband, making him silent and absent-minded, and even irritable attimes, as he had been that morning. Was there insanity in his veins aswell as in his brother's, and would her children inherit--her darlingMaude, of whom she was so proud, and who, she hoped, would some day bethe richest heiress in the county and marry Dick St. Claire, if, indeed, she did not look even higher?

It was at this point in her soliloquy that she saw Jerry coming up thewalk, her face glowing with excitement and her manner one of freedom andassurance. 

Ascending the steps, Jerry nodded and smiled at the lady, whoseexpression was not very inviting, and who, to the child's remark, 'I'vecomed again, ' answered, icily:

'I see you have. Seems to me you come pretty often. ' Turning to Charles, Mrs. Tracy continued:

'Why is she here again so soon? What does she want?'

Quick to detect and interpret the meaning of the tones of a voice, andhearing disapprobation in Mrs. Tracy's, Jerry's face was shadowed atonce, and she looked up entreatingly at Charles, who said:

'Mr. Tracy sent me for her. She was with him yesterday, and he will haveher again to-day. '

Then Jerry's face brightened, and she chimed in:

'Iss, I'm visiting, I'm invited, and I'm going to stay to eat. '

Mrs. Tracy dared not interfere with Arthur, even if he took Jerry tolive there altogether, and, with a bend of her head, she signified toCharles that the conference was ended. 

'Come, Jerry, ' Charles said; but Jerry held back a moment, and asked:

'Where's Maude?'

If Mrs. Tracy heard, she did not reply, and Jerry followed on afterCharles through the hall and up the broad staircase to the darkened roomwhere Arthur lay, suffering intense pain in the head, and moaningoccasionally. But he heard the patter of the little feet, for he waslistening for it, and when Jerry entered his room he raised himself uponhis elbow, and reaching the other hand toward her, said:

'So you have come again, little Jerry; or, perhaps I should call youlittle _Cherry_, considering how you first came to me. Would you likethat name?'

'Iss, ' was Jerry's reply, in the quick, half-lisping way which made themonosyllable so attractive. 

'Well, then, Cherry, ' Arthur continued, 'take off that bonnet, and openthe blind behind me so I can see your face. Then bring that stool andsit where I can look at you while you rub my head with your hands. Itaches enough to split, and I believe the bumble bees are swarming; butthey can't get out, and if they could, they are the white-faced kind, which never sting. '

Jerry knew all about white-faced bumble-bees, for Harold had caught themfor her, and with this fear removed, she did as Arthur bade her, and wassoon seated at his side, rubbing his forehead, where the blue veins werestanding out full and round, and smoothing his hair caressingly with herfingers, which seemed to have in them a healing power, for the pain andheat grew less under their touch, and, after a while Arthur fell into aquiet sleep. 

When he awoke, after half an hour or so, it was with a delicious senseof rest and freedom from pain. Jerry had dropped the shades to shut outthe sunlight, and was walking on tiptoe round the room, arranging thefurniture and talking to herself in whispers, as she usually did whenplaying alone. 

'Jerry, ' Arthur said to her, and she was at his side in a moment, 'youare an enchantress. The ache is all gone from my head, charmed away byyour hands. Now, come and sit by me again, and tell me all you know ofyourself before Harold found you. Where did you live? What was yourmother's name? Try and recall all you can. '

Jerry, however, could tell him very little besides the Tramp House, andthe carpet-bag, and Harold letting her fall in the snow. Of the cold andthe suffering she could recall nothing, or of the journey from New Yorkin the cars. She did remember something about the ship, and her mother'sseasickness, but where she lived before she went to the ship she couldnot tell. It was a big town, she thought, and there was music there, anda garden, and somebody sick. That was all. Everything else was goneentirely, except now and then when vague glimpses of something in thepast bewildered and perplexed her. Her pantomime of the dying woman andthe child had not been repeated for more than a year, for now her actingalways took the form of the tragedy in the Tramp House, with herself inthe carpet-bag and a lay figure dead beside her. But gradually, asArthur questioned her, the old memories began to come back and shapethemselves in her mind, and he said at last:

'It was like this--playin' you was a sick lady and I was your nurse. Ican't think of her name, I guess I'll call her Manny. And there must bea baby; that's me, only I can't think of my name. '

'Call it Jerry, then, ' Arthur suggested, both interested and amused, though he did not quite understand what she meant. 

But he was passive in her hands, and submitted to have a bighandkerchief put over his head for a cap, to hold on his arm the babyshe improvised from a sofa-cushion of costly plush, around which shearranged as a dress an expensive tablespread, tied with the rich cordand tassel of his dressing-gown. 

'You must cry a great deal, ' she said, 'and pray a great deal, and kissthe baby a great deal, and I must scold you some for crying so much, andshake the baby some in the kitchen for making a noise, because, youknow, the baby can walk and talk, and is me, only I can't be both at atime. '

She was not very clear in her explanations, but Arthur began to have adim perception of her meaning, and did what she bade him do, and ratherenjoyed having his face and hands washed with a wet rag, and his hairbrushed and _turled_, as she called it, even though the fingers which_turled_ it sometimes made suspicious journeyings to her mouth. He criedwhen she told him to cry; he coughed when she told him to cough; hekissed the baby when she told him to kiss it; he took medicine from thetin pail in the form of the cherry juice left there, and did not have tomake believe that it sickened him, as she said he must, for that was areality. But when she told him he must die, but pray first, he demurred, and asked what he should say. Jerry hesitated a little. She knew thather prayers were 'Our Father, ' and 'Now I lay me, ' but it seemed to herthat a person dying should say something else, and at last she replied:

'I can't think what she did say, only a lot about _him_. There was a_him_ somewhere, and I guess he was naughty, so pray for _him_, and thebaby--that's me--and tell Manny she must take me to Mecky, '

'To whom?' Arthur asked, and she replied:

'To Mecky, where he was, don't you know?'

Arthur did not know, but he prayed for _him_, saying what she bade himsay--a mixture half English, half German. 

'There now, you are dead, ' she said at last, as she closed his eyes andfolded his hand upon his chest, 'You are dead, and mustn't stir norbreathe, no matter how awful we cry, Man-nee and I. '

Kneeling down beside him, she began to cry so like that of two personsthat if Arthur had not known to the contrary, he would have sworn therewere two beside him, a woman and a child, the voice of the one shrilland clear, and young, and frightened, the other older, and harsher, andstronger, and both blending together in a most astonishing manner. 

'With a little practice she would make a wonderful ventriloquist, 'Arthur thought, as he watched her flitting about the room, talking tounseen people and giving orders with regard to himself. 

Once Frank had witnessed a pantomine very similar to this, only then theplay had ended with the death, while now there was the burial, and whenArthur moved a little and asked if he might get up, she laid her handquickly on his mouth, with a peremptory 'hush! you are dead and we mustbury you. '

But here Jerry's memory failed her, and the funeral which followed wasan imitation of the one which had left the Park House three yearsbefore, and which Arthur had watched from his window. Frank was there, and his wife, and Peterkin, and Jerry imitated the voices of them all, and when someone bade her kiss her mother she stooped and kissedArthur's forehead, and said:

'Good-bye, mamma, ' then throwing a thin tidy over his face, shecontinued, 'Now, I am going to shut the coffin, ' and as she worked atthe corners, as if driving down the screws, Arthur felt as if he wereactually being shut out from life, and light, and the world. 

To one of his superstitious tendencies the whole was terribly real, andwhen at last she told him he was buried, and the folks had come back, and he could get up, the sweat was standing upon his face and hands ingreat drops, and he felt that he had in very truth been present at theobsequies of some one, whose death had made an impression so strong uponJerry's mind that time had not erased it. There was in his heart nothought of Gretchen, as there had been in Frank's when he was aspectator at the play. He had no cause for suspicion, and thought onlyof the child whose restlessness and activity were something appalling tohim. 

'Now, what shall we play next?' she asked, as he sat white and tremblingin his chair. 

'Oh, nothing, nothing, ' he groaned, 'I cannot stand any more now. '

'Well, then, you sit still, and I'll clean house; it needs it badly. Such mud as that boy brings in I never saw, and I'm so lame, too!' Jerryresponded, and Arthur recognized Mrs. Crawford, whose tidiness andcleanliness were proverbial, and for the next half hour he watched thelittle actress as she limped around the room exactly as Mrs. Crawfordlimped with her rheumatism, sweeping, dusting, and scolding a little, both to Harold and Jerry, the latter of whom once retorted:

'I would not be so cross as that if I had forty rheumatisses in mylaigs, would you, Harold?'

But Harold only answered, softly:

'Hush, Jerry I you should not speak so to grandmamma, and she so good tous both, when we haven't any mother. '

Arthur would have laughed, so perfect was the imitation of voice andgesture, but at the mention of Harold's mother there came into his minda vision of sweet Amy Crawford, who had been his first love, and forwhose son he had really done so little. 

'Jerry, ' he said, 'I guess you have cleaned house long enough. Wash yourhands and come to me. '

She obeyed him, and looking into his face, said:

'Now, what? can you play cat's cradle or casino?'

'No; I want to talk to you of Harold. You love him very much?'

'Oh, a hundred bushels--him and grandma, too. '

'And he is very kind to you?'

'Yes, I guess he is. He never talks back, and I am awful sometimes, andonce I spit at him, and struck him; but I was so sorry and cried allnight, and offered to give him my best doll 'cause it was the playthingI loved most, and I went without my piece of pie so he could have twopieces if he wanted, ' Jerry said, her voice trembling as she made thisconfession, which gave Arthur a better insight into her real characterthan he had had before. 

Hasty, impulsive, repentant, generous, and very affectionate, he feltsure she was, and he continued;

'Does Harold go to school?'

'Yes; and I too--to the district; but I hate it!' Jerry replied. 

'Why hate it?' Arthur asked. 'What is the matter with the districtschool?'

'Oh, it smells awful there sometimes when it is hot, ' Jerry replied withan upward turn to her nose. 'And the boys are so mean, some of them. Bill Peterkin goes there and I can't bear him, he plagues me so. Wantsto kiss me. A-a-h, and says I am to be his wife, and he has got warts onhis thumb!'

Jerry's face was sufficiently indicative of the disgust she felt forBill Peterkin with his warts, and leaning back in his chair, Arthurlaughed heartily, as he said:

'And you do not like Bill Peterkin? Well, what boys do you like?'

'Harold and Dick St. Claire, ' was the prompt response, and Arthurcontinued:

'What would you have in place of the district school?'

'A governess, ' was Jerry's answer. 'Nina St. Claire has one, and AnnEliza Peterkin has one, and Maude Tracy has one. '

Here Jerry stopped suddenly, as if struck with a new idea. 

'Why, Maude is your little girl, isn't she? You are her rich uncle, andshe is to have all your money when you die. I wish I was your littlegirl. '

She spoke the last very sadly, and something in the expression of herface brought Gretchen to Arthur's mind, and his voice was choked as hesaid to her:

'I'd give half my fortune if you were my little girl. '

Then laying his hand on her bright hair, he questioned her adroitly ofher life at the cottage, finding that it was a very happy one, and thatshe had never known want, although Mrs. Crawford was unable to work asshe once had done, and was largely dependent upon the price for Jerry'sboard, which Frank paid regularly. Of this, however, Jerry did notspeak. She only said:

'Harold works in the furnace, and in folks' gardens, and does lots ofthings for everybody, and once Bill Peterkin twitted him because he goesto Mrs. Baker's sometimes after stuff for the pig, and Harold cried, andI got up early the next morning and went after it myself and drew thecart home. After that grandma wouldn't let Harold go for any more, so Is'pose the pig will not weigh as much, I'm sorry, for I like sausage, don't you?'

Arthur hated it, but he did not tell her so, and she went on. 

'Harold studies awful hard, and wants to go to college. He is trying tolearn Latin and recites to Dick St. Claire; but grandma says it isup-hill business. Oh, if I's only rich I'd give it all to Harold, and heshould get learning like Dick. Maybe I can work some time and earn somemoney. I wish I could. '

Arthur did not speak for a long time, but sat looking at the child whoseface now wore an old and troubled look. In his mind he was revolving aplan which, with, his usual precipitancy, he resolved to carry intoeffect at once. But he said nothing of it to Jerry, whose attention wasdiverted by the entrance of Charles and the preparations for luncheon, which on the little girl's account, was served with more care thanusual. 

Jerry, who had a great liking for everything luxurious, had taken teaonce or twice at Grassy Spring with Nina St. Claire, and had beengreatly impressed with the appointments of the table, prizing them moreeven than the dainties for her to eat. But what she had seen thereseemed as nothing compared to this round Swiss table, with its coloredglass and rare china, no two pieces of which were alike. 

'Oh, it is just like a dream!' she cried, as she watched Charles'movement and saw that there were two places laid. 

'Am I to sit down with you?' she said in an awe-struck voice, 'and inthat lovely chair? I am glad I wore my best gown. It won't dirty thechair a bit. '

But she took her pocket handkerchief and covered over the satin cushionbefore she dared seat herself in the chair, which had once been broughtout for Gretchen, and in which she now sat down, dropping her head andshutting her eyes a moment Then, as she heard no sound, she looked upwonderingly, and asked:

'Ain't you going to say "for Christ's Sake?" grandma does. '

Arthur's face was a study with its mixed expression of surprise, amusement, and self-reproach. He never prayed except it were in someejaculatory sentences wrung from him in his sore need, and the thoughtof asking a blessing on his food had never occurred to him. But Jerrywas persistent. 

'You must say "for Christ's sake, "' she continued, and, with his weakbrain all in a muddle, Arthur began what he meant to be a briefthanksgiving, but which stretched itself into a lengthy prayer, fall ofthe past and of Gretchen, whom he seemed to be addressing rather thanhis Maker. 

For a while Jerry listened reverently; then she looked up and moveduneasily in the chair, and at last when the prayer had continued for atleast five minutes, she burst out impulsively:

'Oh, dear, do say "amen. " I am so hungry!'

That broke the spell, and with a start Arthur came to himself, and said:

'Think you, Jerry, praying is a new business for me, and I do believe Ishould have gone on forever if you had not stopped me. Now, what willyou have?'

He helped her to whatever she liked best, but could eat scarcelyanything himself. It was sufficient for him to watch Jerry sitting therein Gretchen's chair and using Gretchen's plate, which every day for somany years had been laid for her. Gretchen had not come. She would nevercome, he feared, but with Jerry he did not feel half as desolate as whenalone, with only his morbid fancies for company. And he must have herthere, at least a portion of the time. His mind was made up on thatpoint, and when about four o'clock, Jerry said to him:

'I want to go now. Grandma said I was to be home by five, ' she replied:

'Yes, I am going with you. I wish to see your grandmother. I am going todrive you in the phaeton. How would you like that?'

Her dancing eyes told him how she would like it, and Charles was sent tothe stable with an order to have the little pony phaeton brought roundas soon as possible as he was going for a drive. 

CHAPTER XIX. 

ARTHUR'S PLAN

'Why, the madam is going to drive, too, and I've come to harness;there'll be a row somewhere, ' John said. 

'Can't help it, ' Charles replied, 'Mr. Arthur wants the phaeton, andwill have it for all of Madam. '

'Yes, I s'p'o' so. Wall, I'll go and tell her, ' was John's rejoinder, ashe started for the house, where Mrs. Tracy was just drawing on her longdriving gloves, and admiring her new hat and feather before the glass. 

Dolly looked almost as young, and far prettier, than when the came tothe park, eleven years before. A life of luxury suited her. She hadlearned to take things easily, and the old woman with the basket mightnow come every day to her kitchen door without her knowing it. She apedMrs. Atherton of Brier Hill, in everything, and had the satisfaction ofknowing that she was on all occasions quite as stylish-looking andwell-dressed as that aristocratic lady whom she called her intimatefriend. She had also grown very proud and very exclusive in her ideas, and when poor Mrs. Peterkin, who was growing, too, with _her_ million, ventured to call at the park, the call was returned with a card whichDoily's coachman left at the door. Since the night of her party, and theelection which followed when Frank was defeated, she had ignored thePeterkins, and laughed at what she called their vulgar imitation ofpeople above them, and when she heard that Mary Jane hail hired agoverness for her two children, Bill and Ann Eliza, she scoffed at theairs assumed by _come-up_ people, and wondered if Mrs. Peterkin hadforgotten that she was one of Grace Atherton's hired girls. Dolly hadcertainly forgotten the Langley life, and was to all intents andpurposes the great lady of the park, who held herself aloof from thecommon herd, and taught her children to do the same. 

She had seen Jerry enter the house that morning with a feeling ofdisapprobation, which had not diminished as the day wore on and stillthe child staid, and what was worse, Maude was not sent for to join her. 

'Not that I would have allowed it, if she had been, ' she said toherself, for she did not wish her daughter intimate with one of whoseantecedents nothing was known, but Arthur might at least have invitedher. He had never noticed her children much, and this she deeplyresented. Maude, who knew of Jerry's presence in the house had cried togo in and play with her, but Mrs. Tracy had refused, and promised as anequivalent a drive in the phaeton around the town. And it was for thisdrive Dolly was preparing herself, when John came with the message thatshe could not have the phaeton, as Mr. Arthur was going to take Jerryhome in it. 

Usually Arthur's slightest wish was a law in the household, for that wasFrank's order; but on this occasion Dolly felt herself justified inrebelling. 

'Not have the phaeton! That's smart, I must say, ' she exclaimed. 'Can'tthat child walk home, I'd like to know? Tell Mr. Tracy Maude has had thepromise of a drive all day, and I am ready, with my things on. Ask himto take the Victoria; he never drives. '

All this in substance was repeated to Arthur, who answered, quietly:

'Let Mrs. Tracy take the victoria. I prefer the phaeton myself. '

That settled it, and in few moments Jerry was seated at Arthur's side, and skimming along through the park, and out upon the highway whichskirted the river for miles. 

'This is not going home, and grandma will scold, ' Jerry said. 

'Never mind the grandma--I will make it right with her. I am going toshow you the country, ' Arthur replied, as he chirruped to the fleet ponywho seemed to fly along the smooth road. 

No one who saw the tall, elegant-looking man, who sat so erect, andhandled the reins so skilfully, would ever have suspected him ofinsanity, and more than one stopped to gaze after him and the littlegirl whose face, with the golden hair blowing about it, looked out fromthe white sun bonnet with so joyous an expression. On the homeward routethey met the victoria, with John upon the box, and Mrs. Tracy and Maudeinside. 

'There's Maude! Hallo, Maude--see me! I'm riding!' Jerry called out, cheerily, while Maude answered back:

'Hallo, Jerry!'

But Mrs. Tracy gave no sign of recognition, and only rebuked herdaughter for her vulgarity in saying 'Hallo, ' which was second class andlow. 

'Then Nina St. Claire is second class and low, for she says "Hallo, "'was Maude's reply, to which her mother had no answer. 

Meanwhile the phaeton was going swiftly on toward the cottage, which itreached a few minutes after the furnace whistle blew for six, andHarold, who had been working there, came up the lane. There were soiledspots on his hands and on his face, and his clothes showed marks oftoil, all of which Arthur noted, while he was explaining to Mrs. Crawford that he had taken Jerry for a drive, and kept her beyond theprescribed hour. Then, turning to Harold, he said:

'And so you work in the furnace?'

'Yes, sir, during vacation, when I can get a job there, ' Haroldanswered, and Mr. Tracy continued:

'How much do you get a day?'

'Fifty cents in dull times, ' was the reply, and Arthur went on:

'Fifty cents from seven in the morning to six at night, and boardyourself. A magnificent sum truly. Pray, how do you manage to spend somuch? You must be getting rich. '

The words were sarcastic, but the tone belied the words, and Harold wasabout to speak, when his grandmother interrupted him, and said, 'What he does not spend for us he puts aside. He is trying to saveenough to go to the High School, but it's slow work. I can do but littlemyself, and it all falls upon Harold. '

'But I like it, grandma. I like to work for you and Jerry, and I havealmost twenty dollars saved, ' Harold said, 'and in a year or two I cango away to school, and work somewhere for my board. Lots of boys dothat. '

Arthur was hitching his pony to the fence, while a new idea was dawningin his mind. 

'Fifty cents a day, ' he said to himself, 'and he has twenty dollarssaved, and thinks himself rich. Why, I've spent more than that on onebottle of wine, and here is this boy, Amy's son, wanting an education, and working to support his grandmother like a common laborer. I believeI _am_ crazy. '

He was in the cottage by this time--in the clean, cool kitchen where thesupper table was laid with its plain fair, most unlike the costly viandswhich daily loaded his board. 

'Don't wait for me, Harold must be hungry, ' he said, adding quickly: 'Orstay, if you will permit me, I will take a cup of tea with you. Thedrive has given me an appetite, and your tea smells very inviting. '

It was a great honor to have Arthur Tracy at her table, and Mrs. Crawford felt it as such, and was very sorry, too, that she had nothingbetter to offer him than bread and butter and radishes, with milk, and adish of cold beans, and chopped beets, and a piece of apple pie savedfor Harold from dinner. But she made him welcome, and Jerry, delightedto return the hospitality she had received, brought him a clean plateand cup and saucer, and asked if she might get the best sugar-bowl andthe white sugar. Then, remembering the beautiful flowers which hadadorned the table at Tracy Park, she ran out and gathering a bunch ofJune pinks, put them in a little glass by his plate. 

When all was ready and they had taken their seats at the table, Mrs. Crawford closed her eyes reverently and asked the accustomed blessingwhich in that house preceded every meal. Jerry's amen was a good deallouder and more emphatic than usual, while she nodded her head toArthur, with an expression which he understood to mean, 'You know nowwhat you ought to say, instead of that long prayer, ' and he nodded backthat he did so understand it. 

Arthur enjoyed the supper immensely, or pretended that he did. He atethree slices of bread and butter; he drank three cups of tea; he eventried the beans and the beets, but declined the radishes, which, hesaid, would give him the nightmare. 

When supper was over and the table cleared away, he still showed nosigns of going, but asking Mrs. Crawford to take a seat near him, heplunged at once into the business which had brought him there, andwhich, since he had seen Harold in his working-dress and heard what hewas trying to do, had grown to be of a two-fold nature. He was verylonely, he said, and all the elegance and luxuriousness of his handsomehouse failed to give him pleasure or to make him forget the past. Hewanted some one to love who would love him in return, and the littletaste he had had of Jerry's society had made him wish for more, and hemust have her with him a part at least of every day. 

'In short, ' he said, 'I should like to undertake her education myselfuntil she is older, when I shall see that she has the proper finishing. She tells me she hates the district school, with Bill Peterkin and hiswarts--'

'Trying to kiss me, ' Jerry interrupted, as open-eyed and open-mouthed, she stood, with her hand on his shoulder, listening to him. 

'Yes, trying to kiss you, though I do not blame him much for that, 'Arthur said, with a smile, and then continued: 'She is ambitious enoughto want a governess like Ann Eliza Peterkin and my brother's daughter, but I am better than a dozen governesses. I can teach her all therudiments of an English education, with French and German, and Latin, too, if she likes; and my plan is, that she come to me every day exceptSaturdays and Sundays--come at ten in the morning, get her lessons andher lunch with me, and return home at four in the afternoon. Would youlike it, Cherry?'

'Oh-h-oh!' was all the answer Jerry could make for a moment, but hercheeks were scarlet, and tears of joy stood in her eyes, until sheglanced at Harold; then all the brightness faded from her face, for howcould she accept this great good and leave him to drudge and toil alone?

'What is it, Cherry?' Mr. Tracy asked; and, with a half sob, shereplied:

'I can't go without Harold. If I get learning, he must get learning, too, ' and leaving Arthur, the crossed over to the boy, and putting herarm around him, looked up at him with a look which in after years hewould have given half his life to win. 

She was a little girl now and did not care if he did know how much sheloved him, and that for him she would sacrifice everything. But in thiscase the sacrifice was not required, for Arthur hastened to say:

'I shall not forget Harold. I have something better in store for himthan reciting his lessons to me. When the High School opens inSeptember, he is going there, and if he does well he shall go toAndover in time, and perhaps to Harvard. It will all depend uponhimself, and how he improves his opportunities. What! crying? Don't youlike it?' Arthur asked, as he saw the great tears gathering in Harold'seyes and rolling down his cheeks. 

'Yes, oh, yes; but it don't seem real, and--and--I guess it makes mekind of sick, ' Harold gasped, as, freeing himself from Jerry'sencircling arm, he hurried from the room, to think over this great andunexpected joy which had come so suddenly to him. 

With his naturally refined tastes and instincts the dirty furnace workhad not been pleasant to him, and he had shrunk with inexpressibleloathing from the swill cart and the other menial duties he had beenobliged to perform for the sake of those he loved. How to get aneducation was the problem he was earnestly trying to solve, and lo! itwas now solved for him. For a moment the suddenness of the thingovercame him, and he sat down upon a table in the yard, faint andbewildered, while Arthur made his plan clear to Mrs. Crawford, sayingthat what he meant to do was partly for Jerry's sake and partly for thesake of the young girl who had been his early love. 

'I always intended to take care of you, ' he said; 'but things go from mymind, and I forget the past as completely as if it had never been. Butthis will stay by me, for I shall have Cherry as a reminder, and if I amin danger of forgetting she will jog my memory. '

Fur a moment Mrs. Crawford could not speak, so great was her surpriseand joy that the good she had thought unattainable was to be Harold's atlast. And yet something in her proud, sensitive nature rebelled againstreceiving so much from a stranger, even if that stranger were ArthurTracy. It seemed like charity, she said, when at last she spoke at all. But Arthur overruled her with that persuasive way he had of convertingpeople to his views; and when at last he left the cottage it was withthe understanding that Jerry should commence her lessons with him thefirst week in September, and that Harold should enter the High School inShannondale when it opened in the autumn. 

CHAPTER XX. 

THE WORKING OF ARTHUR'S PLAN. 

As Arthur was wholly uncommunicative with regard to his affairs, and asMrs. Crawford kept her own counsel, and bade Harold and Jerry do thesame, the Tracys knew nothing whatever of the plan until the Septembermorning when Jerry presented herself at the park house, and was met inthe door-way by Mrs. Frank, who was just going out. Very few could haveresisted the bright little face, so full of childish happiness, or theclear, assured voice, which said so cheerily:

'Good-morning, Mrs. Tracy. I'm come to school. '

But, prejudiced as she was against the girl, Mrs. Tracy could resist anything, and she answered, haughtily;

'Come to school! What do you mean? This is not a school-house, and ifyou have any errand here, go round to the other door. Only company comein here. '

'But I'm company. I'm going to get learning; he told me to come, ' Jerryanswered, flushed and eager, and altogether sure of her right to bethere. 

Before Mrs. Frank could reply, a voice, distinct and authoritative, andto which she always yielded, called from the top of the stairway inside:

'Mrs. Tracy, if that is Jerry to whom you are talking, send her up atonce. I am waiting for her. '

Jerry did not mean the nod she gave the lady as she passed her to bedisrespectful, but Mrs. Frank felt it as such, and went to her own roomin a most perturbed state of mind, for which she could find no ventuntil her husband came in, when she stated the case to him, and asked ifhe knew what it meant. 

But Frank was as ignorant as herself, and could not enlighten her untilthat night, after he had seen his brother, and heard from him what hewas intending to do. 

'God bless you, Arthur. You don't know how happy you have made me, 'Frank said, feeling on the instant that a great burden was lifted fromhis mind. 

Jerry was to be educated and cared for, and would probably receive allthat the world would naturally concede to her if the truth were known. He believed, or thought he did, that Gretchen had never been hisbrother's wife, though to believe so seemed an insult to the original ofthe sweet face which looked at him from the window every time he enteredhis brother's room. Jerry was a great trouble to him, and he would nothave liked to confess to any one how constantly she was in his mind, orhow many plans he had devised in order to atone for the wrong he knew hewas doing her. And now his brother had taken her off his hands, and shewas to be cared for and receive the education which would fit her toearn her own livelihood, and make her future life respectable. Noparticular harm was done her after all, and he might now enjoy himself, and cast his morbid fancies to the winds, he reflected, as he wentwhistling to his wife's apartment, and told her what he had heard. 

For a moment Dolly was speechless with astonishment, and when at lastshe opened her lips, her husband silenced her with that voice and mannerof which she was beginning to be afraid. 

It was none of their business, he said, what Arthur did in his ownhouse, provided they were not molested, and if he chose to turnschoolmaster, he had a right to do so. For his part, he was glad of it, as it saved him the expense of Jerry's education, for if Arthur had nottaken it in hand, he should; and Dolly was to keep quiet and let thechild come and go in peace. 

After delivering himself of these sentiments, Frank went away, leavinghis wife to wonder, as she had done more than once, if he, too, were nota little crazy, like his brother. But, she said no mare about Jerry'scoming there, except to suggest that she might at least come in at theside door instead of the front, especially on muddy days when she wasliable to soil the costly carpets. And Jerry, who cared but little howshe entered the house, if she only got in, came through the kitchenafter the second day, and wiped her feet upon the mat; and once, whenher shoes were worse than usual, took them off, lest they should leave atrack. 

It is not our intention to linger over the first few months of Jerry'sschool days at Tracy Park, but rather to hasten on to the summer fouryears after her introduction to Tracy Park as Arthur's pupil. During allthat time he had never once seemed to grow weary of the task he hadimposed upon himself, but, on the contrary, his interest had dailydeepened in the child who developed so rapidly under his training thathe sometimes looked at her in astonishment, marvelling more and more whoshe was and from whom she had inherited her wonderful memory and powerto grasp points which are usually far beyond the comprehension of achild of ten, or even twelve, and which Maude Tracy could no more havemastered than her brother, the stupid Jack. His intellect had not grownwith his body, and when at thirteen he was asked the question, 'If thereare five peaches on the table, and Tom eats three of them, how many willthere be left?' he answered, promptly:

'None, 'cause Tom would eat them all. '

In this reply there was a shrewdness which poor Jack never intended, andthe laugh which followed his answer confused and bewildered him. Therewas a tutor now at Tracy Park for Jack, but Maude had been transferredto Arthur's care. This was wholly due to Jerry, who alone could haveinduced him to let Maude share her instruction. Arthur did not care forMaude. She was dull, he said, and would never learn her lessons. ButJerry coaxed so hard that Arthur consented at last, and when Jerry hadbeen with him about three years, Maude became his pupil, and that ofJerry as well, for nearly every day when the lessons were over the twolittle girls might have been seen sitting together under the trees inthe park, or in some corner of the house, Maude puzzled, and perplexed, and worried, and Jerry anxious, decided, and peremptory, as she wentover and over again with what was so clear to her and so hazy to herfriend. 

'Oh, dear me, suz, what does ail you?' she said, one day, with a stampof her foot, after she had tried in vain to make Maude see through asimple sum in long division. 'Can't you remember first to divide, secondmultiply, third subtract, and fourth bring down?'

'No, I can't. I can't remember anything, and if I could, how do I knowwhat to divide or what to bring down? I am stupid, and shall never knowanything, ' was Maude's sobbing reply, as she covered her face with herslate. 

Maude's tears always moved Jerry, who tried to reassure the weeping girlwith the assurance that perhaps, if she tried very hard, she might sometime know enough to teach a district school. This was the height ofJerry's ambition, to teach a district school and board around; butMaude's aspirations were different. She was rich. She was to be a belleand wear diamonds and satins like her mother; and so it did not matterso much whether she understood long division or not, though it did hurther a little to be so far outstripped by Jerry, who was younger thanherself. 

To Arthur, Jerry was a constant delight and surprise, and nothingastonished or pleased him more than the avidity with which she took upGerman. This language was like play to her, and by the time she was tenyears old she spoke, and read, and wrote it almost as well as Arthurhimself. 

'It takes me back somewhere, I can't tell where, ' she said to him; 'andI seem to be somebody else than Jerry Crawford, and I hear music and seepeople, and a pale face is close to me, and I get all confused trying toremember things which come and go. '

Only once after her first day at the park had she enacted the pantomimeof the sick woman and the nurse, and then she had done it at Arthur'srequest. But it was not quite as thrilling as at first; the _him_ forwhom the dying woman had prayed was omitted, and the whole was mixedwith the Tramp House, and the carpet-bag, and Harold, who was now ayouth of seventeen, and a student at the high school in Shannondale, where he was making as rapid progress in his studies as Jerry was at thepark. 

But Harold's life was not as serene and happy as Jerry's, for it was notpleasant for him to hear, as he often did, that he was a charitystudent, supported by Arthur Tracy. Such remarks were very galling tothe high-spirited boy, and he was constantly revolving all manner ofschemes by which he could earn money and cease to be dependent. Allthrough the summer vacations, which were long ones, he worked atwhatever he could find to do, sometimes in people's gardens, sometimeson their lawns, but oftener in the hay-fields, where he earned themost. Here Jerry was not infrequently his companion. She liked to rakehay, she said; it came natural to her, and she had no doubt sheinherited the taste from her mother, who had probably worked in thefields in Germany. 

One afternoon, when Jerry knew that Harold was busy in one of Mr. Tracy's meadows, she started to join him, for he had complained of aheadache at home, and had expressed a fear that he might not be able tofinish the task he had imposed upon himself. The road to the field wasby the Tramp House, which looked so cool and quiet, with its thickcovering of woodbine and ivy over it, that Jerry turned aside for amoment to look into the room which had so great a fascination for her, and where she spent so much time. Indeed, she seldom passed near itwithout going in for a moment and standing by the old table which hadonce held her and her dead mother. Things came back to her there, shesaid, and she could almost give a name to the pale-faced woman whohaunted her so often. 

As she entered the damp, dark place now, she started, with anexclamation of surprise, which was echoed by another, as Frank Tracysprang up and confronted her. It was not often that he entered the TrampHouse, and he would not have confessed to any one his superstitiousdread of it, or that, when he did visit it, he always had a feeling thatthe dead woman found there years ago would start up to accuse him of hisdeceit and hypocrisy. Could he have had his way he would have pulled thebuilding down, but it was not his, and when he suggested it to Arthur, as he sometimes did, the latter opposed it, saying latterly, since Jerryhad been so much to him:

'No, no, Frank; let it stand. I like it, because but for it Jerry mighthave perished with her mother, and I should not have had her with me. '

So the Tramp House stood, and grew damper and mustier each year, as themoss and ivy gathered on the walls outside, and the dust and cobwebsgathered on the walls within. These, however, Jerry was careful to brushaway, for she had a play house in one corner, and a little work-benchand chair, and she often sat there alone and talked to herself, and thewoman dead so long ago, and to others whose faces were dim and shadowy, but whom she had felt sure she had known. Very frequently she wentthrough the process of cleaning up, as she called it, and her object instopping there now was, in part, to see if it did not need her careagain. 

'Oh, Mr. Tracy! are you here! How you scared me? I thought it was atramp!' she said, as he came toward her. 

'Do you come here often?' he asked, as he offered her his hand. 

'Yes, pretty often. I like it, because mother died here, and sometimes Ifeel as if she would make it known to me here who she was. I talk to herand ask her to tell me, but she never has. Oh, don't you wish shewould?'

Frank shuddered involuntarily, for to have Jerry told who she reallywas, was the last thing he could desire, but as a criminal is saidalways to talk about the crime he has committed and is hiding, so Frank, when with Jerry, felt impelled to talk with her of the past and what shecould remember of it. Seating himself upon the bench with her at hisside, he said:

'And you really believe the woman found here was your mother?'

'Why, yes. Don't you? Who was my mother, if she wasn't?' and Jerry'seyes opened wide as he looked at him. 

'I don't know, I am sure. Does my brother talk of Gretchen now?' was theabrupt reply. 

'Yes, at times, ' Jerry answered: 'and yesterday, after I sang him alittle German song, which he taught me, he had them pretty bad--the beesin his head, I mean: that is what he calls it when things are mixed; andhe says he is going to write to her, or her friends. '

'Write to her! I thought he had given that up. I thought he--Did he say, "Write to her friends?"' Frank gasped as he felt himself grow cold andsick with this threatened danger. 

Arthur had seemed so quiet and happy with Jerry, and had said so littleof Gretchen, that Frank had grown quite easy in his mind, and the blackshadow of fear did not trouble him quite so much as formerly. But now itwas over him again, and grew in intensity as he questioned the child. 

'Have you ever tried to find out who Gretchen is?' he asked at last. 

'No, ' she replied, 'but I guess she is his wife. '

'Yes, ' Frank said, falteringly, 'his wife; and where do you think shelived?'

'Oh, I know that. In Wiesbaden. He told me so once, and it seems as if Ihad been there, too, when he talked about it, and I hear the music andsee the flowers, and a white-faced woman is with me, not at all likemother, who, they say, was ugly and dark; black as a nigger, Tom told meonce, when he was mad. Was she black?'

Mr. Tracy made no reply to this, but said, suddenly:

'Jerry, do you like me well enough to do me a favor, a great favor?'

'Why, yes, I guess I do. I like you very much, though not as well as Ido Harold and Mr. Arthur. What do you want?' was Jerry's answer. 

After hesitating a moment, Mr. Tracy began:

'There are certain reasons why I ought to know if my brother writes toGretchen, or her friends, or any one in Germany, especially Wiesbaden. Aletter of that kind might do me a great deal of harm; if he should writeto any one in Germany, you would, perhaps, he asked to post the letter, as he never goes to town?'

He said this interrogatively, and Jerry answered him promptly:

'I think he would give it to me. '

'Yes, well; Jerry, can you keep a secret, and never tell any one what Iam saying to you?' was Frank's next remark, to which Jerry responded:

'I think I should tell Harold, and, perhaps, Mr. Arthur. '

'No, no, no, Jerry, never!' and Frank laid his hand half menacingly uponthe little girl's shoulder. 'I have been kind to you, have paid yourboard to Mrs. Crawford ever since you have been there--'

He felt how mean it was to say this, and do not at all resent Jerry'squick reply:

'Yes, but Mrs. Peterkin says you do not pay enough. '

'Perhaps not, ' he continued, 'but if Mrs. Crawford is satisfied, itmatters little what Mrs. Peterkin thinks. Jerry, you _must_ do this forme, ' he went on rapidly, as his fears kept growing. 'You must never tellanyone of our conversation, and if my brother writes that letter soon, or at any time, you must bring it to me. Will you do it? Great harmwould come if it were sent--harm to me, and harm to Maude, and--'

'To Maude!' Jerry replied. 'I would do anything for Maude. Yes, I willbring the letter to you if he writes one. You are sure it would be rightfor me to do so?'

Frank had touched the right cord when he mentioned his daughter's name, for during these years of close companionship the two little girls hadlearned to love each other devotedly, though naturally Jerry's was thestronger and less selfish attachment of the two. To her Maude was aqueen who had a right to tyrannize over and command her if she pleased;and as the tyranny was never very severe, and was usually followed bysome generous act of contrition, she did not mind it at all, and wasalways ready to make up and be friends whenever it suited the capriciouslittle lady. 

'Yes, I will do it for Maude, ' she said again; but there was a troubledlook on her face, and a feeling in her heart as if, in some way, she wasfalse to Arthur in thus consenting to his brother's wishes. 

But, she reflected, Arthur was crazy, so people said, and she herselfknew better than anyone else of his many fanciful vagaries, which, attimes, took the form of actual insanity. For weeks he would seemperfectly rational, and then suddenly his mood would change, and hewould talk strange things to himself and the child, who was now sonecessary to him, and who alone had a soothing influence over him. Onlythe day before, as Jerry had told Frank, Arthur had been unusuallyexcited, after listening to a simple air which he had taught to her, andwhich, at his request, she sang to him after Maude had gone out and leftthem alone. 

'I could swear you were Gretchen, singing to me in the twilight, andacross the meadow comes the tinkle of the bells where the cows and goatsare feeding, ' he said to her, as he paced up and down the room. '

Then, stopping suddenly, he went up to her, and pushing her soft, wavyhair from her forehead, looking long and earnestly into her face. 

'Cherry, ' he said at last, using the pet name he often gave her, 'you_are_ some like Gretchen as she must have been when of your age. Oh, ifyou only were hers and mine! But there was no child; and yet--and yet--'

He seemed to be thinking intently for a moment, and then going to adrawer in his writing desk, which Jerry had never seen open before, hetook out a worn, yellow letter, and ran his eye rapidly over it until hefound a certain paragraph, which he bade Jerry read. 

The paragraph was as follows:

'I have something to tell you when you come, which I am sure will makeyou as glad as I am. '

Jerry read it aloud slowly, for the handwriting was cramped andirregular, and then looked up questioningly to Arthur, who said to her:

'What do you think she meant by the something which would make me gladas she was?'

'I don't know, ' Jerry answered him. 'Who wrote it? Gretchen?'

'Yes, Gretchen; it is her last letter to me, and I never went back tosee what she meant, for the bees were bad in my head and I forgoteverything, even Gretchen herself. Poor little Gretchen! What was theidea which came to me like a flash of lightning, in regard to thisletter, when I heard you sing? It is gone, and I cannot recall it. '

There was a worried, anxious look on his face as he put the letter away, and went on talking to himself of Gretchen, saying he was going to writeher again, or her friends, and find out what she meant. 

The next day Jerry met Frank in the Tramp House, as we have described, and gave him the promise to bring him any letter directed to Germanywhich Arthur might entrust to her. But the promise weighed heavily uponher as she walked slowly on towards the field where Harold was at work, and where she found him resting for a moment under the shadow of awide-spreading butternut. He looked tired and pale, and there were greatdrops of sweat upon his white forehead, and an expression on his facewhich Jerry did not understand. 

Harold was not in a very happy frame of mind. Naturally cheerful andhopeful, it was not often that he gave way to fits of despondency, orrepining at his humble lot, so different from that of the boys of hisown age, with whom he came in daily contact, both at school and in thetown. 

Dick St. Claire, his most intimate friend, always treated him as if hewere fully his equal, and often stood between him and the remarks whichboys made thoughtlessly, and which, while they mean so little, wound tothe quick such sensitive natures as Harold's. But not even Dick St. Claire could keep Tom Tracy in check. With each succeeding year he grewmore and more supercilious and unbearable, pluming himself upon hisposition as a Tracy of Tracy Park, and this wealth he was to inheritfrom his Uncle Arthur. For the last year he had been at Andover, wherehe had formed a new set of acquaintances, one of whom was spending thevacation with him. This was young Fred Raymond, whose home was at RedStone Hall, in Kentucky, and whose parents were in Europe. Between thetwo youths there was but little similarity of taste or disposition, foryoung Raymond represented all that was noble and true, and though proudof his State and proud of his name, never assumed the slightestsuperiority over those whom the world considered his inferiors. He wasTom's room-mate, and hence the intimacy between them which had resultedin Fred's accepting the invitation to Tracy Park. If anything had beenwanting to complete Tom's estimate of his own importance this visit ofthe Kentuckian would have done it. All his former friends were cutexcept Dick St. Claire, while Harold was as much ignored as if he hadnever existed. Tom did not even see him or recognize him with so much asa look, but passed him by as he would any common day laborer whom hemight chance to meet. All through the summer days, while Harold wasworking until every bone in his body ached, Tom and his friend wereenjoying themselves in hunting, fishing, driving, or rowing, or loungingunder the trees in the shady lawns. 

That afternoon when Jerry joined him in the hayfield, Tom and theKentuckian had passed him in their fanciful hunting-suits with theirdogs and guns, but though Harold was within a few yards of them, Tomaffected not to see him, and kept his head turned the other way, as ifintent upon some object in the distance. 

Leaning upon his rake, Harold watched them out of sight, with a chokingsensation in his throat as he wondered if it would always be thus withhim, and if the day would never come when he, too, could know whatleisure meant, with no thought for the morrow's bread. 

'I am Tom's superior in everything but money, and yet he treats me likea dog, ' he said, as he seated himself upon the grass, where he satfanning himself with his straw hat. 

When Jerry appeared in view he brightened at once, for in all the worldthere was not anything half so sweet and lovely to him as the littleblue-eyed girl who seated herself beside him, and, nestling close tohim, laid her curly head upon his arm. 

'I've come to help you rake the hay, ' she said, 'for grandma told me youhad a headache at noon, and couldn't eat your huckleberry pie. I amawfully sorry, Harold, but I ate it myself, it looked so good, insteadof saving it for your supper. It was nasty and mean in me, and I hope itwill make me sick. '

But Harold told her he did not care for the pie, and would rather thatshe would eat it if she liked it. Then he questioned her of the parkhouse and of Arthur; asking if the bees were often in his head now, orhad she driven them out. 

'No, I guess I haven't. They were awful yesterday and to-day, ' Jerryreplied. 'He was talking of Gretchen all the time. I wonder who she was. Sometimes I look at her until it seems to me I have seen her orsomething like her, a paler face with sadder eyes. How he must haveloved her, better than you or I could ever love anybody; don't you thinkso?'

Harold hesitated a moment, and then replied:

'I don't know, but it seems to me I love you as much as a man could everlove another. '

'Phoo! Of course you do; but that's boy love; that isn't like when youare old enough to have a beau!' and Jerry laughed merrily, as she sprangup, and, taking Harold's rake, began to toss the hay about rapidly, bidding him sit still and see how fast she could work in his place. 

Harold was very tired, and his head was aching badly, so for a time hesat still, watching the graceful movements of the beautiful child, who, it seemed to him, was slipping away from him. Constant intercourse witha polished man like Arthur Tracy had not been without its effect uponher, and there was about her an air which with strangers would haveplaced her at once above the ordinary level of simple country girls. This Harold had been the first to detect, and though he rejoiced atJerry's good fortune, there was always with him a dread lest she shouldgrow beyond him, and that he should lose the girl he loved so much. 

'What if she should think me a clown and a clodhopper, as Tom Tracydoes?' he said to himself, as he watched her raking up the hay faster, and quite as well as he could have done himself. 'I believe I shouldwant to die. '

It was impossible that Jerry should have guessed the nature of Harold'sthoughts, but once, as she passed near him, she dropped her rake, andgoing up to him, wiped his forehead with her apron, and, kissing himfondly, said to him:

'Poor, tired boy, is your head awful? You look as if you wanted tovomit? Do you?'

'No, Jerry, ' Harold answered, laughingly. 'I am not as bad as that. Iwas only thinking and wishing that I were rich and could sometime giveyou and grandma a home as handsome as Tracy Park. How would you likeit?'

'First-rate, if you were there, ' Jerry replied; 'but if you were not Ishouldn't like it at all. I never mean to live anywhere without you;because, you know, I am your little girl, the one you found in thecarpet-bag, and I love you more than all the world, and will love andstand by you forever and ever, amen!'

She said the last so abruptly, and it sounded so oddly, that Haroldburst into a laugh, and taking up the rake she had dropped, began hiswork again, declaring that the headache was gone, and that he was agreat deal better. 

'Forever and ever, amen!' The words kept repeating themselves over andover in Harold's mind as he walked homeward in the gathering twilightwith Jerry hip-pi-ty-hopping at his side, her hand in his, and hertongue running rapidly, as it usually did when with him. 

She would 'love and stand by him forever and ever, amen!' It was asingular remark for a child, and in after years, when his sky was theblackest, the words would come back to the man Harold like so many stabsas he whispered in his anguish:

'She has forgotten her promise to "stand by me forever and ever, amen!"'

CHAPTER XXI. 

MRS. TRACY'S DIAMONDS. 

Mrs. Tracy was going to have a party--not a general one, like that whichshe gave when our readers first knew her, and Harold Hastings stood atthe head of the stairs and bade 'the ladies go this way and thegentlemen that. ' Since Dolly had become so exclusive and a leader offashion, she had ignored general parties and limited her invitations toa select few, which, on this occasion, numbered about sixty or seventy. But the entertainment was prepared as elaborately as if hundreds hadbeen expected, and the hostess was radiant in satin and lace, anddiamonds, as she received her guests and did the honors of the occasion. 

The September night was soft and warm, and the grounds were lighted up, while quite a crowd collected near the house to hear the music and watchthe proceedings. 

Mrs. Tracy would have liked to have had Jerry in the upper hall, whereHarold had once stood. 

'It would help to keep the child in her place, ' she thought, 'for she isgetting to feel herself of quite too much consequence, with so muchattention from Arthur. '

But her husband promptly vetoed the proposition, saying that when JerryCrawford came to the park house to an entertainment it would be as aguest, and not as a waiter. So a colored boy stood in the upper hall, and a colored boy stood in the lower hall, and there were coloredwaiters everywhere, and Dolly had never been happier or prouder in herlife: for Governor Markham and his wife, from Iowa, were there, and ajudge's wife from Springfield--all guests of Grace Atherton, and, inconsequence, bidden to the party. 

Another remarkable feature of the evening was the presence of Arthur inthe parlors. He had known both Governor Markham and his wife, EthelynGrant, and had been present at their wedding, and it was mostly on theiraccount that he had consented to join in the festivities. Jerry, it istrue, had done a great deal toward persuading him to go down, repeating, in her own peculiar way, what she had heard people say withregard to his seclusion from society. 

'You just make a hermit of yourself, ' she said, 'cooped up here all thetime. I don't wonder folks say you are crazy. It is enough to makeanybody crazy, to stay in one or two rooms and see nobody but Charlesand me. Just dress yourself in your best clothes and go down and besomebody, and don't talk of Gretchen all the time! I am tired of it, andso is everybody. Give her a rest for one evening, and show the peoplehow nice you can be if you only have a mind to. '

Jerry delivered this speech with her hands on her hips, and with all theair of a woman of fifty; while Arthur laughed immoderately, and promisedher to do his best not to disgrace her, and to appear as if he were notcrazy. 

Jerry's anxiety was somewhat like that of a mother for a child whoseability she doubts; and, after her supper was over she took her way tothe park house to see that Arthur was dressed properly for the occasion. 

'It would be like him to go without his neck-tie and wear his every-dayboots, ' she thought. 

But she found him as faultlessly gotten up as he well could be in hisold-fashioned evening dress, which sat rather loosely upon him, for hehad grown thinner with each succeeding year. 

Jerry thought him splendid, and watched him admiringly as if he left theroom and started for the parlors, with her last injunction ringing inher ears:

'Not a word out of your head about Gretchen, but try and act as if youwere not crazy. '

'I'll do it, Cherry. Don't you worry, ' he said to her, with a littlereassuring nod, as he descended the stairs. 

And he kept his promise well. There was no word out of his head aboutGretchen, and no one ignorant of the fact would ever have suspected thathis mind was unsettled as he moved among the guests, talking to oneanother with that pleasant, courtly manner so natural to him. A veryclose observer, however, might have seen his eyes dilate and even flashwith some sudden emotion when his brother's wife passed him and herbrilliant diamonds, his gift, sparkled in the bright gaslight. Thesetting was rather peculiar, but Mrs. Tracy liked it for thepeculiarity, and had never had it changed. She was very proud of herdiamonds, they were so large and clear, and she had the satisfaction ofknowing that there were no finer, if as fine, in town. She seemed toknow, too, just in what light to place herself in order to show them tothe best advantage, and at times the gleams of fire from them werewonderful, and once Arthur put his hand before his eyes as she passedhim, and muttering something to himself moved quickly to another part ofthe room. This was late in the evening, and soon after he excusedhimself to those around him, saying it was not often that he dissipatedlike this, and as he was growing tired he must say good-night. 

The next morning Charles found him looking very pale and worn, with abad pain in his head. He had rested badly, he said, and would have hiscoffee in bed, after which Charles was to leave him alone and not comeback until he rang for him, as he might possibly fall asleep. 

It was very late that morning when the family breakfasted, and as theylingered around the table, discussing the events of the previous night, it was after eleven o'clock when at last Mrs. Tracy went up to her room. 

As she ascended the stairs to the upper hall, she caught a glimpse ofHarold disappearing through a door at the lower end of the hall, evidently with the intention of going down the back stairway and makinghis exit from the house by the rear door, rather than the front. Mrs. Tracy knew that he was sometimes sent by his grandmother on some errandto Arthur, and giving no further thought to the matter went on to herown room, which her maid had put in order. All the paraphernalia of lastnight's toilet were put away, diamonds and all. Contrary to her usualcustom, for she was very careful of her diamonds, and very much afraidthey would be stolen, she had left them in their box on her dressingbureau. But they were not there now. Sarah, who knew where she keptthem, had put them away, of course, and she gave them no more thoughtuntil three days later, when she received an invitation to a lunch partyat Brier Hill. 

'I shall wear my dark blue satin and diamonds, ' she said to her maid, who was dressing her hair, but the diamonds, when looked for, were notin their usual place. 

Sarah had not put them away, nor in fact had she seen them at all, forthey were not upon the bureau when she went to arrange her mistress'room the morning after the party. The diamonds were gone, nor could anyamount of searching bring them to light. And they looked everywhere, inevery box and drawer and corner, and Mrs. Tracy grew cold and sick andfaint, and finally broke down in a fit of crying, as she explained toher husband that her beautiful diamonds were stolen. She called it that, now, and the whole household was roused and questioned as to when andwhere each had last seen the missing jewels. But no one had seen themsince they were in the lady's ears, and she knew she had left them uponher bureau when she went down to breakfast. She was positive of that. Noone had been in the room, or that part of the house, except Tom, FredRaymond, Charles and Sarah. Of these the first two were not to bethought of for a moment, while the last two had been in the family foryears, and were above suspicion. Clearly, then, it was some one fromoutside, who had watched his or her portunity and come in. 

Had any one been seen about the house at that hour? Yes, Charlesremembered having met Harold Hastings coming out of the rear door;'but, ' he added, 'I would sooner suspect myself than him. '

And this was the verdict of all except Mrs. Tracy, who now recalled thefact that she, too, had seen Harold 'sneaking through the door as if hedid not wish to be seen. '

That was the way she expressed herself, and her manner had in it moremeaning even than her words. 

'What was Harold doing in the house? What was his errand? Does any oneknow?' she asked, but no one volunteered any information until Charlessuggested that he probably came on some errand to Mr. Arthur; he wouldinquire, he said, and he went at once to his master's room. 

Arthur was sitting by his writing-desk, busy with a letter, and did notturn, his head when Charles asked if he remembered whether HaroldHastings had been to his room the morning after the party. 

'No, I have not seen him for more than a week, ' was the reply. 

'But he must have been here that morning, ' Charles continued. 'Try andthink. '

'I tell you no one was here. I am not quite demented yet. Now go. Don'tyou see you are interrupting me?' was Arthur's rather savage response, and without having gained any satisfactory information Charles returnedto the group anxiously awaiting him:

'_Well_?' was Mrs. Tracy's sharp interrogatory, to which Charlesresponded:

'He does not remember what happened that morning; but that is notstrange. He was very tired and unusually excited after the party, andwhen he is that way he does not remember anything. Harold might havebeen there a dozen times and he would forget it. '

'Bring the boy, then. He will know what he was doing here, ' was Mrs. Tracy's next peremptory remark, and her husband said to her, reproachfully:

'Surely you do not intend to charge him with the theft?'

'I charge no one with the theft until it is proven on him; but I mustsee the boy and know what he was doing here. I never liked this freerunning in and out of those people in the lane. I always knew somethingwould come of it, ' Mrs. Tracy said, and Charles was despatched forHarold. 

He found him mowing the lawn for a gentleman whose premises joined TracyPark, and without any explanation told him that he was wantedimmediately at the park house. 

'But it is noon, ' Harold said, glancing up at the sun. 'And there isJerry coming to call me to dinner. '

'No; better come at once. Jerry can go with you, if she likes, ' Charlessaid, feeling intuitively that in the little girl Harold would find achampion. 

Harold left his lawn mower, and explaining to Jerry, who had come up tohim, that he had been summoned to the park house, whither she couldaccompany him if she chose, he started with her and Charles, whom hequestioned as to what was wanted with him. 

'Were you in the park house the morning after the party? That would beWednesday, ' Charles asked. 

'Yes, I went to see Mr. Arthur Tracy, but could get no answer to myknock, ' Harold promptly replied, while his face flushed scarlet, and heseemed annoyed at something. He could not explain to Charles his motivein going to see Arthur, as, now that the first burst of indignation wasover, he felt half ashamed of it himself. On the afternoon of the day ofthe party he had been at Grassy Spring, helping Mrs. St. Claire with herflowers, and after his work was done he had gone with Dick into thebilliard-room, where they found Tom Tracy and his friend, young Raymond. They had come over for a game, and the four boys were soon busilyengaged in the contest. Harold, who had often played with Dick and wassomething of an expert, proved himself the most skilful of them all, greatly to the chagrin of Tom, who had not recognized him even by a nod. Dick, on the contrary, had introduced him to Fred Raymond with as muchceremony as if he had been the Governor's son, instead of the boy whosometimes worked in his mother's flower garden. And the Kentuckian hadtaken him by the hand and greeted him cordially, with a familiar:

'How d'ye do, Hastings? Glad to make your acquaintance'

There was nothing snobbish about Fred Raymond, whose every instinct wasgentlemanly and kind, and Harold felt at ease with him at once, and allthrough the game appeared at his best, and quite as well bred as eitherof his companions. 

When the play was over Dick excused himself a moment, as he wished tospeak with his father, who was about driving to town. As he stayed awaylonger than he had intended doing, Tom grew restless and angry, too, that Fred should treat Harold Hastings as an equal, for the two had atonce entered into conversation, comparing notes with regard to theirstanding in school and discussing the merits of Cicero and Virgil, thelatter of which Harold had just commenced. 

'We can't wait here all day for Dick, ' Tom said. 'Let us go out and lookat the pictures. '

So they went down the stairs to a long hall, in which many pictures werehanging--some family portraits and others, copies of the old masterswhich Mr. St. Claire had brought from abroad. Near one of the portraitsFred lingered a long time, commenting upon its beauty, and theresemblance he saw in it to little Nina St. Claire, the daughter of thehouse, and whose aunt the original had been. The portrait was not farfrom the stairway which led to the billiard-room, and Harold, who hadremained behind, and was listlessly knocking the balls, could not helphearing all they said:

'By the way, who is that Hastings? I don't think I have seen him before;he is a right clever chap, ' Fred Raymond said. 

Tom replied, in that sneering, contemptuous tone which Harold knew sowell, and which always made his blood boil and his fingers tingle with adesire to knock the speaker down:

'Oh, that's Hal Hastings, a poor boy, who does chores for us and the St. Claires. His grandmother used to work at the park house, and so uncleArthur pays for his schooling, and Hal allows it, which I think rightsmall in him. I wouldn't be a charity student, anyway, if I never knewanything. Besides that, what's the use of education to chaps like him. Better stay as he was born. I don't believe in educating the masses, doyou?'

Of himself Tom could never have thought of all this, but he had heard itfrom his mother, who frequently used the expression 'not to elevate themasses, ' forgetting that she was once herself a part of the mass whichshe would now keep down. 

Just what Fred said in reply Harold did not hear. There was a ringing inhis ears, and he felt as if every drop of blood in his body was rushingto his head as he sat down, dizzy and bewildered, and smarting cruellyunder the wound he had received this time. He had more than once beentaunted with his poverty and dependence upon Mr. Tracy, but the tauntshad never hurt him so before, and he could have cried out in his pain ashe thought of Tom's words, and knew that in himself there was the makingof a far nobler manhood than Tom Tracy would ever know. 

Was poverty, which one could not help, so terrible a disgrace, aninsuperable barrier to elevation, and was it mean and small in him toaccept his education from a man on whom he had no claim? Possibly; andif so, the state of things should not continue. He would go to ArthurTracy, thank him for all he had done, and tell him he could receive nomore from him; that if he had an education, he must get it himself bythe work of his own hands, and thus be beholden to no one. 

Full of this resolution, he went down the stairs and out into the openair, which cooled his hot head a little, though it was still throbbingterribly as he went through the leafy woods toward home. 

In the lane he saw Jerry coming toward him, with her sun-bonnet hangingdown her back and her soft, curly hair blowing around her forehead. Themoment she saw him she knew something was the matter, and, hastening hersteps to run, asked him what had happened, and why he looked so whiteand mad. 

Harold was sure of sympathy from Jerry, and he told her his story, whichroused her to a high pitch of indignation. 

'The miserable, nasty, sneaking Tom!' she said, stopping short andemphasizing each adjective with a stamp of her foot as if she weretrampling upon the offending Tom. 'I wish I had heard him. I'd havescratched his eyes out! talking of you as if you were dirt! I hate him, and I told him so the other day, and spit at him when he tried to kissme. '

'Kiss you! Tom Tracy kiss you!' Harold exclaimed, forgetting his owngrief in this insult to Jerry; for it seemed to him little less thanprofanity for lips like Tom Tracy's to touch his little Jerry. 

'No, he didn't, but he tried, right before that boy from Kentucky; but Iwriggled away from him, and bit him, too, and he called me a cat, andsaid he guessed I wouldn't mind if _you_ or Dick St. Claire tried tokiss me, and I shouldn't; but I'll fight _him_ and Bill Peterkin everytime. I wonder why all the boys want to kiss me so much!'

'I expect it is because you have just the sweetest mouth in the world, 'Harold said, stooping down and kissing the lips which seemed made forthat use alone. 

This little episode had helped somewhat to quiet Harold's state of mind, but did not change his resolve to speak to Mr. Tracy, and tell him thathe could not receive any more favors from his hands. He would, however, wait until to-morrow, as Jerry bade him to. 

'You will worry him so that he will be crazier than a loon at theparty, ' she said, and so Harold waited, but started for the park thenext morning as soon as he thought Mr. Tracy would see him. 

He had rung at the door of the rear hall, but as no one heard him heventured in, as he had sometimes done before, when sent for Jerry if itrained, and ascending the stairs to the upper hall, knocked two or threetimes at Arthur's door, first gently, and then louder as there came noresponse. 

'He cannot be there, and I must come again, ' he thought as he retracedhis steps, reaching the door at the lower end of the hall just as Mrs. Tracy came up the broad staircase on her way to her room. 

As that day wore on, and the next, and the next, Harold began to careless for Tom's insult, and to think that possibly he had been hasty inhis determination to decline Arthur's assistance, especially as he meantto pay back every dollar when he was a man. He would at all events waita little, he thought, and so had made no further effort to see Mr. Tracy, when Charles found him, and told he was wanted at the park house. 

CHAPTER XXII. 

SEARCHING FOR THE DIAMONDS. 

They went directly to Mrs. Tracy's room, where they found that lady in amuch higher fever of excitement than when she first discovered her loss. All the household had assembled in the hall and in her room, exceptArthur, who sat in his library, occasionally stopping to listen to thesound of the many voices, and to wonder why there was much noise. 

Tom was there with his friend, Fred Raymond, anxiously awaiting thearrival of Harold, whose face wore a look of wonder and perplexity whichdeepened into utter amazement as Mrs. Tracy angrily demanded of him whathis business was in the hall on Wednesday morning when she saw himsneaking through the door. 

'Where had you been, and did you see my diamonds? Somebody has stolenthem, ' she said, while Harold gazed at her in utter astonishment. 

'Somebody stolen your diamonds!' he repeated, without the shadow of anidea that she could in any way connect him with a theft; nor would theidea have come to him at all, if Tom had not said to him with a sneer:

'Better own up, Hal, and restore the property. It is your easiest wayout of it. '

Then he comprehended, and had Tom knocked him senseless the effect couldnot have been greater. With lips as white as ashes and fists tightlyclenched, he stood, shaking like a leaf and staring helplessly, first atone and then at another, unable to speak until his eyes fell on Jerry, whose face was a study. She had thrown her head forward and on one side, and was looking intently at Tom Tracy, while her blue eyes flashed fire, and her whole attitude was like that of a tiger ready to pounce upon itsprey. And when Harold said faintly, 'Ask Jerry; she knows, ' she didpounce upon Tom, not bodily, but with her tongue, pouring out her wordsso rapidly and mingling with them so much German that it was almostimpossible to understand all she said. 

'You miserable, good-for-nothing, nasty fellow, ' she began. 'Do you dareaccuse Harold of stealing! Stealing! You, who are not fit to tie hisshoes! And do you want to know why he was here that morning? I can tellyou; but no, I won't tell _you_! I won't speak to you! I'll never speakto you again; and if you try to kiss me as you did the other day, I'll--I'll scratch out every single one of your eyes! _You_ twit Haroldfor being poor, and call him a charity! What are you but a charityyourself, I'd like to know! Is this your house? No, sir! It is Mr. Arthur's! Everything is Mr. Arthur's, and if you don't quit being somean to Harold I'll tell him every single nasty thing I know about you!Then see what he will do!'

As Jerry warmed with her subject, every look, every gesture, and everytone of her voice was like Arthur's, and Frank watched with afascination which made him forget everything else, until she turnedsuddenly to him, and in her own peculiar style and language told him whyHarold had come to the park house that morning when the diamonds weremissing. 

'I advised him to come, ' she said, with all the air of a grown woman, 'and I said I'd stand by him, and I will, forever and ever, amen!'

The words dropped from her lips the more maturely, perhaps, because shehad used them once before with reference to the humiliated boy, to whosepale, set face there came a smile as he heard them again, and stretchingout his hand he laid it on Jerry's curly head with a caressing motionwhich told plainer than words could have done of his affection for andtrust in her. 

What more Jerry might have said was prevented by the appearance of a newactor upon the scene in the person of Arthur himself. He had borne thenoise and confusion as long as he could, and then had rung for Charlesto enquire what it meant. But Charles was too much absorbed with othermatters to heed the bell, though it rang three times sharply and loudly. At last, as no one came, and the bustle outside grew louder, and Jerry'svoice was distinctly heard, excited and angry, Arthur started to see forhimself what had happened. 

'Oh, Mr. Arthur, ' Jerry cried, as she caught sight of him coming downthe hall, 'I was just going after you, to come and turn Tom out ofdoors, and everybody else who says that Harold took Mrs. Tracy'sdiamonds. She has lost them, and Tom--'

But here she was interrupted by Tom himself, who, always afraid of hisuncle, and now more afraid than ever because of the fiery gleam in hiseyes, stammered out that he had not accused Harold, nor any one; that heonly knew the diamonds were gone and could not have gone without help. 

'Do you mean those stones your mother flashed in my eyes that night?Serves her right if she has lost them, ' Arthur said, without manifestingthe slightest interest or concern in the matter. 

But when Jerry began her story, which she told rapidly in German, hebecame excited at once, and his manner was that of a maniac, as heturned fiercely upon Tom, denouncing him as a coward and a liar, andthreatening to turn him out of the house if he dared harbor such asuspicion against Harold Hastings. 

'I'll turn you all into the street, ' he continued, 'if you are notcareful, and bring Harold and Jerry here to live; then see if I can havepeace. Diamonds, indeed! what has a poor man's wife to do withdiamonds? Gretchen's diamonds, too! If they are lost, search the house, but never accuse Harold again. '

At this paint Arthur wandered off into German, which no one couldunderstand except Jerry, who stood, holding fast to his arm, her faceflushed and triumphant at Harold's victory and Tom's defeat; but as thetirade in German went on, she started suddenly forward, and with claspedhands and staring eyes stood confronting Arthur until he had ceasedspeaking, and with a wave of his hand signified that he was through andhis audience dismissed. Jerry, however, did not move, but stoodregarding him with a frightened, questioning expression in her face, which was lost upon the spectators, who were too much interested in theall-absorbing topic to notice anyone particularly. 

Tom was the first to go away, and his example was followed by all theservants, except Charles, who succeeded in getting his master back tohis room and quieting him somewhat, though he kept talking to himself ofdiamonds, and Paris, and Gretchen, who, he said, should not he wronged. 

'I am sorry, Harold, that this thing has happened. I have no idea thatyou know anything of the matter. I would as soon suspect my own son, 'Frank said to Harold, as he was leaving the house. 

With this grain of comfort, the boy went slowly home, humiliated and cutto the heart with the indignity put upon him; while Jerry walkedsilently at his side, never speaking a word until they were nearly home, when she said, suddenly:

'I know where the diamonds are, but I shan't tell now while there issuch a fuss;' but Harold was too much absorbed in his own thoughts topay much attention to the remark, although it recurred to him yearsafter, when the diamonds came up to confront him again. 

It did not take long for the whole town to know of Mrs. Tracy's loss. The papers were full of it. The neighbors talked of it constantly, andtwo detectives were employed to work the matter up and discover thethief, if possible. A thorough search was also made at the park house. Every servant was examined and cross-examined, and all their trunks andboxes searched; every nook and corner and room was gone through in themost systematic order, even to Arthur's apartments. This last wasmerely done as a matter of form, and to let the indignant servant seethat no partiality was shown, the polite officers explained to Arthur, who at first refused to let them in, but who finally opened the doorhimself, and bade them go where they liked. 

Half hidden among the cushions of the sofa from which Arthur had arisenwhen he let the officers in and to which he returned again, was Jerry, her face pale to her lips and her eyes like the eyes of some hauntedanimal, when she saw the policemen cross the threshold. 

After her return home the previous day she had been unusually taciturnand had taken no part in the conversation relative to the missingdiamonds, but just before going to bed she said to Harold:

'What will they do with the one who took the diamonds, if they findhim?'

'Send him to state prison, ' Harold answered. 

'And what do they do to them in state prison?' Jerry continued. 

'Cut their hair off; make them eat bread and water and mush, and sleepon a board, and work awful hard, ' was Harold's reply, given at randomand without the least suspicion why the question had been asked. 

Jerry said no more, but the next morning she started for the park house, which she knew was to be searched, and going to Mr. Arthur's room lookedhim wistfully in the face as she asked in a whisper:

'Are they found?'

'Found! What found?' he said, as if all recollection of the missingjewels had passed entirely from his mind. 

'The diamonds; Mrs. Tracy's diamonds; the ones you gave her, ' wasJerry's answer. 

For a moment, Arthur looked perplexed and bewildered and confused, andseemed trying to recall something which would not come at his bidding. 

'I don't know anything about it, ' he said at last. 'I don't seem tothink of anything, my head is so thick with all the noise there was hereyesterday and the tumult this morning. Search-warrants, Charles says, and two strange men driving up so early. Who are they, Jerry?'

'Police, come to search the house; search everybody and everything. Ain't you afraid?' Jerry said. 

'Afraid? No: why should I be afraid? Why, child, how white you are, andwhat makes you tremble so? You didn't take the diamonds, ' was Arthur'sresponse, as he drew the little girl close to him and looked into herpallid face. 

'Mr. Arthur, ' Jerry began, very low, as if afraid of being heard, 'if Ishould give Maude something for her very own, and she should accept andkeep it a good while, and then some day I should take it from her, whenshe did not know it, and hide it, and not give it up, would that bestealing?'

'Certainly. Why do you ask?'

Jerry did not say why she asked, but put the same question to him shehad put to Harold:

'If they find the one who took the diamonds will they send him to stateprison?'

'Undoubtedly. They ought to. '

'And cut off his hair?'

She was threading Arthur's luxuriant locks caressingly, and almostpityingly, with her fingers as she asked the last question, to which hereplied, shortly:

'Yes. '

'And make him eat bread and water and mush?'

'Yes; I believe so. '

'And sleep on a board?'

'Yes, or something as bad. '

'And make him work awful hard until his hands are blistered?'

Now she had in hers Arthur's hands, soft and white as a woman's, andseemed to be calculating how much hard work it would take to blisterhands like these. 

'Yes, work till his hands drop off, ' Arthur said. 

With a shudder, she continued:

'I could not bear it: could you?'

'Bear it? No; I should die in a week. Why, what does ail you? You areshaking like a leaf. What are you afraid of?'

'I don't know; only state prison seems so terrible, and they are lookingeverywhere. What if they should come in here?'

'Come in here? Impossible, unless they break the door down, ' Arthurreplied; and then Jerry said to him:

'If they do, suppose you lie down and let me cover you with the afghanand cushions?'

'But I don't want to lie down and be smothered with cushions, ' Arthurreturned, puzzled, and wondering at the excitement of the child, whonestled close to his side and held fast to his hand, as if she wereguarding him, or expected him to guard her, while the examination wenton outside, and the frightened and angry servants submitted to havingtheir boxes and trunks examined. 

At last footsteps were heard on the stairs and the sound of strangevoices, mingled with that of Frank, who was protesting against hisbrother's rooms being entered. 

'You will lose every servant you have if we do not serve all alike, ' wasthe answer. 

Then Frank knocked at his brother's door and asked admittance. 

'We must do it to pacify the servants, ' he said, as Arthur refused, bidding him go about him business. 

After a little further expostulation Arthur arose, and, unlocking thedoor, bade them enter and look as long as they pleased and where theypleased. 

It was a mere matter of form, for not a drawer or box was disturbed; butJerry's breath came in gasps, and her eyes were like saucers, as shewatched the men moving from place to place, and then looked timidly atArthur to see how he was taking it. He took it very coolly, and when itwas over and the men were about to leave, he bade them come again asoften as they liked; they would always find him there ready to receivethem, but the diamonds--_nix_. 

This last he said in a low tone as he turned to Jerry, who, the momentthey were alone and he had seated himself beside her, put her head onhis arm and burst into a hysterical fit of crying. 

'Why, Cherry, what is it? Why are you crying so?' he asked, in muchconcern. 

'Oh, I don't know, ' the sobbed; 'only I was so scared all the time theywere in the room. What if they had found them! What if they should thinkthat--that--_I_ took them, and should send me to prison, and cut off myhair: and make me eat bread and water and mush, which I hate!'

Arthur looked at her a moment, and then with a view to comfort her, said, laughingly:

'They would not send you to prison, for I would go in your stead. '

'Would you? Could you? I mean could somebody go for another somebody, ifthey wanted to ever go much?' Jerry asked, eagerly, as she lifted hertear-stained face to Arthur's. 

Without clearly understanding her meaning, and with only a wish to quiether, Arthur answered, at random:

'Certainly. Have you never heard of people who gave life for another's?So, why not be a substitute, and go to prison, if necessary?'

'Yes, ' Jerry answered, with a long-drawn breath, and the cloud lifted alittle from her face. 

After a moment, however, she asked, abruptly:

'Suppose the one who took the diamonds will not give them up, andsomebody else knows where they are, ought that somebody else tell?'

'Certainly, or be an accessory to the crime, ' was Arthur's reply. 

Jerry did not at all know what an accessory was, but it had an awfulsound to her, and she asked:

'What do they do to an accessory? Punish her--him, I mean--just thesame?'

'Yes, of course, ' Arthur said, scarcely heeding what she was asking him, and never dreaming of the wild fancy which had taken possession of her. 

That one could go to prison in another's stead, and that an accessorywould be punished equally with the criminal, were the two ideas distinctin her mind when she at last arose to go, saying to Arthur, as she stoodin the door:

'You are sure you are not afraid to have them come here again, if theytake it into their heads to do so?'

'Not in the least; they can search my rooms every day and welcome, ifthey like, ' was Arthur's reply. 

'Well, that beats me!' Jerry said aloud to herself, with a nod for everyword, as she went down the stairs and started for home, taking the TrampHouse on her way. 'I guess I'll go in there and think about it, ' shesaid, and entering the deserted building, she sat down upon the benchand began to wonder if she _could do it_, if worst came to worst, as itmight. 

'Yes, I could for him, and I'll never tell; I'll be that thing he said, and a substitute, too, if I can, ' she thought, 'though I guess it wouldkill me. Oh, I hope I shan't have to do it! I mean to say a prayer aboutit, anyway. '

And kneeling down in the damp, dark room, Jerry prayed, first, that itmight never be found out, and second, that if it were she might not becalled to account as an accessory, but might have the courage to be thesubstitute, and stand by him forever and ever, amen!'

'I may as well begin to practice, and see if I can bear it, ' shethought, as she walked slowly home, where she astonished Mrs. Crawfordby asking her to make some mush for dinner. 

'Mush! Why, child, I thought you hated it' Mrs. Crawford exclaimed. 

'I did hate it, ' Jerry replied, 'but I want it now real bad. Make it forme, please. Harold likes it, don't you, Hally?'

Harold did like it very much; and so the mush was made, and Jerry forcedherself to swallow it in great gulps, and made up her mind that shecould not stand that any way. She preferred bread and water. So, forsupper she took bread and water and nothing else, and went up to bed usunhappy and nervous as a healthy, growing child well could be. 

She had tried the mush, and the bread and water, and now she meant totry the shorn head, which was the hardest of all, for she had a pride inher hair, which so many had told her was beautiful. 

Standing before her little glass, with the lamp beside her, she lookedat it admiringly for a while, turning her head from side to side to seethe bright ringlets glisten; then, with an unsteady hand the severed, one by one, the shining tresses, on which her tears fell like rain asshe gathered them in a paper and put them away, wondering if the prisonshears would cut closer or shorter, and wondering if it would make anydifference that she was only a substitute, or at most an accessory. 

It was a strange idea which had taken possession of her, and a senselessone, but it was terribly real to her, and that little shorn headrepresented as noble and complete a sacrifice as was ever made by olderand wiser people. There was no hard board to sleep upon, and so she tookthe floor, with a pillow under her head and a blanket over her, wondering the while if this were not a more luxurious couch thanconvicts, who had stolen diamonds, were accustomed to have. 

'Why, Jerry, what have you done?' and 'Oh, Jerry, how you look!' werethe ejaculatory remarks which greeted her next morning, when she wentdown to her breakfast of bread and water, for she would take nothingelse. 

'Why did you do it?' Mrs. Crawford asked a little angry and a good dealastonished; but Jerry only answered at first with her tears, as Haroldjeered at her forlorn appearance and called her a picked chicken. 

'Maude's hair is short, and all the girls', and mine was always in myeyes and snarled awfully, ' she said at last, and this was all the excuseshe would give for what she had done; while for her persisting in abread and water diet she would give no reason for three or four days. Then she said to Harold, suddenly:

'You told me that the one who stole the diamonds would have to eat breadand water and have his head shaved, and I am trying to see how it wouldseem--am playing that I am the man, and in prison; but I find it veryhard, I don't believe I can stand it. Oh, Harold, do you think they willever find the diamonds? I am so tired and hungry, and the blackberry piewe had for dinner did look so good!'

'Jerry, ' Harold exclaimed, in amazement, and but dimly comprehending herreal meaning, 'you are crazy, to be playing you are a convict! And isthat what you have been doing?'

'Ye-es, ' Jerry sobbed; 'but I can't bear it, and I hope they will notfind him, '

'Him! Who?' Harold asked. 

'The one who took the diamonds, ' she replied. 

'And I hope they will. He ought to be found and punished. Think whatharm he has done to me by letting them accuse me, ' Harold answered, indignantly. 

'No, no, Hally, ' Jerry replied. 'No one accused you but Tom, and he ismeaner than dirt; and if they did think you took them, and if you had togo, I should not let you; I should go in your place. I could do it foryou and Mr. Arthur, but for no one else. Oh, I hope they will never findthem. '

She put her hands to her head, and looked so white and faint thatHarold was alarmed, and took her at once to his mother, who, scarcelyless frightened than himself, made her lie down, and brought her a pieceof toast and a cup of milk, which revived her a little. But the strainupon her nerves for the last few days, and the fasting on bread andwater proved too much for the child, who for a week or more lay up inher little room, burning with fever, and talking strange things atintervals, of diamonds, and state prison, and accessories, andsubstitutes, the last of which she said she was, assuring some one towhom she seemed to be talking that she would never tell, never!

Every day Arthur came and sat for an hour by her bed, and held her hothands in his, and listened to her talk, and marvelled at her shorn head, which he did not like. Whatever he said to her was spoken in German, andas she answered in the same tongue, no one understood what they said toeach other, though Harold, who understood a few German words, knew thatshe was talking of the diamonds, and the prison, and the substitute. 

'I shall _never_ tell!' she said to Arthur, 'and I shall go! I can bearit better than you. It is not that which makes my headache so. It's--oh, Mr. Arthur, I thought you so good, and I am so sorry about thediamonds--Mrs. Tracy was so proud of them. Can't you contrive to getthem back to her? I could, if you would let me. I am thinking all thetime how to do it, and never let her know, and the back of my head achesso when I think. '

Arthur could not guess what she really meant, except that the lostdiamonds troubled her, and that she wished Mrs. Tracy to have them. Occasionally his brows would knit together, and he seemed trying torecall something which perplexed him, and which her words had evidentlysuggested to his mind. 

'Cherry, ' he said to her one day when he came as usual, and her firsteager question was, 'Have they found them?' 'Jerry, try and understandme. Do you know where the diamonds are?'

Instantly into Jerry's eyes there came a scared look, but she answered, unhesitatingly:

'Yes, don't you?'

'No, ' was the prompt reply; 'though it seems to me I did know, but therehas been so much talk about them, and you are so sick, that everythinghas gone from my head, and the bees are stinging me frightfully. Whereare the diamonds?'

But by this time Jerry was in the prison, sleeping on a board and eatingbread and mush, and Arthur failed to get any satisfaction from her. Indeed, they were two crazy ones talking together, with little or nomeaning in what they said. Only this Arthur gathered--that Jerry wouldbe happy if 'Mrs. Tracy had her diamonds again and did not know how theycame to her. When this dawned upon him he laughed aloud, and kissing herhot cheek, said to her:

'I see; I know, and I'll do it. Wait till I come again. 

It was ten o'clock in the morning when he left Mrs. Crawford's house;there was a train which passed the station at half-past ten, bound forNew York, and without returning to the park, Arthur took the train, sending word to his brother not to expect him home until the next day, and not to be alarmed on his account, as he was going to New York andwould take care of himself. 

Why he had gone Frank could not guess, and he waited in much anxiety forhis return. It was evening when he came home, seeming perfectly composedand well, but giving no reason for his sudden journey to the city. Hisfirst inquiry was for Jerry, and his second, if anything had been heardof the diamonds. On being answered in the negative, he remarked:

'Those rascally detectives are bunglers, and oftentimes would rather letthe culprit escape than catch him. I doubt if you ever see the jewelsagain. But no matter; it will all come right. Tell your wife not tofret, '

The next morning when Mrs. Tracy went to her room after breakfast shewas astonished to find upon her dressing bureau a velvet box withTiffany's name upon it, and inside an exquisite set of diamonds; not asfine as those she had lost, or quite as large, but white, and clear, andsparkling as she took them in her hand with a cry of delight, and ranwith them to her husband. Both knew from whence they came, and both wentat once to Arthur, who, to his sister-in-law's profuse expressions ofgratitude, replied indifferently:

'Don't bother me with thanks; it worries me. I bought them to pleasethe little girl, who talks about them all the time. She will yet wellnow, I am going to tell her. '

He found Jerry better, and perfectly sane. She was very glad to see him, though she seemed somewhat constrained, and shrank from him a little, when he sat down beside her. Her first rational question had been forhim, and her second for the diamonds; were they found, and if not, werethey still looking for them. 

'No, they have not found them, ' Harold had said, 'and the officers arestill hunting for the thief, while the papers are full of the rewardoffered to any one who will return them. Five hundred dollars now, forMr. Arthur has added two hundred to the first sum. He has quite waked upto the matter. You know he seemed very indifferent at first. '

'Mr. Arthur offered two hundred more!' Jerry exclaimed. 'Well, thatbeats me!'

This was Mrs. Crawford's favorite expression, which Jerry had caught, asshe did most of the peculiarities in speech and manner of those abouther. 

'Two hundred dollars! He must be crazy. '

'Of course he is. He don't know what he does or says half the time, andespecially since you have been sick, ' Harold said. 

'Sick!' Jerry repeated, quickly. 'Have I been sick, and is that why I amin bed so late? I thought you had come in to wake me up, and I was glad, for I have had horrid dreams. '

Harold told her she had been in bed since the day of the investigation, when she came from the park house with a dreadful headache. 

'And you've been crazy, too, as a loon, ' he continued, 'and talked thequeerest things about state prison, and hard boards, and bread andwater, and accessories, and substitutes, and so on. Seemed as if youthought you were a felon, and a body would have supposed that you hadeither taken the diamonds yourself or else knew who did, the way youwent on by spells. '

'Oh, Harold!' Jerry gasped, while her face grew spotted and theperspiration came out upon her forehead. 'Did I speak anybody's name?'

'No, ' Harold replied. 'I could not make you do that. I asked you everso many times if you knew who took the diamonds, and you said "Yes, " butwhen I asked who it was, you always answered, "Don't you wish you knew?"and that was all I could get out of you. Mr. Arthur was here every day, and sometimes twice a day, but you spoke German to him. Still I knew itwas about the diamonds, for I understood that word. He was not hereyesterday at all. There, hark! I do believe he is coming now. Don't youknow who is said to be near when you are talking about him?'

And, with a laugh, Harold left the room just as Arthur entered it. 

'Well, Cherry, ' he said to her, as he drew a chair to her bedside, 'Mrs. Crawford tells me the bees are out of your head this morning, and I amglad. I have some good news for you. Mrs. Tracy has some diamonds, andis the happiest woman in town. '

Jerry had not noticed his exact words, and only understood that Mrs. Tracy had found her diamonds. 

'Oh, Mr. Arthur, I am so glad!' the cried; and springing up in bed, shethrew both arms around his neck and held him fast, while she sobbedhysterically. 

'There, there, child! Cherry, let go. You throttle me. You are pullingmy neck-tie all askew, and my head spins like a top, ' Arthur said, as heunclasped the clinging arms and put the little girl back upon herpillow, where she lay for a moment, pale and exhausted, with the lightof a great joy shining in her eyes. 

'Did she know where they came from? how did you manage it? Are you sureshe did not suspect!' she asked. 

'I put them on her dressing-bureau while she was at breakfast, ' hereplied, 'and when she came up there they were--large solitaireear-rings and a bar with five stones, not quite as large or as fine asthe ones she lost, but the best I could find at Tiffany's. Why, Jerry, what is the matter? You do not look glad a bit. I thought you wanted meto give them to her surreptitiously, and I did, ' he continued, as theexpression of Jerry's face changed to one of blank dismay anddisappointment, and the tears gathered in her eyes. 

'I did--I do, ' she said; 'but I meant, not new ones, but her veryown--the ones you gave her. '

For a moment Arthur sat looking at her with a perplexed and troubledexpression, as if wondering what she could mean, and why he had soutterly failed to please her; then he said, slowly:

'The ones I gave her? You make my head swim trying to remember, and thebumble-bees are black-faced, instead of white, and stinging medreadfully. I wish you would say nothing more of the diamonds. Itworries me, and makes me feel as if I were in a nightmare, and I knownothing of them. '

Raising herself on her elbow and pointing her finger toward him in ahalf beseeching, half threatening way, Jerry said:

'As true as you live and breathe, and hope not to be hung and choked todeath, don't you know where they are?'

This was the oath which Jerry's companions were in the habit ofadministering to each other in matters of doubt, and she now put it toArthur as the strongest she knew. 

'Of course not, ' he answered, with a little irritation in his tone. 'What ails you, Cherry? Are you crazy, like myself? Struggle against it. Don't let the bees get into your brain and swarm and buzz until youforget everything. You ought to remember; you do things you ought not todo. It is terrible to be crazy and half conscious of it all thetime--conscious that no one believes what you say or holds youresponsible for what you do. '

'Don't they?' Jerry asked, eagerly, for she knew the meaning of the word'responsible. ' 'If a crazy man or woman took the diamonds, and thenforgot, and did not tell, and it was ever found out, wouldn't they bepunished?'

'Certainly not, ' was the reassuring reply, 'Don't you know how manymurders are committed and the murderer is not hung, because they say heis crazy?'

In a moment the cloud lifted from Jerry's face, which grew so brightthat Arthur noticed the change, and said to her:

'You are better now, I see, and I must go before I undo it all. Good-bye, and never say diamonds to me again; it gets me all in a--ma--well, a French pickle--mixed, you know. '

He kissed her tenderly, and promising to take her for a drive as soon asshe was able, went out and left her alone, wondering why it was that hishaving given the diamonds to his sister-in-law had failed in its effectupon her, and upon himself, too. 

For a long time after he was gone Jerry lay thinking with her eyesclosed, so that if Harold or her grandmother came in they would thinkher asleep. Mr. Arthur was certainly crazy at times--very crazy. Shecould swear to that, and so could many others. And if a crazy man wasnot responsible for his acts, then he was not, and the law would nottouch him; but with regard to the accessory, she was not sure. If thatindividual were not crazy, why, then he or she might be punished; and asthe taste she had had of bread and water, and hard boards, in the shapeof the floor, was not very satisfactory, and as Mrs. Tracy had otherdiamonds in the place of the lost ones, she finally determined to keepher own counsel and never tell what she had heard Arthur say thatmorning when the theft was discovered and he had talked so fast inGerman to her and to himself. If she had known where the diamonds wereshe might have managed to return them to their owner. But she did notknow, and her better course was to keep quiet, hoping that in time Mr. Arthur himself would remember and make restitution; for that he hadforgotten and was sincere in saying that he knew nothing of them she wascertain, and her faith in him, which for a little time had been shaken, was restored. 

With this load lifted from her mind Jerry's recovery was rapid, and whenthe autumnal suns were just beginning to tinge the woodbine on the TrampHouse and the maples in the park woods with scarlet, she took heraccustomed seat in Arthur's room and commenced her lessons again withMaude, who had missed her sadly and who would have gone to see her everyday during her sickness if her mother had permitted it. 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

ARTHUR'S LETTER. 

Two weeks had passed since Jerry's return to her lessons, and people hadceased to talk of the missing diamonds, although the offered reward of$500 was still in the weekly papers, and a detective still had thematter in charge, without, however, achieving the slightest success. Noone had ever been suspected, and the thief, whoever he was, must havebeen an expert, and managed the affair with the most consummate skill. Now that she had another set, Mrs. Tracy was content, and peace andquiet reigned in the household, except so far as Arthur was concerned. He was restless and nervous, and given to fits of abstraction, whichsometimes made him forget the two little girls, one of whom watched himnarrowly; and once when they were alone and he seemed unusually absorbedin thought, she asked him if he were trying to think of something. 

'Yes, ' he said, looking up quickly and eagerly; 'that is it. I am tryingto remember something which, it seems to me, I ought to remember; but Icannot, and the more I try, the farther it gets from me. Do you knowwhat it is?'

Jerry hesitated a moment, and then she asked:

'Is it the diamonds?'

'Diamonds! No. What diamonds? Didn't I tell you never to say diamonds tome again? I am tired of it, ' he said, and in his eyes there was a gleamwhich Jerry had never seen there before when they rested upon her. Itmade her afraid, and she answered, meekly:

'Then I cannot help you to remember. '

'Of course not. No one can, ' Arthur replied, in a softened tone. 'It issomething long ago, and has to do with Gretchen. '

Then suddenly brightening, as if that name had been the key to unlockhis misty brain, he added;

'I have it; I know; it has come to me at last! Gretchen always sets meright. I wrote her a letter long ago--a year, it seems to me--and it hasnever been posted. Strange that I should forget that; but something cameup--I can't tell what--and drove it from my mind. '

As he talked he was opening and looking in the drawer which Jerry hadnever seen but once before, and that when he took from it the letter inGerman, a paragraph of which he had bidden her read. 

'Here it is!' he said, joyfully, as he took out a sealed envelope andheld it up to Jerry. 'This is the letter which you must post to-day. Ican trust it to you. '

He gave her the letter, which she took with a beating heart and a senseof shame and regret as she remembered her pledge to Mr. Frank Tracy. Shehad promised to take him any letter which Mr. Arthur might intrust toher care, and if she took this one from Arthur she must keep her word. 

'Oh, I can't do it--I can't! It would be mean to Mr. Arthur, ' shethought; and returning him the letter, she said: 'Please post ityourself; then you will be sure, and I might lose it, or forget. I amcareless sometimes. Don't ask me to take it. '

She was pleading with her might; but Arthur paid no heed, and onlylaughed at her fears. 

'I know you will not forget, and I'd rather trust you than Charles. Surely, you will not refuse to do so small a favor for me?'

'No, ' she said, at last, as she put the letter in her pocket, with thethought that, after all, there might be no harm in showing it to Mr. Frank, who, of course, merely wished to see it, and would not think ofkeeping it. 

But she did not know Frank Tracy or guess how great was his anxiety lestany message should ever reach a friend of Gretchen, if friend there wereliving. She found him in the room he called his office, where the deadwoman had lain in her coffin, and where he often sat alone thinking ofthe day when the inquest was held, and when he took his first step inthe downward road, which had led him so far that now it seemedimpossible to turn back, even had he wished to do so, as he sometimesdid. 

'If I had never secreted the photograph, or the book with thehandwriting, if I had shown them to Arthur, everything would have beenso different, and I should have been free, ' he was thinking, when Jerryknocked timidly at the door, rousing him from his reverie, and makinghim start with a nameless tsar which was always haunting him. 

'Oh, Jerry, it is you, ' he said, as the little girl crossed thethreshold, and shutting the door, stood with her back against it, andher hands behind her. 'What is it?' he asked, as he saw her hesitating. 

With a quick, jerky movement of the head, which set in motion the littlerings of hair, now growing so fast, and brought his brother to his mind, Jerry replied:

'I came to tell you that Mr. Arthur has written the letter. '

'What letter?' Frank asked, for the moment forgetting the conversationhe had held with the child in the Tramp House. 

'The one I promised to bring you to show you--the one to Germany, ' wasJerry's answer. 

And then Frank remembered at once what, in the excitement of the diamondtheft, had passed from his mind. 

'Yes, yes, I know; give it to me, ' he said, advancing rapidly towardher, and putting out his hand. 'When did he write it? Give it to me, please. '

'But not to keep, ' Jerry said, struck by something in his face andmanner which, it seemed to her, meant danger to the letter. 

'Let me see it, ' he continued. 

And rather reluctantly Jerry handed him a bulky letter, the direction ofwhich covered nearly the whole of one side of the envelope. 

Very nervously Frank scanned the address, which might as well have beenin the Fiji language for any idea it conveyed to him. 

'To whom is it directed? I cannot read German, ' he said

'I don't know, ' Jerry replied. 'I have not looked at it, and wouldrather not. '

'Why, what a little prude you are;' and Frank laughed uneasily. 'Whatpossible harm is there in reading an address? The postmaster has to doit, and any one who took it to the office would do it if he could. '

This sounded reasonable enough, and standing beside him, while he heldthe letter a little way from her, Jerry read the address in Germanfirst, then, as he said to her: 'I don't understand that lingo, put itinto English, ' she read again:

'To Marguerite Heinrich, if living, and if dead to any of her friends;or to the postmaster at Wiesbaden, Germany. If not delivered within twomonths, return to Arthur Tracy, Tracy Park, Shannondale, Mass. , U. S. A. '

'Marguerite--Marguerite Heinrich!' Frank repeated, 'That is notGretchen. The letter is not to her. '

'I guess it is, ' Jerry replied. 'He told me once that Gretchen was a petname for Marguerite. '

'Yes, ' Frank returned, with a sigh, as this little crumb of hope wasswept away, while to himself he added: 'At all events it is notMarguerite Tracy, and that makes me less a scoundrel than I shouldotherwise be. If he had written a little more it would have run over tothe other side of the envelope. Any one would know he was crazy, ' hecontinued, with a sickly attempt at a smile, while Jerry stood waitingto take the letter from him. 

He knew she was waiting, and said to her, as he put it in his pocket:

'Thank you for bringing this to me. It is probably some nonsense whichought not to go, even if the sending it would do no harm, as itcertainly would. '

Until then Jerry had not realised that he did not mean the letter to goat all. She had remembered her promise to take it to him, and forgottenthat he had said it must not be sent lest it should do harm to Maude. But it all came back to her now, and her tears fell like rain as shestood for a moment irresolute. But loyalty to Arthur conquered everyother feeling. Surely he would not suffer any wrong to come to his ownbrother and niece. The letter was harmless, and must go. 

'Give it to me, please. You do not mean to keep it?' she said, at last, in a tone and manner she might have borrowed from Arthur himself, it wasso like him when on his dignity. 

And Frank felt it, and knew that he had more than a child to deal with, and must use duplicity if he would succeed. So he said to her quietlyand naturally:

'Why, how excited you are! Do you think I intend to keep the letter? Itis as safe with me as with you. It is true that when I talked with youin the Tramp House I thought that it must not be sent, but I havechanged my mind since then, and do not care. I am going to the office, and will take it myself. John is saddling my horse now, and if I hurry Ishall be in time for the western mail. Good-bye, and do not look soworried. Do you take me for a villain?'

He was leaving the room as he talked, and before he had finished he wasin the hall and near the outer door, leaving Jerry stupefied, andperplexed, and only half reassured. 

'If I had not sold myself to Satan before, I have now, for sure; andstill I did not actually tell her that I would post it, though itamounted to that, ' Frank thought, as he galloped through the park towardthe highway which led to the town. 

Once he took the letter from his pocket and examined it again, wishingso much that he knew its contents. 

'If I could read German, I believe I am bad enough now to open it; but Ican't, and I dare not take it to any one who can, ' he said, as he put itagain in his pocket, half resolving to post it and take the chances ofits ever reaching Gretchen's friends, or any one who had known her. 'I'll see how I feel when I get inside, ' he thought, as he dismountedfrom his horse before the door of the post-office. 

The mail was just in, and the little room was full of people waiting forit to be distributed; and Frank waited with them, leaning against thewall, with his head bent down, and beating his boot with hisriding-whip. 

'I must decide soon, ' he thought, when a voice not far from him caughthis ear, and glancing from under his hat, he saw Peterkin coming in, portly and pompous, and with him a dapper little man, who, in the daysof the 'Liza Ann, had been a driver for the boat, but who now, like hisformer employer, was a millionaire, and wore a thousand-dollar diamondring. To him Peterkin was saying:

'There, that's him--that's Frank Tracy, the biggest swell in town--livesin that handsome place I was telling you about. '

Strange that words like these from a man like old Peterkin should haveinflated Frank's pride; but he was weak in many points; and though hedetested Peterkin, it gratified him to be pointed out to strangers as aswell who lived in a fine house, and with the puff of vanity came thereflection that, as Frank Tracy of some other place than Tracy Park, with all its appliances of wealth, he would not be a swell whomstrangers cared to see, and Jerry's chance was lost again. 

'Here is your mail, Mr. Tracy, ' the postmistress said; and steppingforward, Frank took his letters from her, just as Peterkin slapped himon the shoulder, and, with a familiarity which made Frank want to knockhim down, called out:

'Hallo, Tracy! Just the feller I wanted to see. Let me introduce you toMr. Bijah Jones, from Pennsylvany; used to drive hosses for me in thedays I ain't ashamed of, by a long shot. He's bought him a place outfrom Philadelphy, and wants to lay it out _à la--à la_--dumbed if Iknow the word, but like them old chaps' gardens in Europe, and I toldhim of Tracy Park, which beats everything holler in this part of thecountry. Will you let us go over it and take a survey?'

'Certainly; go where you like, ' Frank said, struggling to reach thedoor; but Peterkin button-holed him and held him fast, while hecontinued:

'I say, Tracy, heard anything from them diamonds?'

'Nothing, ' was the reply. 

'Didn't hunt in the right quarter, ' Peterkin continued, 'leastwisedidn't foller it up, or you'd a found 'em without so much advertisin'. '

'What do you mean?' Frank asked. 

'Oh, nothin', ' Peterkin replied; 'only them diamonds never went offwithout hands, and them hands ain't a thousand miles from the park. '

'Perhaps not, ' Frank answered, mechanically, more intent upon gettingaway than upon what Peterkin was saying. 

He longed to be in the open air, and as he mounted his horse, he said, as if speaking to some one near him:

'Well, old fellow, I've done it again, and sunk myself still lower. Youare bound to get me now some day, unless I have a death-bed repentanceand confess everything. The thief was forgiven at the last hour, why notI?'

The black shadow which Frank felt sure was beside him, did not answer, though he could have sworn that he heard a chuckle as he rode on, fastand far, until his horse was tired and he was tired, too. Then he beganto retrace his steps, so slowly that it was dark when, he reached thevillage, and took the road which led by the gate through which the womanhad passed to her death on the night of the storm. It was the shortestroute to the park, and he intended to take it. 

As he drew near to the gate, it seemed to him that there was somethingon the wide post nearest the fence which had not been there in theafternoon when he rode by--something dark, and large, and peculiar inshape, and motionless as a stone. He was not by nature a coward, andonce he had no belief in ghosts or supernatural appearances, but now hedid not know what he believed, and this object, whose outline, seenagainst, the western sky, where a little dim light was lingering, seemedalmost like that of a human form, made his heart beat faster than itswont, and he involuntarily checked his horse, just as a clear, shrillvoice called out:

'Mr. Tracy, is that you? I have waited so long, and I'm so cold sittinghere. Did you post the letter?'

It was Jerry who, after he had left her in his office, had been seizedwith an indefinable terror lest he might not post the letter after all. It seemed wrong to doubt him, and she did not really think that she diddoubt him; still she would feel happier if she knew, and after supperwas over she started along the grassy road until she reached the gate. Here she waited a long time, and then, as Mr. Tracy did not appear, shewalked up and down the lane until the sun was down and the ground beganto feel so damp and cold that she finally climbed up to the top of thegate-post, which was very broad, and where, on her way to town, she hadfrequently sat for a while. It was very cold and tiresome waiting there, and she was beginning to get impatient and to wonder if it could bepossible that he had gone home by some other road, when she heard thesound of a horse's hoofs and felt sure he was coming. 

'Why, Jerry, how you frightened me!' Frank said, as he reined his horseclose up to her. 'Jump down and get up behind me. I will take you home. '

She obeyed, and with the agility of a little cat, got down from thegate-post and on to the horse's back, putting both arms around Frank'swaist to keep herself steady, for the big horse took long steps, and shefelt a little afraid. 

'Did you post the letter?' she asked again, as they left the gate behindthem and struck into the lane. 

To lie now was easy enough, and Frank answered without hesitation:

'Of course. Did you think I would forget it?'

'No, ' Jerry answered. 'I knew you would not. I only wanted to be sure, because he trusted it to me, and not to have sent it would have beenmean, and a sneak, and a lie, and a steal. Don't you think so?'

She emphasized the 'steal, ' and the 'lie, ' and the 'sneak, ' and the'mean, ' with a kick that made the horse jump a little and quicken hissteps. 

'Yes, ' Frank assented; it would be all she affirmed, and more too, andthe man who could do such a thing was wholly unworthy the respect of anyone, and ought to be punished to the full extent of the law. 

'That's so, ' Jerry said, with another emphatic kick and a slighttightening of her arm around the conscience-stricken man, who wonderedif he should ever reach the cottage and be free from the clasp of thosearms, which seemed to him like bands of fire burning to his soul. 'I'dnever speak to him again, ' Jerry continued, 'and Mr. Arthur wouldn'teither. He is so right-up, and hates a trick. I don't believe, either, that any harm will come to Maude from that letter, as you said. If theredoes, and Mr. Arthur can fix it, he will, I know, for I shall ask him, and he once told me he would do anything for me, because I look as hethinks Gretchen must have looked when she was a little girl like me. '

They had reached the cottage by this time, where they found Harold inthe yard looking up and down the lane for Jerry, whose protractedabsence at that hour had caused them some anxiety, even though they wereaccustomed to her long rambles by herself and frequent absences fromhome. It was not an unusual thing for her to linger in the Tramp House, even after dark, talking to herself, and Gretchen, and Mah-nee, and hermother and a sick woman, whose face was far back in the past. She wasthere now, Harold supposed, and this belief was confirmed when Mr. Tracysaid to him:

'You see I have picked up your little girl and brought her home. Jumpdown, Jerry, and good-night to you. '

She was on the ground in an instant, and he was soon galloping towardhome, saying to himself:

'I don't believe I can even have a death-bed repentance now. I have toldtoo many lies for that, and more than all, must go on lying to the end. I have sold my soul for a life of luxury, which after all is verypleasant, ' he continued, as he drew near the house, which wasbrilliantly lighted up, while through the long windows of thedrawing-room he could see the table, with its silver and glass andflowers, and the cheerful blaze upon the hearth of the fire-place, whichDolly had persuaded Arthur to have built. There was every kind ofbric-a-brac on the tall mantel, and Frank saw it as he passed, and sawthe colored man moving slowly about the room after the manner of awell-trained servant who understands his business. There was companystaying in the house, Mr. And Mrs. Raymond, from Kentucky, father andmother to Fred; and Mr. And Mrs. St. Claire, and Grace Atherton, andSquire Harrington had been invited to dinner, and were already in thedining-room when Frank entered it after a hasty toilet. 

He had been out in the country and ridden further than he had intended, he said by way of apology, as he greeted his guests, and then took Mrs. Raymond into dinner, which, with the exception of the soup and fish, wasserved from side tables. This was Dolly's last new kink, as Frank calledit, and Dolly was very fine, in claret velvet, with her new diamonds, which were greatly admired, Grace Atherton declaring that she liked themquite as well as the stolen ones, whose setting was rather _passé. _

'That is just why I liked them so, because they were old-fashioned; itmade them look like heir-looms, and showed that one had always had afamily, ' Dolly said. 

Grace Atherton shrugged her still plump shoulders just a little, andthought of the first call she ever made upon Dolly, when she enteredthrough the kitchen and the lady entertained her in her working-apron!

Dolly did not look now as if she had ever seen a working-apron, and wasvery bright and talkative, and entertaining, and all the more so becauseof her husband's silence. He was given to moods, and sometimesaggravated his wife to desperation when he left all the conversation toher. 

'Do talk, ' she would say to him when they were alone. 'Do talk to peopleand not sit so glum, with that great wrinkle between your eyes as if youwere mad at something; and do laugh, too, when anybody tells anythingworth laughing at, and not leave it all to me. Why, I actually giggle attimes until I feel like a fool, while you never smile or act as if youheard a word. Look at me occasionally, and when I elevate myeyebrows--_so_--brace up and say something, if it isn't so cunning. '

This _elevating of the eyebrows_ and _bracing up_ were matters offrequent occurrence, as Frank grew more and more silent and abstracted, and now after he had sat through a funny story told by Mr. St. Claireand had not even smiled, or given any sign that he heard it, he suddenlycaught Dolly's eye and saw that both eyebrows, and nose, and chin wereup as marks of unusual disapprobation, for how could she guess of whathe was thinking as he sat with his head bent down, and his eyesseemingly half shut. But they came open wide enough, and his head washigh enough when he saw Dolly's frown; and turning to Mrs. Raymond hebegan to talk rapidly and at random. She had just returned from Germany, where she had left her daughter, Marion, in school, and Frank asked herof the country, and if she had visited Wiesbaden, and had there met orheard of anyone by the name of Marguerite Heinrich. 

Mrs. Raymond had spent some months in Wiesbaden, for it was there herdaughter was at school, and she was very enthusiastic in her praises ofthe beautiful town. But she had never seen or heard of MargueriteHeinrich, or of anyone by the name of Heinrich. 

'Marguerite Heinrich?' Dolly repeated. 'Who in the world is she--andwhere did you know her?'

'I never did know her. I have only heard of her, ' Frank replied, againlapsing into a silence from which he did not rouse again. 

He was thinking of the letter hidden away with the photograph and thebook--of the lies he had told since his deception began, and now sure itwas that he had sinned beyond forgiveness. When he was a boy he hadoften listened, with the blood curdling in his veins, to a story hisgrandmother told him with sundry embellishments, for he was not wellversed in German literature, of a man--Foster it seemed to him was thename--who sold his soul to the devil in consideration that for a certainnumber of years he was to have every pleasure the world could give. Ithad been very pleasant listening to the recital of the fine things theman enjoyed, for Satan kept his promise well; but the boy's hair hadstood on end as the story neared its close, and he heard how, when theprobation was ended, the devil came for his victim down the wide-mouthedchimney, scattering bricks and fire-brands over the floor, as he carriedthe trembling soul out in the blackness of the stormy night. 

Strangely enough this story came back to him now, and notwithstandingthe horror of the thing he laughed aloud as he glanced up at the talloak fire-place, wondering if it would be that way he would one day gowith his master, and seeing in fancy Dolly's dismay when the tea-cups, and saucers, and vases, and plaques, came tumbling to the floor as hedisappeared from sight in a blue flame, which smelled of brimstone. 

It was a loud, unnatural laugh, but fortunately for him it came just asGrace Atherton had set the guests in a roar with what she was saying ofthe Peterkin's final struggle to enter society, and so it passedunnoticed by most of them. But that night in the privacy of his room, where Dolly delivered most of her lectures, she again upbraided him withhis taciturnity, telling him that he never laughed but once, and then itsounded more like a groan than a laugh. 

'You have hit the nail on the head this time, for it was a groan, ' Franksaid, as he plunged into bed; and Dolly, as she undressed herselfdeliberately, and this time put her diamonds carefully away, littledreamed what was passing in the mind of the man, who, all through thelong hours of the night, lay awake, seldom stirring lest he shoulddisturb her, but repeating over and over to himself, the words:

'Lost now forever and ever, but if Maude is happy I can bear it. '

CHAPTER XXIV. 

JERRIE--NINE YEARS LATER. 

She spelled her name with an _ie_ now, instead of a _y. _ She wasnineteen years old; she had been a student at Vassar for four years, together with Nina St. Claire and Ann Eliza Peterkin, and in July was tobe graduated with the highest honors of her class. In her childhood, when we knew her as little Jerry, she had been very small, but at theage of twelve she suddenly shot up like an arrow, and had you first seenher, with her back to you, you might have said she was very tall, buthad you waited till she turned her face toward you, or walked acrossthe floor, you would have thought that if an eighth of an inch weretaken from her height it would spoil her splendidly developed form. Herschool companions called her the Princess, she was so tall and straight, and graceful in every movement, with that sweet graciousness of mannerwhich won all hearts to her and made her a general favorite. Whether shespelled her name with an _ie_ or a _y_ and stood five feet six or fourfeet five, she was the same Jerry who had defended Harold against TomTracy, and been ready to go to prison, if need be, for Mr. Arthur. Frank, unselfish, truthful, and original, she had been as a child, withperhaps a little too much pride in her hair, which she hid once cut offto see how it would seem, and she was original, and truthful, andunselfish now, with a pardonable pride in her luxuriant tresses, whichlay in waves upon her finely-shaped head and glistened in the sunlightlike satin of a golden hue. But nothing could spoil Jerrie, not even theadulation of her friends or the looking-glass which told her she wasbeautiful, just as Nina St. Claire told her every day. 

'Yes; I am not blind, and I know that I am rather good-looking, ' sheonce said to Nina, 'and I am glad, for, as a rule, people like prettythings better than ugly ones, but I am not an idiot to think that looksare everything, and I don't believe I am very vain. I used to be though, when a child, but Harold gave me so many lectures upon vanity that Ishould not do credit to his teachings were I now to be proud of what Idid not do myself. '

'But Harold thinks you are beautiful, ' Nina replied. 

'He does? I did not know that. When did he say so?' Jerrie asked; withkindling eyes and a quick, sideways turn of her head, of which she had ahabit when startled by some sudden emotion. 

'He said so last vacation, when we were home, and I had that littlemusicale, and you played and sang so divinely, and wore that dress ofbaby-blue which Mr. Arthur gave you, with the blush-rose, in your belt. 'Nina said; 'I was so proud of you and so was mamma and Mrs. Atherton. You remember there were some New Yorkers there who were visiting Mrs. Grace, and I was glad for them to know that we had some talent, and somebeauty, too, in the country; and Harold was proud, too. I don't thinkhe ever took his eyes off you from the time you sat down to the pianountil you left it, and when I said to him, "Doesn't she sing like anangel, and isn't the lovely?" he replied: "I think my sister Jerry hasthe loveliest face I ever saw, and that blue dress is very becoming toher. "'

'Wasn't that rather a stiff speech to make about his _sister_?' Jerrysaid, with a slight emphasis upon the last word, as she walked away, leaving Nina to wonder if she were displeased. 

Evidently not, for a few minutes later she heard her whistling softlythe air 'He promised to buy me a knot of blue ribbon to tie up my bonnybrown hair, ' and could she have looked into Jerry's room she would haveseen her standing before the mirror examining the face which Harold hadsaid was the loveliest he had ever seen. Others had said the same, andtheir sayings had been repeated to her. Billy Peterkin, and Tom Tracy, and Dick St. Claire, and even Fred Raymond, from Kentucky, who wassupposed to be devoted to Nina. But Jerry cared little for thecompliments of either Fred or Dick, while those of Tom she scorned andthose of Billy she ridiculed. One word of commendation from Harold wasworth more to her than the praises of the whole world besides. ButHarold had always been chary of his commendations, and was rather moregiven to reproof than praise, which did not altogether suit the younglady. 

As Jerry had grown older, and merged from childhood into womanhood, achange had come over both the girl and boy, a change which Jerrydiscovered first, awaking suddenly one day to find that the brother andsister delusion was ended, and Harold stood to her in an entirely newrelation. Just when the change had commenced she could not tell. Sheonly knew that it had come, and that she was not quite so happy as shehad been in the days when she called Harold her brother, and kissed himwhenever she felt like it, which was very often, for she was naturallyaffectionate, and showed her affection to those she loved. She wasseventeen when the dream came--the old, old story which transformed herfrom a romping, a rather gushing child, into a woman more quiet and moredignified, especially with Harold, who missed and mourned in secret forthe playful loving ways which had been so pleasant to him, even if hedid not always make a return. 

Though capable of loving quite as devotedly and unselfishly as Jerry, he was not demonstrative, while a natural shyness and depreciation ofhimself made him afraid to tell in words just what or how much he didfeel. He would rather show it by acts; and never was brother tenderer orkinder toward a sister than he was to Jerry, whose changed mood he couldnot understand. And so there gradually arose between them a littlecloud, which both felt, and neither could exactly define. 

Arthur had kept his promise well with regard to Jerry, who had passedfrom him to Vassar, and he would have kept it with Harold, if the latterhad permitted it. But the boy's pride and independence had assertedthemselves at last. He had accepted the course at Andover, and one yearat Harvard, on condition that he should be allowed to pay Arthur backall he had received as soon as he was able to do it. As he enteredHarvard in advance, he was a junior when he decided to care for himself, and during the remainder of his college course, which, of course, waslonger than usual, he struggled on, doing what he could during thesummer vacation--teaching school for months at a time--and in thecollege reducing his expenses by acting as proctor, and compellingobedience to the rules of the institution. Even the few who were awareof his limited means, and his efforts to increase them, had toacknowledge, as he stood before the multitude, delivering thevaledictory, and exciting thunders of applause by his graceful gesturesand thrilling eloquence, that he was not only an orator, but every incha gentleman. 

His fellow students who saw him then, and listened entranced to hisclear, well-trained voice, thought not of Harold's threadbare coat andshining old-fashioned pants, which were so conspicuous as he pursued hisstudies in the class-room, but which were now concealed by the gown hewore over them. They saw only the large, dark eyes, the finely chiseledfeatures, and the manly form. But as they listened to the burning wordswhich showed so much clear, deep thought, they said to each other:

'The young man has a future before him. Such eloquence as that couldmove the world, and rouse or quiet the wildest mob that ever surgedthrough the streets of mad Paris. '

Jerry was there, and saw and heard. And when Harold's speech was over, and the building was shaking with applause, and flowers were fallingaround him like rain, she, too, stood up and cheered so loudly that aBoston lady, who sat in front of her, and who thought any outward showof feeling vulgar and ill-bred, turned and looked at her wonderingly andreprovingly. But in her excitement Jerry did not see the disapprobationin the cold, proud eyes. She saw only what she mistook for enquiry, andshe answered eagerly:

'That's Harold--that's my brother! Oh, I am so proud of him!'

And leaning forward so that a curl of her bright hair touched the Bostonwoman's bonnet, she threw the bunch of pond lilies which she had herselfgathered that day on the river at home, before the sun was up, and whilethe white petals were still folded in sleep. For Jerry had come down onthe early train to see Harold graduated, and Maude had found her in thecrowd and sat beside her, almost as pleased and happy as herself to seeHarold thus acquit himself. 

Maude's roses had been bought at a florist's in Boston at a fabulousprice, for they were the choicest and rarest in market. Harold had seenboth the roses and the lilies long before they fell at his feet. It wasa fancy, perhaps, but it seemed to him that it sweet perfume from thelatter reached him with the brightness of Jerry's eyes. He knew justwhere the lilies came from, for he had often waded out to the green bedwhen the water was low to get them for Jerry; and all the time he wasspeaking there was in his heart a thought of the old home, and thewoods, and the river, and the tall tree on the bank, with the benchbeneath, and on it the girl, whose upturned, eager face he saw above thesea of heads confronting him. 

Jerrie's approval was worth more to the young man than that of all therest; for he knew that, though she would be very lenient toward him, shewas a keen and discriminating critic, and would detect a weakness whichmany an older person would fail to see. But she was satisfied--he wassure of that; and if there had been in his mind any doubt it would havebeen swept away when, after the exercises were over, and he stoodreceiving the congratulations of his friends, she worked her way throughthe crowd and threw her arms around his neck, kissing him fondly, andbursting into a flood of tears as she told him how proud she was of him. 

The eyes of half his classmates were upon him, and though Harold felt athrill of keen delight run through his veins at the touch of Jerrie'slips, he would a little rather she had waited until they were alone. 

'There, there, Jerrie, that will do!' he whispered, as he unclasped herarms, and put her gently from him, though he still held her hand. 'Don'tyou see they are all looking at us. '

With a sudden, jerk Jerrie withdrew her hand from his and stepped backinto the crowd, her heart beating wildly, and her cheeks burning withshame, as she thought what she had done and how it must have mortifiedHarold. 

Maude was speaking to him now--Maude with her bright black eyes andbrilliant color. But she was neither crying nor strangling him withkisses. She was shaking hands with him very decorously, and telling himhow pleased and glad she was. And in his hand he held her roses, whichhe occasionally smelled as he listened, and smiled upon her with thatpeculiar smile of his which made him so attractive. But the lilies werenowhere to be seen; and when, an hour later, all the baskets andbouquets bearing his name were piled together, the lilies were notthere. 

'He has thrown them away! He did not care for them at all, and I mightas well have staid in bed as to have gotten up at four o'clock andrisked my neck to get them. He likes Maude and her roses better than hedoes me, ' Jerrie thought, with a swelling heart and all through thejourney home--for they returned that night--she was very quiet andtactiturn, letting Maude do all the talking, and saying when asked whyshe was so still, that her head was aching, and that she was too tiredand sleepy to talk. 

That was the last time for years that Jerrie put her arms aroundHarold's neck, or touched her lips to his; for it had come to her like ablow how much he was to her, and, as she believed, how little she was tohim. 

'Maude is preferred to me--I see it now so plainly; he likes me wellenough, but he loves _her_--I saw it in the way he looked at her thattime I mortified him so dreadfully with my _gush_, ' she thought; andalthough of all her girl friends, not even excepting Nina St. Claire, Maude was the nearest and dearest, she was half-glad when a week or twolater, Maude said good-bye to her, and with her mother sailed away toEurope, where she remained for more than a year and a half. 

During her absence the two girls corresponded regularly, and Jerrienever failed to write whatever she thought would please her friend tohear of Harold; and when at last Maude returned, and wrote to Jerrie offailing health, and wakeful nights, and lonely days, and her longing forthe time when Jerrie would be home, and be with her, and read to her, orrecite bits of poetry, as she had been wont to do, Jerrie trampled everyjealous, selfish thought under her feet, and in her letters to Haroldurged him to see Maude as often as possible, and read to her whenevershe wished him to do so. 

'You have such a splendid voice, and read so well, ' she wrote, 'that itwill rest her just to listen to you, and will keep her from being solonely; so offer your services if she does not ask for them--that's agood boy. '

Then, as she remembered how weak Maude was, mentally, she thought:

'He never can be happy with her as she is now. A girl who cannot do asum in simple fractions, and who, when abroad, thought only of Rome as agood place in which to buy sashes and ribbons, and who asked me in aletter to tell her who all those Caesars were, and what the Forum wasfor, is not the wife for a man like Harold, and however much he mightlove her at first he would be sure to tire of her after a while, unlesshe can bring her up. Possibly he can. '

Resuming her pen, she wrote:

'Don't give her all sentimental poetry and love trash, but somethingsolid--something historical, which she can remember and talk about withyou. '

In his third letter to Jerrie, after the receipt of her instructions, Harold wrote as follows:

'I have offered my services as reader, and tried the solid on Maude asyou advised--have read her fifty pages of Grote's History of Greece; butwhen I got as far as Homeric Theogony, she looked piteously at me, whilewith Hesiod and Orpheus she was hopelessly bewildered, and by the time Ireached the extra Hellenic religion she was fast asleep! I do notbelieve her mind is strong enough to grapple with those old Greek chaps;at all events they worry her, and tire her more than they rest. So Ihave abandoned the gods and come down to common people, and am readingto her Tennyson's poems. Have read the May Queen four times, until I dobelieve she knows it by heart. She has a great liking for the lastportion of it, especially the lines:

 "I shall not forget you, mother: I shall hear you when you pass, With your feet above my head In the long and pleasant grass. "

'I saw her cry one day when I read that to her. Poor little Maude! Sheis very frail, but no one seems to think her in danger, she has sobrilliant a color, and always seems so bright. '

Jerrie read this letter two or three times, and each time with anincreased sense of comfort. No man who really loved a girl could speakof her mental weakness to another as Harold had spoken of Maude's toher, and it might be after all that he merely thought of her as afriend, whom he had always known. So the cloud was lifted in part, andshe only felt a greater anxiety for Maude's health, which as the springadvanced, grew stronger, so that it was almost certain that she wouldcome to Vassar in the summer and see her friend graduated. 

Such was the state of affairs when Nina repeated to Jerrie what Haroldhad said to her at the musicale the previous winter. All day long therewas a note of gladness in Jerrie's heart which manifested itself insnatches of song, and low, warbling, whistled notes, which sounded moreas if they came from a canary's than from a human throat. Jerrie did_not_ chew gum, but she whistled, and the teachers who reproved her mostfor what they called a boyish trick, always listened intently, when theclear, musical notes, now soft and low, now loud and shrill, were heardoutside, or in the building. 

'Whistling Jerrie, ' the girls sometimes called her, but she rather likedthe name, and whistled on whenever she felt like it. 

And it was a very joyous, happy song she trilled, as she thought ofHarold's compliment, and wished she might wear at commencement the dressof baby-blue which he had admired, for Harold would, of course, be thereto see and hear, and as, when he wrote his valedictory two years beforethere had been in every line a thought of her, so in her essay, whichwas peculiarly German in its method and handling, thoughts of Harold hadbeen closely interwoven. She knew she should receive a surfeit ofapplause--she always did; but if Harold's were wanting the whole thingwould be a failure. So she wrote him twice a week, urging him to come, and he always replied that nothing but necessity would keep him fromdoing so. 

CHAPTER XXV. 

THE TWO FACES IN THE MIRROR. 

Toward the last of May Arthur came to Vassar, bringing with him thegraduating dress which he had bought in New York, with Maude as hisadviser. He had Jerrie at the hotel to spend Saturday and Sunday withhim, and took her to drive and to shop, and then in the evening askedher to put on her finery, that he might see how it looked. 

'I shall not come to hear you spout out your erudition, ' he said, 'for Idetest crowds, with the dreadful smell of the rooms. I have gotten thepark house tolerably free from odors, though the cook's drain isterrible at times, and I shall have brimstone burned in the cellar oncea week. But what was I saying? Oh, I know--I shall not be here atcommencement, and I wish to see if my Cherry is likely to look as wellas any of them. '

So Jerrie left him alone while she donned the white dress, which fell insoft, fluffy folds around her feet, and fitted her superb figureperfectly. She knew how well it became her, and sure of Arthur'sapprobation, went back to the parlor, where she had left him. Arthur wasstanding with his back to the door when she came in, and going up tohim, she said:

'Here I am in all my gewgaws. Do you think I shall pass muster?'

She spoke in German, as she always did to him, and when he turnedquickly, there was a startled look on his face, as he said:

'Oh, Cherry, it's you! I thought for a moment it was Gretchen speakingto me. Just so she used to come in with her light footstep and softvoice, so much like yours. Where is she, Cherry, that she never comesnor writes? Where is Gretchen now?'

His chin quivered as he talked, and there was a moisture in his eyes, bent so fondly upon the young girl beside him. He was worn with thefatigue and excitement of his journey and the long drive he had taken, and Jerrie knew that whenever he was tired his mind was weaker andwandered more thin usual. So she tried to quiet and divert him bycalling his attention to her dress, and asking how he liked it. 

'It is lovely, ' he said, examining the lace and the soft flounces. 'Itis the prettiest Maude and I could find. You know, she was with me, andhelped me select it. Yes, it's lovely, and so are you, Cherry, withGretchen's eyes and hair, and smile, and that one dimple in your cheek. She used to wear soft, white dresses, and in this you are enough likeher to be her daughter. '

They were standing side by side before a long mirror, she taller for awoman than he was for a man, so that her face was almost in a range withhis, as he stooped a little forward. 

Glancing into the mirror at the two faces so near to each other, Jerriesaw something which for an instant made her cold and sick, and set everynerve to quivering as she stepped suddenly back, looking first at theman's face and then at her own in the mirror. It was gone now, the lookwhich had so startled her, but it had certainly been there--a likenessbetween the two faces--and she had seen it plainer than she had everseen any resemblance between herself and the picture. Gretchen had blueeyes, and fair hair, and fair complexion, and so had she, and so hadhundreds of German girls, and all Arthur had ever said to her had neverbrought to her mind a thought like the two faces in the mirror. _What ifit were so?_ That was the thought which had flashed like lightningthrough her brain, making her so weak that she grasped Arthur's arm tosteady herself as she tried to speak composedly. 

'You are white as your dress, ' he said. 'It is this confounded hot room;let us sit nearer the window. '

They sat down together on a sofa, and taking up a newspaper, Arthurfanned Jerrie gently, while she said to him:

'Do you really think I look like Gretchen?'

'Yes; except that you are taller. You might be her daughter. '

'Had she--had Gretchen a daughter?' was Jerrie's next question, puthesitatingly. 

'None that I ever heard of, ' Arthur replied. 'Why do you ask that?'

'And her name when a girl was Marguerite Heinrich, was it not?' Jerriewent on. 

'Yes. Who told you that?' Arthur said. 

'I saw it on a letter which you gave me to post years ago, when I was achild, ' Jerrie replied. 'You never received an answer to that letter, did you?'

'What letter did you post for me to Marguerite Heinrich? I don't knowwhat you mean, ' Arthur said, the old worried look settling upon hisface, which always came there when he was trying to recall something heought to remember. 

As he grew older he seemed to be annoyed when told of things he hadforgotten, and as the letter had evidently gone entirely from his mind, Jerrie said no more of it. _She_ remembered it well; and never dreamingthat it had not been posted, she had watched a long time for an answer, which never came. Gretchen was dead; that was settled in her mind. Butwho was she? With the words, 'What if it were so?' still buzzing in herbrain, the answer to this question was of vital importance to her, andafter a moment, she continued, as if she had all the time been talkingof Gretchen:

'She was Marguerite Heinrich when a girl in Wiesbaden, but she hadanother name afterward, when she was married. '

'You are talking of something you know nothing about. Can't you letGretchen alone?' Arthur said, petulantly, and springing up he began topace the room in a state of great excitement, while Jerrie satmotionless, with a white, stony look on her face and a far off look inher eyes, as if she were seeing in a vision things she could not retain, they passed to rapidly before her, and were so hazy and indistinct. 

The likeness she had seen in the glass was gone now. She was not likeArthur at all; it was madness in her to have thought so. And she was notlike Gretchen either. Her mother was lying under the little pine treewhich she and Harold had planted above the lonely grave. Her mother hadbeen dark, and coarse, and bony, and a peasant woman--so Ann ElizaPeterkin, who had heard it from her father, had told her once, whenangry with her, and Harold, when sorely pressed, had admitted as much toher. 

'Dark, with large, hard hands, ' he had said; and Jerrie with the greattears shining in her eyes, had answered, indignantly:

'But hard and black as they were, they always touched _me_ gently andtenderly, and sometimes I believe I can remember just how lovingly andcarefully they wrapped the old cloak around me to keep me warm. Dearmother, what do I care how black she was, and coarse. She was mine, andgave her life for me. '

This was when Jerrie was a child, and now that she was older she wasseeking to put away this woman with the dark face and the coarse hands, and substitute in her place a fairer, sweeter face, with hands like waxand features like a Madonna. But only for a few moments, and then thewild dream vanished, and the sad, pale face, the low voice, the music, the trees, the flowers, the sick-room, the death-bed, the woman whodied, and the woman who served, all went out together into the darkness, and she was Jerrie Crawford again, wearing her commencement dress toplease the man still pacing the floor abstractedly, and paying no heedto her when she went out to change her dress for the blue muslin she budworn through the day. 

When she returned to the parlor she found him seated at the tea-table, which had been laid during her absence. Taking her seat opposite to him, she made his tea, and buttered his toast, and chatted, and laughed untilshe succeeded in bringing back a quiet expression to the face which boreno likeness now to her own, but looked pale and haggard as it always didafter any excitement. He was talking of the commencement exercises, andregretting that he could not be present. 

'I may not be home, ' he said. 'And if I am. I shall not come. Crowdskill me, and smells kill me, and we are sure to have both. I wish I hada different nose, but it is as it was made, and I think I detect somebad odor in here, don't you?'

Jerrie, who knew from experience that the better way was to humor hisfancy, said she did smell something; perhaps it was the carpet, or thecurtains, both of which were new. 

'Very likely, and in that case the smell is a clean one, ' he replied, and began again to speak of commencement. 

'Harold is sure to be here, ' he said, 'and he is better than forty oldcoves like me. It is astonishing what a fancy I have taken to that youngman. I don't see a fault in him, except that he is too infernally proud. Think of his refusing to take any more money from me unless I wouldaccept his note promising to pay it all back in time--just as if he evercan, or will. '

'Indeed he will, ' Jerrie exclaimed, rousing at once in Harold's defence. 'He will pay every dollar, and I shall help him. '

'You!' and Arthur laughed, merrily, 'How will you help him, I'd like toknow. '

'I shall teach school, or give music lessons, or do both to earnsomething for grandmother, ' Jerrie answered, quickly. 'And I shall helpHarold, and shall pay Mr. Frank all he gave grandmother for my board. Iknow just how much it is. Three dollars a week from the time I was fouryears old until I was sixteen and came here to school--almost twothousand dollars; a big sum, I know, but I shall pay it. You will see, 'she went on rapidly and earnestly; as she saw the amused look onArthur's face, and felt that he was laughing at her. 

'You are going to pay my brother to the uttermost farthing, but what ofme? Am I to be left in the cold?' he asked, as he arose from the tableand seated himself upon the sofa near the window. 

'I expect to be your debtor all my life, ' Jerrie said, as went over tohim and laid her soft, white arms around his neck. 'I can never pay youfor all you have done for me, never. I can only love you, which I do sodearly, as the kindest and best of men. '

She was stooping over him now; and putting up his hands Arthur drew herclose to him, so that the two faces were again plainly reflected, sideby side in the mirror opposite--the man's gentle and tender as awoman's, the girl's flushed, and eager, and excited as she caught asecond time the likeness which had made her cold and faint when shefirst saw it, and which made her faint again as she clasped her handstightly together, and leaning a little forward, looked earnestly at thefaces in the mirror, while she listened to what Arthur was saying. 

'You owe me nothing, Cherry; the indebtedness is all on my side, and hasbeen since the day when a little white sun-bonnet showed itself at mywindow, and a clear, ringing voice, which I can hear yet, said to me, "Mr. Crazyman, don't you want some cherries?" You don't know how much oflife and sunshine you brought me with the cherries. My sky was veryblack those days, and but for you I am certain that I should long erethis have been what you called me--a crazy man for sure, locked upbehind bars and bolts. My little Cherry has been all the world to me;and though she is very grand, and tall, and stately now, I love toremember her as the child in the sun-bonnet, clinging to the ladder, andtalking to the lunatic inside. That would make a fine picture, and it Iwere an artist I would paint it some day. Perhaps Maude will. Poorlittle Maude! Did I tell you that while she was absent she dabbled inwater-colors? and now she has what she calls a studio, where sheperpetrates the most atrocious daubs you ever saw. Poor Maude! She isweak in the upper story, but is, on the whole, a nice girl, and verypretty, too, with her black eyes, and brilliant color, and kittenishways. I did not care for her once, but we are great friends now, and sheis a comfort to me in your absence. I am afraid, though, that she is notlong for this world. Everything tires her, and she has grown so thinthat a breath might blow her away. I think it would kill Frank to loseher. His life is bound up in hers; and he once said to me, either thathe had sold, or would sell, his soul for her. What do you suppose hemeant?'

Jerrie did not reply. The likeness in the mirror had disappeared asArthur grew more in earnest, and she listened more intently to what hewas saying of Maude, every word as he went on a blow from which sheshrank as from some physical pain. 

'Yes, ' Arthur continued, 'Maude is weak, mentally and physically, thoughI believe she is trying hard to improve her wind, or rather, that youngman, Harold, is trying to improve it for her. He is at the house nearlyeveryday, or she is at the cottage. But, hold on! I wasn't to tell, andI haven't told--only he reads to her, sometimes outside when the weatherwill admit, but oftener in her _studio_, where she talks to him of art, and where I once saw him giving her a sitting while she tried to sketchhis face. A caricature, I called it, ridiculing it so much that she putit away unfinished, and is now at work on some water-lilies he broughther, and which are really very good. Mrs. Tracy is not pleased withHarold's visits, and I once overheard her saying to Maude, "Why do youencourage the attentions of that young man? why do you run after him so, down there every day?" Hold on, again! What a tattler I am! Why don't Istick to Dolly, who said, "You certainly do not care for him. He hasn'ta cent to his name, nor any family and has even worked in Peterkin'sfurnace. " What Maude replied I do not know, I only heard Dolly bang thedoor hard as she left the room, so I suppose the answer was not apleasing one. Dolly is a grand lady and would not like her daughter tomarry an ordinary man like Harold. '

'No, ' Jerrie said, slowly, as if speaking were an effort. 'N-no; and youthink Harold likes Maude very much?'

'Likes her? Yes. Why shouldn't he like a girl as pretty as she is, especially when she meets him more than half way?' Arthur replied, andJerrie continued in the same measured tone:

'Ye-es, and you think he would marry her if her mother would permit it?'

'He is not at all likely to do that, ' Arthur answered, quickly, 'A manseldom marries a woman who throws herself at his head and lets him seehow much she cares for him, and Maude is doing just that. She cannotconceal anything. I tell you, Cherry, if the time ever comes when youlove somebody better than all the world beside, don't let him know untilhe speaks for himself. Don't be lightly won. Better be shy and cold, than demonstrative and gushing, like Maude. Gretchen was shy as a fawn, and after I told her I loved her she would not believe it possible. But, child, you look fagged and tired. It is time you were in bed. I havetalked you nearly to death. '

'I am not tired, ' Jerrie said, 'and I want to know what it is aboutMaude's going to the cottage, which you must not tell me. Is she therevery, very often, and does Harold like to have her come, and is thatthrowing herself at his head, as you call it?'

She had her arm around his neck in a coaxing kind of way, and Arthursmoothed the soft white hand resting on his coat-collar, as he answered, laughingly:

'Mother Eve herself. You would have eaten the apple, too, had you beenMrs. Adam. No, no, I shall not tell any secrets. You must wait and seefor yourself. And now you must go, for I am tired myself. '

She said good-night, and went to her room, but not to sleep at once, because of the tumult of emotions which had been roused by what Arthurhad told her of Maude and Harold. 

'I don't believe now that I really meant him to make love to her when Iasked him to amuse her, ' she whispered to herself, as she dashed awaytwo great tear-drops from her cheeks. 

Then, after a moment, she continued:

'But they shall never know. No one shall ever know that I care, for Idon't, or I am not going to. Harold is my brother, and I shall loveMaude as my sister, and I will do all I can to make her more like whatHarold's wife should be. She is beautiful, and good, and sweet, andtrue, and with money and position can do far more for him than Icould--I, the daughter of a peasant woman, the child of the carpet bag;and yet--'

Here Jerrie's hands beat the air excitedly as she recalled the wildfancy which had twice taken possession of her that night, and which hadbeen born of that likeness seen in the mirror. Many times since she hadpassed from childhood to womanhood had she speculated upon the mysterywhich enshrouded her, while one recollection after another of pastevents flitted through her brain, only to bewilder her awhile and thento disappear into oblivion. But never before had she been affected asshe was that night when the possibility of what might be nearly droveher wild. 

'Oh, if that were so, ' she said, 'I could help Harold, and I'd giveeverything to him and make him my king, as he is worthy to be. There issomething far back, ' she continued 'something different from the womanwho died at my side. That face which haunts me so often was a realitysomewhere. It has kissed me and called me darling, and I saw the lifefade out of it--saw it cold and dead. I know I did, and sometime, when Ihave paid that debt to Mr. Frank Tracy, and have helped Harold, and madegrandmother comfortable, I'll go to Germany, to Wiesbaden andeverywhere, and clear the mystery, if possible; and if mother was apeasant girl, with hands coarse and hard, and black from labor in thefield, then, I, too, will be a peasant girl, and marry a peasant lad, and draw his potatoes home in a cart, while he trudges at my side. '

At this picture of herself Jerrie laughed out loud, and while trying tothink how it would seem to draw potatoes in a cart, after having dugthem, she fell asleep and dreamed of Maude and Harold, and studios andlilies, and a face which was a caricature, as Arthur had said, andwhich, when at a late hour she awoke, proved to be that of thechambermaid, whom Arthur had sent to rouse her, as he was waiting forhis breakfast. 

CHAPTER XXVI. 

MAUDE'S LETTER. 

 TRACY PARK, June ----, 18--. 

 'My darling Jerrie:--I wish I could send you a whiff of the delicious air I am breathing this morning from the roses under my window and the pond-lilies which Harold brought me about an hour ago. Don't you think he was up before the sun, and went out upon the river to get them for me because he knows how fond I am of them, and I told him yesterday that they always made me think of you, they are an sweet, and pure, and fair. I wish you could have seen him, or, rather, have heard his voice and seen the look in his eyes, as he said: "Yes; Jerrie is the lily and you are the rose; you set each other off admirably. I am glad you are so good friends. "

 'Harold thinks the world of you, Jerrie, and were you his own sister, I am sure he could not love you better than he does. How handsome he has grown since I went away. I always thought him splendid-looking, but he is more than that now; so tall and straight, with his head set on his shoulders in such an aristocratic kind of way, and then his eyes, which look at you so--well, I don't know how they do look at you, but they are eyes you would trust and never be afraid of anything bad behind them. Uncle Arthur says his mother was lovely, and that his father was one of the handsomest men of his time, but I am certain that Harold looks better than either of them, and has inherited the good qualities of both, without a single bad one. He is so nice and gentlemanly, and has such a kind, courteous way of saying and doing things. Fred Raymond--who, you know, is so sweet on Nina St. Clair--says that if Harold had all the blood of a hundred kings in his veins he could not be more courtly or dignified in his manner than he is, and that is a great deal for a Kentuckian to say. Fred is now at Grassy Spring, visiting Dick St. Claire, and will stay until Nina comes home. I wish Harold was rich, and if I had money of my own, I believe I'd give it to him, only he wouldn't take it, he is so awfully proud, and afraid somebody will help him; and yet I respect him for the pride, which has made him teach school, and do everything he could find to do in order to go through college the last two years and pay his own way. But I did not like it a bit when I heard he had accepted a situation in Peterkin's furnace. I know he had good wages, but it is dreadful to think of Harold under such a man, even if Billy is there. When I told Uncle Arthur he laughed, and said: "Honor and shame from no condition rise. " I wonder what he meant? I asked Tom, and he said I was a fool. 

 'Weren't you proud of Harold, though, the day he graduated? What an oration that was! and how the building shook with applause when he came on and when he went off! And do you remember the expression of his face when he picked up the bouquet of roses I threw him, and looked over where we sat? I thought he touched his lips to them, but was not sure. Do you remember? He is studying law now all the time he can get in Judge St. Claire's office, but he comes to read to me for an hour or more nearly every day. He came of his own accord, too. I did not ask him, or even hint, as Tom says I do, when I want anything; and sometimes I half think he is trying to drive something into my head, or was, when he began to read to me about those old Greeks, Hesiod, or Herod, I don't know which, and Theogony--that's rather a pretty name, don't you think so? But I could not stand the Greeks. My mind is too weak to be impressed by anything Grecian, unless it is the Grecian bend. You tried it until you were discouraged and gave it up, telling me I was the stupidest idiot you ever saw! That was the time we had the a spelling-school in the Tramp House, and you were the teacher, and Harold chose me first, and I spelled biscuit "bisket!" Do you remember how I cried? and when you told me nobody would ever like me unless I knew something, Harold said. "Don't talk like that, Jerrie; those who know the least are frequently liked the best. "

 'What a comfort those words have been to me; and especially at the time when I failed so utterly in examination at Vassar and had to give it up. Oh, Jerrie, you do not know how mortified I was over that failure, to think I knew so little; and the worst of it is I can't learn, or understand; or remember, and it makes my head ache so to try. I am sorry most on father's account, he is so proud of me and would like to see me take the lead in everything. Poor father! he is growing old so fast. Why, his hair is white as snow, and he sometimes talks to himself just as Uncle Arthur does. I wonder what ails him that he never smiles or seems interested in anything except when I am smoothing his hair or sitting on his knee; then he brightens up and calls me his pet and darling, and talks queer kind of talk, I think. He asks me if I am glad I live at Tracy Park--if I like the pretty things he buys me, and if I should be as happy if I were poor--not real poor, you know, but as we were at Langley before I was born. I went there with him a few weeks ago for the first time; and oh, my goodness gracious! such a poky little house, with the stairs going right up in the room, and such a tiny, stuffy bedroom! I tried to fancy mamma's scent bottles, and brushes, and combs, and the box for polishing her nails, transported to that room, and her in there with Rosalie dressing her hair. It made me laugh till I cried, and I think papa did actually cry, for he sat down upon the stairs and turned his head away, and when he looked up his eyes were all wet and red, with such a sorry look in them that I went straight up and kissed him, and asked him playfully if he was crying for the old days when he lived in that house and sold codfish in the store. 

 '"Yes, Maude, " he said. "I believe I'd give the remainder of my life if I could be put back right here as I was when your uncle Arthur's letter came and turned my head. Oh, if the years and everything could be blotted out!"

 'What do you suppose he meant? I was frightened, and did not say a word until he asked me those questions I told you about; did I like pretty things? did I like to live at Tracy Park, and could I bear to be poor and live in the Langley house? I just told him, 'No, I should not like to live in Langley, that I did like living at Tracy Park, and did like the pretty things which money bought. '

 '"Then I ought to be content, if my beautiful Maude is so, " he said, and the tired look on his face lifted a little. 

 'He calls me beautiful so often. But I don't see it, do you? Of course you don't. You think me too black, and small, and thin, and so I am. Harold never told me I was pretty, and--I tell this in confidence, and you must never breathe it to any one--I have tried to wring a compliment from him so many times, but it's no use, I can't do it, he never understands anything, though he does sometimes say, when he brings me a bright rose: "Wear it, Maude; it will become your style. "

 'He never says you are pretty, either, and that is strange, for I think you have the loveliest and sweetest face I ever saw, except Gretchen's in the picture, you look like her; I saw it so plainly two years ago, when you were here one evening, and I spoke of it to father. Who was she, I wonder? Uncle Arthur does not talk much of her now, though I believe he kisses her every night and morning. How much he thinks of you, and how much he has talked of _Cherry_ since his visit to you in May. I am so glad you liked the dress, he was so anxious about it. Did he say any thing to you of a trip to California? He took us quite by surprise two weeks ago by telling us he was going. He wanted to see the Yosemite Valley before he died, he said, and June was the time to see it. So he started off with Charles about ten days ago, and the house seems like a tomb without him. 

 'If I can, I shall come and see you graduate with the other Vassars, though I shall be ashamed to be seen where I failed so utterly. I might have known I should, for I haven't about me a single quality which would entitle me to be a Vassar, unless it is my fondness for _gum_. Do you really chew an awful lot there, or is it a fib? How learned you and Nina will be, and how you will cast me in the shade, making me seem stupider than ever. I did try very hard to learn to speak German when I was abroad with mamma, for father wished it particularly; but I could not do it, and gave it up. I have not a capacity for anything, except to love and suffer and sacrifice for those I love. Do you know, it sometimes frightens me to think how devotedly I could love some one. Not a girl, but a man--a lover--a husband, who loved me. Why, I would give my life for him, and bear any kind of torture if it would add to his happiness. But why write this nonsense to you, who never acted as if you cared an atom for any boy, not even Dick St. Claire, who used to give you sugar hearts and call you his little wife. _Entre nous_ (who says I do not know two French words?) mamma would like to make a match between Dick and me, but she never will--never! Dick is nice, and I like him, but not that way. Poor mamma! How much she thinks of money and position! I tell her she ought to have a photograph of the old Langley House hung up in her room to keep her in mind of her former condition. Just now she has the craze to hammer brass and paint in water-colors, and goes over to Mrs. Atherton's to take lessons. Don't you think that Mrs. Peterkin--_May Jane_--had like aspirations with mamma, and wanted to join the class; but the teacher found that she had as many pupils as she could attend to, and so May Jane is left out in the cold. But Mr. Peterkin says, 'By George, my wife shall have 'complishments if money can buy em!' And so, I suppose, she will. What strides those Peterkins have taken, to be sure, and what a big house he has built with such a funny name. --"_Le Batteau_", which, as he pronounces it, sounds like _Lubber-too_! It is just finished, and they have moved into it. I have not been there, but Tom has, and he says it fairly glitters, it is so gorgeous, and looks inside like those chariots which come with circuses. 

 'You ought to hear Peterkin talk about his '_Ann Lizy_, who, he says, "is to Vassar, gettin schoolin' with the big bugs, and when she comes _hum_ he is goin' to get her a hoss and cart for her own, and a maid, and a vally, too, if she wants one. " Well, there are some bigger fools in the world than I am, and that's a comfort. As for Billy, he stammers worse, if possible, than he used to when he told us we were "pl-p-plaguey mean to pl-pl-plague Ann Lizy so;" but I guess I will let him burst upon you in all the magnificence of his summer attire--his almost white clothes, short coat, tight pants, pointed shoes, and stove-pipe hat to make him look taller. He comes here occasionally to see Tom, and always talks of you. I do believe you might be Mrs. Billy Peterkin and live at _Lubber-too_, if you wanted; but, really, Billy is very kind to Harold, who gets twice as much wages in the office, when he writes there, as he would if it were not for Billy. 

 'Tom is home, doing nothing, but taking his ease and aping an English swell. You know he was with mamma and me in England, and since his return has effected everything English, and looks quite like the _dude_ of the period. He, too, seems interested in your return; and I don't know but you might be mistress of Tracy Park, if you could fancy the incumbrance. Dick St. Claire is going to Vassar to see you and Nina graduate; and Harold, too, if he possibly can. He is very busy just now with something he must finish, and perhaps he cannot be there. Tom is going, and Fred Raymond, and Billy Peterkin--quite a turn-out from Shannondale. 

 'I can hardly wait to see you. Only think, it is almost two years since I said good-bye; for we went to Europe just after Harold was graduated, and your last Christmas holidays were over before we came home. 

 'What a long letter I have written you, and have not told you a word of my health, about which you inquired so particularly. Did Uncle Arthur tell you anything? I wish he had not, for it worries me to have people look, and act, and talk as if I were sick, when I am not. If I had not a pain in my side, and a tickling cough, which keeps me awake nights and makes me sweat until my hair is wet, I should be perfectly strong; and but for the pain and the weariness, I feel as well as I ever did; and I go out nearly every day, and I don't want to die and leave my beautiful home, and father, and mother, and you, and--everybody I love. I am too young to die. I cannot die. 

 'Oh, Jerrie, I am glad you are coming home! You will do me good, just as Harold does. He is so strong every way, and so kind I can't begin to tell you what he has been to me since I came home in March--more than a friend--more than a brother. I do not see why you never fell in love with him, thought I suppose it is living with him always, as you have, and looking upon him as a brother. 

 'And now I must say good-bye, for I am getting tired and must rest. I was at the cottage this morning, and Harold is coming here this afternoon to read Tennyson's "May Queen" to me. He has read it a dozen times, but I am never tired of it, although it makes me cry to think of that grave in the long grass, with little Alice in it, cold and dead, listening for those she loved to come and weep over her. You know, she says to her mother:

 '"I shall hear you when you pass, With your feet above me, in the long and pleasant grass. "

 'Oh, Jerrie, if it should be--you know what I mean; if there should come a time when people say to each other, "Maude Tracy is dead!" you'll come often, won't you, and think of me always as the friend, who, weak and stupid as she was, loved you dearly--dearly. 

 'Now, good-bye again. Harold has just come in, and says, "Remember me to Jerrie, and tell her I shall hope to see her graduated, but do not know, I am so busy. "

 'Truly and lovingly, 'MAUDE TRACY. '

 'P. S. --Tom has come in, and says, "Give my love to Jerrie. "

 'P. S. No. 2. --Dick St. Claire and Fred Raymond are here, and both send their regards. 

 'P. S. No. 3. --If you will believe me, Billy Peterkin is here, nibbling his little cane, and says, "Present my compliments to Miss Crawford. "

 'Just think of it. Five, or, rather, four young men--for Tom don't count--for me to entertain. But I can do it, and rather like it, too, though they all tire me, except Harold. '

Jerrie read this letter, which was received a few days beforecommencement, two or three times, and each time she read it, the littleache in her heart kept growing larger, until at last it was actual pain, and covering her face with her hands, she cried like a child. 

'It is Maude I am crying for, ' she kept saying to herself. 'I know sheis worse than they have told me. She is going to die, and I am mean togrudge her Harold's love, if that will make her happier. Why does she goto the cottage so often, I wonder? Is it to see him? He would not likeme to do that. He was chagrined when I kissed him at Harvard. But, then, he does not love me, and he does Maude; but he _must_ see me graduate. I'll write and tell him so. That, surely, will not be "throwing myselfat his head;"' and seizing her pen, Jerrie wrote, rapidly and excitedly:

 'DEAR HAROLD: I have just heard from Maude, who says there is a possibility that you will not come to Vassar; but I shall be so disappointed if you do not. I would rather have you here than all the wise old heads in the State. So come without fail, no matter what you are doing. I can't imagine anything which should keep you. Tell grandma I am longing to be home, and keep thinking just how cool and nice the kitchen looks, with the hop-vine over the door; but she will I have to raise the roof soon, for I do believe I've grown an inch since last winter and am in danger of knocking my brains out in those low rooms. 

 'Good-bye till I see you. 

 'JERRIE. '

CHAPTER XXVII. 

'HE COMETH NOT, ' SHE SAID. 

The _she_ was Jerrie, who, the night before commencement, was shakinghands with Dick St. Claire, Fred Raymond, Tom Tracy, and Billy Peterkin, all of whom had arrived on the evening train, and after dinner had cometo pay their respects to the young ladies from Shannondale. The _he_ wayHarold, for whom Jerrie asked at once. 

'Where is Harold? Is he coming in the morning?' she said, as she stood, tall, and straight, and queen-like, before the four young men, whoglanced at each other with a significance in their looks, which she didnot understand. 

It was Dick St. Claire who took it upon himself to explain. 

'No, Hal is not coming, ' he said, 'and he is awfully cut up about it. Hethought he might manage it until yesterday when he found it impossibleto do so. You see, he has taken a job which must be done at a certaintime. '

'Taken a job!' Jerrie repeated. 'What job? What do you mean?' and herblue eyes flashed upon each of the young men, falling last upon TomTracy, as if she expected him to answer, which he did in the halfsneering, half satirical tone which made her hate him and long to boxhis ears. 

'Why, it's a sort of carpenter's job, ' he said; 'and I heard his hammergoing this morning before sunrise, for I was up early for once and outin the park. Sounded as if he were shingling a roof, and that's work, you know, which must be done in fair weather. It might rain and spoilthe plastering. '

'Thank you, ' Jerrie answered, curtly. 'Harold is shingling a roof, andcannot come. But where is Maude? Is she shingling a roof, too?'

'Yes, b-b-by Jove. You've h-hit it. Maude's sh-shingling a roof, too:the b-best joke out, ' Billy Peterkin chimed in, glad of an opportunityto join in the conversation, and so get some attention from Jerrie. 

He was a little man, only four feet five with heels, and he wore thelight clothes of which Maude had written, and a stove-pipe hat, and dovecolored gloves, and carried a little cane, which he constantly nibbledat, when he was not beating his little boot with it. But he wasgood-natured and inoffensive and kind-hearted, with nothing low or meanin his nature; and Jerrie, who looked as if she could have picked him upand thrown him over the house, liked him far better than she did the'elegant Tom, ' as she had nicknamed him, who stood six feet withoutheels, and who knew exactly what shade of color to choose, from hisneck-tie to his hose, which were always silk of the finest quality. Tomwas faultlessly gotten up, and he knew it, and carried himself as if heknew it, and knew, too, that he was Tom Tracy, the future heir of TracyPark, if he were fortunate enough to outlive both his uncle and hisfather. Jerrie had disliked him when he was a boy and she disliked himnow, and turning her back upon him pretended to be interested in 'littleBilly, ' as she was in the habit of calling him; he was so short and shewas so tall. 

He was speaking of Harold, and he said:

'It's a dused shame he co-couldn't come, b-but he sent some money byDick to buy you a b-basket in New York, and by George, we've got you ast-stunner down to the h-hotel; only I'm a-a-fraid it'll be w-wiltedsome b-before to-morrow. 

'Yes, ' Dick said, coming forward, 'I should not have told you now, ifBilly had not let it out; Hal did give me some money to buy a basket offlowers for you; the very best I could find, he said, and I got a bigone; but I'm afraid it was not very fresh, for it begins to look wiltednow. You must blame Tom, though; he pretends to be up in flowers, andadvised my getting this one in New York, because it was so handsome andcheap. '

'Oh, it is all right, ' Tom drawled, in that affected voice he hadadopted since his return from Europe. 'It was the best, any way, wecould get for the money. Hal, you know, isn't very flush in the pocket. '

It was a mean speech to make, and all Tom's audience felt it to be so, while Jerry crimsoned with resentment and answered hotly:

'Faded or not, I shall care more for Harold's flowers than for all therest which may be given me. '

This was not very encouraging to three at least of the young men whowere intending to make the finest floral offering they could find, tothe girl whom in their secret hearts they admired more than any girlthey had ever seen, and who, had she made the slightest sign, might havebeen installed at Grassy Spring, or Tracy Park, or Le Bateau, withinless than a month. But Jerry had never made a sign, and had laughed andchatted and flirted with them all, not excepting Tom, who had long agodropped his supercilious air of superiority and patronage when talkingwith her, and treated her with a gentleness and consideration almostlover-like. Horribly jealous of Harold, whom he still felt infinitelyabove, although he did not now often openly show it, he had encouragedthe visits of the latter to Tracy Park, and by jokes and hints andinnuendoes had fed the flame which he knew was burning in his sister'sheart. 

'There will be a jolly row when mother finds it out, ' he said to Maudeone day; 'for you know she holds her head a great deal higher than HalHastings, who isn't the chap I'd choose for a brother-in-law. But if youlike him, all right. Stick to him, and I'll stand by you to the death. '

This was to Maude; while to his mother, when, she complained that Haroldcame there quite too often, and that Maude was running after him toomuch, he said:

'Nonsense, mother! let Maude alone. She knows what she is about, andwould not wipe her shoes on Hal Hastings, much less marry him. She islonely without Nina and Jerry, and not strong enough to read muchherself, and Hal amuses her; that's all. I know. I have talked with her. I am keeping watch, and the moment I see any indications of love-makingon either side I will give you warning, and together we will put my finechap in his proper place in a jiffy. '

Tom was a young man now of twenty-seven, tall, and finely-formed, withall his mother's good looks, and his Uncle Arthur's courtliness ofmanner when he felt that his companions were worthy of his notice, butproud, and arrogant, and self-asserting with his inferiors, or thosewhom he thought such. He had never overcome his unwarrantable dislike ofHarold, whom he considered far beneath him; but Harold was too popularto be openly treated with contempt, and so there was a show offriendship and civility between them, without any real liking on eitherside. Tom could not tell just when he began to look upon Jerrie as theloveliest girl he had ever seen, and to contemplate the feasibility ofmaking her Mrs. Tom Tracy. His admiration for her had been of slowgrowth, for she was worse than a nobody--a child of the Tramp House, ofwhose antecedents nothing was known, while he was a Tracy, of TracyPark, whom a duchess might be proud to wed. But he had succumbed at lastto Jerrie's beauty, and sprightliness, and originality, and now his lovefor her had become the absorbing passion of his life, and he would havemade her his wife at any moment, in the face of all his mother'sopposition. By some subtle intuition, he felt that Harold was his rival, though he could not fathom the nature of Harold's feeling for Jerrie, socarefully did the latter conceal it. 

'He must regard her as something more than a sister, ' he thought; 'hecannot see her every day without loving her, and by-and-by he will tellher so, and then my cake is dough. If I can only get him committed toMaude while Jerrie is away, my way is clear, for I am quite sure shedoes not care for Dick, and she would be a fool not to take Tracy Parkif she could get it. And why shouldn't Hal love Maude? She is pretty, and sweet, and winning, and will some day be an heiress. Hal may thankhis stars to get her, though I hate him as I do poison. '

It was Tom who had insisted that Harold's basket should be bought in NewYork, where there was a better chance, he said, and he had himselfselected flowers which he knew were not fresh, and would be still worsetwenty-four hours later. 

'Why don't you get yours here, if it is the be-best place?' WillPeterkin had asked him, and he replied:

'Oh, we can't be bothered with more than one basket in the train. I canfind something there. '

He did not say what he intended to find, or that baskets were quite toocommon for him. But after leaving the young ladies in the evening, hewent to a florist's and ordered for Jerrie a book of white daisies, witha rack of purple pansies for it to rest upon. 

'That will certainly be unique, and show her that I have taste, ' hethought. 

For Nina a bouquet was sufficient, while for Ann Eliza Peterkin heordered nothing. Tom could be lavish of his money where his own interestwas concerned, but where he had no interest he was stingy and even mean, and so poor little red-haired Ann Eliza, who would have prized a leaffrom him more than all the florist's garden from another, was to getnothing from him. 

'What business has old Peterkin's daughter to graduate with ladies, anyway?' he thought, and he looked on with a sneer, while Billy orderedfive baskets, one of which was to be of white roses, with a heart ofblue forget-me-nots in the centre. 

'What, under heaven, are you going to do with five baskets?' he asked;but Billy was non committal, for he would not own that three wereintended for Jerrie, whom he wished to carry off the palm so far asflowers were concerned. 

And she did; for of all the young ladies who the next day passed inreview before the multitude, no one attracted so much attention orreceived so much praise as Jerrie. For clearness of reasoning, depth ofthought, and purity of language, her essay, though a little toometaphysical, perhaps, was accounted the best, and listened to with raptattention. And when the musical voice ceased, and the young girl, whohad never looked more beautiful than she did then, with the sparkle inher eyes and the flush on her cheeks, bowed to the audience, bouquets offlowers fell around her like hailstones, while basket after basket washanded up to her, Tom Tracy's book showing conspicuously from the restand attracting unusual admiration. 

But, alas for poor Harold's gift! Dick had watered it the last thingbefore going to bed and the first thing in the morning, but the flowerswere limp and faded, and gave forth a sickly odor, while the leaves ofthe roses were dropping off, and only the size, which was immense, remained to tell what it once had been. But Jerrie singled it out fromall the rest, and held it in her hands until the exercises were over;and that night, at a reception given to the graduates, she wore in herbosom two faded pink roses, the only ones she could make hold together, and which Nina told her smelled a little old. But Jerrie did not care. They were Harold's roses, which he had sent to her, and she prized themmore than all the rest she had received. At little Billy's _heart_ shehad laughed till she cried, and then had given it to a young girl, not agraduate, who admired it exceedingly. Tom's book she knew was exquisite, and placed it with others, and thanked him for it, and told him it waslovely, and then gave it to Ann Eliza, whose offerings had been so few. A bouquet from Dick St. Claire and Fred Raymond, a basket from herbrother, and one more from _herself_, were all, and the littlered-haired girl, who, with her heavy gold chain and locket, and diamondear-rings, and three bracelets, and five finger-rings, had looked like ajeweller's shop, felt aggrieved and neglected, and Jerrie found hersobbing in her room as if her heart was broken. 

'Only four snipping things, ' she said, 'and you had twenty-five, andmother will be so disappointed, and father too, when he knows just howfew I got. I wish I was popular like you. '

'Never mind, ' Jerrie said, cheerfully. 'It was only a happen so--mygetting so many. You are just as nice as I am, and I'll give you part ofmine to take home to your mother. I can never carry them all. I shouldhave to charter a car, ' and in a few moments six of Jerrie's basketswere transferred to Ann Eliza's room, including Tom Tracy's book. 

'Oh, I can't take that, Ann Eliza said; he didn't mean it for me; hedidn't give me anything, and I--I--'

Here she began to sob again, and laying her hand pityingly upon thebowed head, Jerrie said:

'Yes, I know; I understand. Something from Tom Tracy would have pleasedyou more than from anyone; but listen to me, Annie. Tom is not worthyour tears. '

'Don't you care for him?' the girl asked, lifting her head suddenly. 

'Not a particle, as you mean. You have nothing to fear from me, ' Jerriereplied. 

This was a grain of comfort to the girl who had been weak enough towaste her affections upon Tom Tracy, and who, fearing Jerrie was arival, was weak enough to hope that with her out of the way she mighteventually succeed in bringing him to her feet, for she knew hisfondness for money, and knew, too, that she should in all probability beone day the heiress to a million. So great was her infatuation for theman who had never shown her the slightest attention, that even hisflowers, though second-hand, and not intended for her, were everythingto her, and when she packed her trunk that night she put them carefullyaway in many wrappings of paper, to be brought out at home in theprivacy of her own room, and kept as long as the least beauty or perfumeremained. 

It was a merry party which the New York train carried to Shannondale thenext day, and Jerrie was the merriest and gayest of them all, bandyingjokes and jests, and coquetting pretty equally with the young men, untilneither Tom, nor Dick, nor Billy quite knew what he was doing or saying. But always in her gayest moods, when her eyes were brightest and her witthe keenest, there was in Jerrie's heart a thought of Harold, who had sodisappointed her, and a wonder as to the nature of the _job_ which hadbeen of sufficient importance to keep him from Vassar. 

'Shingling a roof, and Maude is helping him, ' Billy said, 'I wonder whathe meant?' she was thinking, when she heard Ann Eliza cry out, that thetowers of 'Le Bateau' were visible. 

As she had not seen that wonderful structure since its completion, shearose from her seat, and going to the window, looked out upon themassive pile in the distance, looking, with its turrets, and towers, andround projections, like some old castle rather than a home where peoplecould live and be happy. 

'It is very grand, ' she said to Ann Eliza; and Billy, who was leaningtoward her, replied:

'Yes, too grand for a Pe-Peterkin. It wants you, there, Jerrie, as itsm-m-master-p-p-piece, and, by Jove, you can b-be there, too, if youwill!'

No one heard this attempt at an offer but Jerrie, who, with a saucy tossof the head, replied, laughingly:

'Thank you, Billy. I'll think of it, and let you know when I make up mymind to come. Just now I prefer the cottage in the lane to any spot onearth. Oh, here, we are at the station, ' she cried, as the train shotround a curve and Shannondale was reached. 

There was a scrambling for bundles, and flowers, and wraps. Fred Raymondgathering up Nina's, while Dick, and Tom, and Billy, almost fought overJerrie's, and poor little Ann Eliza would have carried hers alone ifJerrie had not helped her. 

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

IN SHANNONDALE. 

Nine years of change in Shannondale, and the green hill-side, whichstretched from the common down to the river where, when our storyopened, sheep and cows were feeding in the pasture land, is thicklycovered with houses of every kind of architecture, from the Mansard roofto the Queen Anne style, just coming into fashion, while the meadowlands are dotted over with the small houses of the men who work in thelarge furnace, or manufactory, which Peterkin had bought and enlarged, as a monument, he said, and where he sometimes employed as many as fourhundred men, and had set up a whistle which could be heard for miles andmiles, and nearly blew off the chimney-tops when it sounded in themorning at six o'clock, it was so loud and shrill. A screecher, Peterkincalled it, and he always listened with a smile of pride and satisfactionon his face when he heard the first indications of its blowing, and knewthat four hundred men were quickening their stops on account of it, lest they should be a few minutes late and have their wages docked. 

Peterkin counted two millions now, and boasted the finest, or at least, the most expensive house in the county, not even excepting Tracy Park, which still held its own for solidity and old-fashioned dignity, and wasthe show place to the strangers visiting in Shannondale. 

When Peterkin made $20, 000 in one day from some speculation in stocks, he said to Mr. St. Claire, who was now a judge, and with whom hepretended to be on terms of great familiarity:

'I say, judge, I'm goin' to build a buster, and whip the crowd. I'velived about long enough in that little nine-by-ten hole, and I'll bedumbed if I don't show 'em what I can do. I'll have towers, andbay-windows, and piazzers, with checkered work all 'round 'em, and apreservatory, and all kinds of new fangled doin's. May Jane and Ann'Liza want that Queen Anny style, but I tell 'em no such squatty thingsfor me. They can have all the little winder panes and stained glass, cart loads on't, if they want; but I'll have the rooms big and high, soa feller won't bump his head. Yes, _sir_! I'm in for a smasher!'

And he built 'a smasher' on the site of the old house, behind which the'Liza Ann, ' or what there was left of it, was lying; and when the housewas done, and furnished with the most gaudy and expensive furniture hecould find in Boston and New York, he said it had just as good a rightto a name as any body. There was Tracy Park, and Grassy Springs, andBrier Hill, and Collingwood, and he'd be dumbed if he'd be outdone byany of 'em. 

'He'd like to call it 'Liza Ann, ' he said to Arthur, whom he met one dayin the park, and to whom he began to talk of his new house. 'He'd liketo call it 'Liza Ann, after the old boat, for that craft was thebeginnin' of his bein' any body; but May Jane and Ann 'Liza wouldn'thear to it. They wanted some new-frangled foreign name; could Mr. Tracysuggest something?'

'How would "_Le Bateau_" do? It is the French for "the boat, " and mightcover your difficulty, ' Arthur said, without a thought that hissuggestion would be adopted. 

But it was, immediately. 

'That's jest the checker. 'Liza Ann with a new name, _Lub--lub_--whatd'ye call her?' Peterkin said, and Arthur replied:

'_Le Bateau_. '

'Yes, yes--_Lubber-toe_; that'll suit May Jane tip-top. Beats all whathigh notions she's got! Why, I don't s'pose she any more remembers thatshe used to wash Miss Atherton's stun steps than you remember somethin'that never happened. Do you?'

Arthur thought very likely that she did not, and Peterkin went on:

'You say it means a boat in French; _canal_, do you s'pose?'

Arthur did not think it mattered what boat, and Peterkin continued:

'_Lubber-toe_! Sounds droll, but I like it, I'll see an engraver to-daybut how do you spell the plaguy thing!'

Arthur wrote it on a slip of paper, which he handed Peterkin, who beganslowly:

_L-e le, b-a-t-bat; le-bat_. Why, what in thunder! That ain't_Lubbertoe_. 'Tain't nothin'!'

With an amused smile Arthur explained that the pronunciation of Frenchwords had very little to do with the way they were spelled; then, verycarefully pronouncing the name several times, and making Peterkin repeatit after him, he said good-bye, and walked away, thinking to himself:

'There are bigger lunatics outside the asylum than I am, but it is notpossible the fool will adopt that name. '

But the fool did. May Jane approved, and Billy did not care, providedhis father would pronounce it right, and so in less than a week, '_LeBateau_' was on Peterkin's door-plate, and on the two gate-posts of theentrance to his grounds, and May Jane's visiting cards bore the words:

'Mrs. Peterkin. Le Bateau. Fridays. '

She had her _days_ now, like Mrs. Atherton, and Mrs. St. Claire, andMrs. Tracy, and had her butler, too, and her maid, and her carriage; andafter the house was furnished, and furnished in style which reminded oneof a theatre, it was so gorgeous and gay, Peterkin concluded to have a_coat of arms_ for his carriage; and remembering how Arthur had helpedhim in a former dilemma he sought him again and told him his trouble. 

'That _Lubber-too_ (he called it _too_ now) 'went down like hot cakes, and was just the thing, ' he said, 'and now I want some picter for mycarriage door to kinder mark me, and show who I am. You know what Imean. '

Arthur thought a _puff-ball_ would represent Peterkin better thananything else, but he replied:

'Yes, I know. You want a coat of arms, which shall suggest your earlydays--'

'When I was a flounderin' to get up--jess so, ' Peterkin interrupted him. 'You've hit it, square. Now I'd like a picter of the Lizy Ann, as shewas, but May Jane won't hear to't. What do you say, square?'

Arthur tingled to his finger tips at this familiarity from a man whom hedetested, and whom he would like to turn from his door, but the man wasin his house and in his private room, tilting back in a delicate Swisschair, which Arthur expected every moment to see broken to pieces, andwhich finally did go down with a crash as the burly figure settleditself a little more firmly upon the frail thing. 

'I'll be dumbed if I hain't, broke it all to shivers!' the terrifiedPeterkin exclaimed, as he struggled to his feet, and looked with dismayupon the _débris_. 'What's the damage?' he continued, taking out hispocket-book and ostentatiously showing a fifty-dollar bill. 

'Money cannot replace the chair, which once adorned the _salon_ ofMadame De Stael, ' Arthur said, 'Put up your purse, but for Heaven'ssake, never again tip back in your chair. It is a vulgar trick, of whichno gentleman would be guilty. '

Ordinarily, Peterkin would have resented language like this, but he wasjust now too anxious to curry favor with Arthur to show any anger, andhe answered, meekly:

'That's so, square. 'Tain't good manners, and I know it, as well as thenext one. I'm awful sorry about the chair, and think mebby I could getit mended. I'd like to try. '

'Never mind the chair, ' Arthur said, with an impatient gesture. 'Tryanother and a stronger one, and let's go back to business. You want apainted panel for your carriage. How will this do?' and he rapidlysketched a green, pleasant meadow, with a canal running through it, andon the canal a boat, drawn by one horse, which a barefoot, elfish-looking boy was driving. 

'I swow, square, you're a trump, you be, ' Peterkin exclaimed, slappinghim on the back, 'You've hit it to a dot. That's the 'Lizy Ann, and thatthere boy is Bije Jones, drivin the old spavin hoss. You or'to hev _me_somewhere in sight, cussin' the hands as I generally was, and May Janeon deck, hangin' her clothes to dry. Could you manage that?'

Arthur thought he could, but suggested that Mrs. Peterkin might not liketo be made so conspicuous. 

'Possibly she will not like this drawing at all. She may think it toosuggestive of other days. '

'That's so, ' Peterkin assented, a little sadly; 'and if she don't taketo it, the old Harry can't make her. She used to be the meekest of wivesthem days she dried her clothes on the 'Lizy Ann, but she don't knockunder wuth a cent sense we riz in the world, and Ann Lizy is wus thanher mother. But I'll show this to the old woman and let you know. '

May Jane did not approve, neither did Billy. No use, they said, toflaunt the canal, horse, driver, and all in people's faces; and so thediscomfited Peterkin went to Arthur again and told him, 'the fat was allin the fire, and May Jane on a rampage. '

'Try again, squire; but give us some kind of water and craft. '

So Arthur good-humoredly changed the canal into a gracefully flowingriver, in a bend of which, in the distance, there was just visible aboat, which was a cross between a gondola and one of those littledangerous things so common on the lakes of Wisconsin. Standing in thebow of the boat, with folded arms, as if calmly contemplating thescenery, was the figure of a man--suppositively Peterkin--who swore'he'd keep this picter in spite of 'em;' and as his wife did notseriously object, the sketch was transferred in oil to a pannel andinserted in the carriage, which, when drawn by two shining bays anddriven by a colored man in long coat and tall hat, with Peterkin sittingback in it with all the pride and pompousness of a two-millionaire, andMay Jane at his side, covered with diamonds, attracted general attentionand comment. Billy seldom patronized the carriage, but frequently rodebeside it, talking to his mother, of whom he was very fond, and takingoff his hat to every person he met, whether old or young, rich or poor. 

'Billy is an idiot, but very kind-hearted, ' people said of him, and intruth he was popular with everybody, especially with the men in hisfather's employ, who all went to him for favors, or for an increase ofwages; for if Billy had any business it was in his father's office, where he pretended to look after matters and keep the books straight. Such had been the growth of Peterkin during the past nine years. 'He hadgot clean to the front, ' he said, 'and was hob-nobbin' with SquireHarrenton, and Judge St. Claire, and the Tracys, ' all of whom shruggedtheir shoulders and laughed at him in secret, but treated him civilly tohis face, for, deny it as we may, money has a mighty power, and willopen many a door which nothing else could move. 

'Coarse and ignorant as a horse, but not so bad after all' was whatpeople said of him now; and in fact Peterkin had improved and softened agood deal with the accession of wealth. Nobody gave so largely, orlavishly either, to everything, as he did, while to his employees he wasalways generous and considerate. Once he thought to join the church, thinking that would add to his respectability; but when talked with byhis clergyman he showed himself so lamentably deficient in everynecessary qualification that he was advised to wait a while, which hedid; but he rented the most expensive pew he could find, and carried thelargest prayer-book of any one, and read the loudest, stumbling over thewords frightfully, and kept his head down the longest, so long, indeed, that he once went to sleep, and had quite a little nap before his wifenudged him and told him to get up. 

'Good Lord deliver us!' Was his ejaculation, as he sprang to his feet, and, adjusting his glasses, looked fiercely round at the amusedcongregation. 

So far as money and display were concerned, the St. Claires and Mrs. Atherton had not kept up with Peterkin. On the contrary, as he grew intosociety they gradually withdrew, until at last Dolly Tracy had it allher own way and looked upon herself as the lady _par excellence_ of thetown. She had been to Europe. She had seen the queen; she had had somedresses made at Worth's; she had picked up a few French words which sheused on all occasions, with but little regard to their appropriateness. She had decorated a tea set, and was as unlike the Dolly Tracy, who oncedid her own work and ate griddle cakes from her own kitchen stove, as aperson well could be. Everything had gone well with her, and scarcely asorrow had touched her, for though poor, stupid Jack had slept for fiveyears in the Tracy lot with only the woman of the Tramp House forcompany, he was so near an imbecile when he died that his death was ablessing rather than otherwise. Tom, with his fine figure, hisfastidious tastes, and aristocratic notions, was the apple of her eye, and _tout à fait au fait_, she said, when her French fever was at itsheight and she wished to impress her hearers with her knowledge of thelanguage; while, except for her ill-health, and the bad taste shemanifested in her liking for Harold's society, Maude was _tout à fait aufait_, too. She had no dread of Gretchen, now; even Arthur had ceased totalk of her, and was as a rule very quiet and contented. 

Only her husband troubled her, for with the passing years his silenceand abstraction had increased, until now it was nothing remarkable forhim to go days without speaking to any one unless he were first spokento. His hair was white as snow, and made him look years older than hereally was; while the habit he had of always walking with his head down, and a stoop in his shoulders, added to his apparent years. 

During the time Maude was in Europe he grew old very fast, for Maude wasall that made life endurable. To see her in her young beauty, flittingabout the house and grounds like a bright bird, whose nest is high up insome sheltered spot where the storms never come, was some compensationfor what he had done; but when she was gone there came over him such asense of loneliness and desolation that at times he feared lest heshould become crazier than his brother, who really appeared to beimproving, although the strange forgetfulness of past events still clungto and increased upon him. He did not now remember ever to have saidthat Gretchen was with him in the ship or on the train, or that he hadsent the carriage so many times to meet her; and when be spoke of her, which he seldom did to any one except to Jerrie, it was as of one whohad died years ago. Occasionally, in the winter, when a wild storm wasraging like that which had shaken the house and bent the evergreens thenight Jerrie came, he would tie a knot of crape upon the picture, butwould give no reason for it when questioned except to say, 'Can't yousee it is a badge of mourning?'

For a week or more it would remain there, and then he would put itcarefully away, to be again brought out when the night was wild andstormy. 

It was during Maude's absence that the two brothers became more intimatethan they had been before since Arthur first came home, and it happenedin this wise. Every day, for months after Maude and his wife went away, Frank spent hours alone in his private room, sometimes doing nothing, but oftener looking at the photograph of Gretchen, and the Bible withthe marked passages and the handwriting around it. Then he would takeout the letter about which Jerrie had been so anxious, and examine itcarefully, studying the address, which he knew by heart, and beginningat last to arrange the letters in alphabetical order as far as he could, and try to imitate them. It was a difficult process, but little bylittle, with the assistance of a German text book of Maude's which hefound, he learned the alphabet, and began to form words, then to putthem together, and then to read. Gradually the work began to have agreat fascination for him, and he went to Arthur one day and asked forsome assistance. 

'Never too old to learn, ' he said, 'and as the house is like a tombwithout Maude, I have actually taken up German, but find it up-hillbusiness without a teacher. Will you help me?'

'To be sure, to be sure, ' Arthur cried, brightening up at once, andbringing out on the instant such a pile of books as appalled Frank andmade him wish to withdraw his proposition. 

But Arthur was eager, and persistent, and patient, and had neverrespected his brother one half as much as when he was stammering overthe German pronunciation, which he could not well master. But he learnedto read with a tolerable degree of fluency, and to speak a little, too, while he could understand nearly all Arthur said to him. 

'Do you think I could get along in Germany?' he asked his brother, oneday. 

'Certainly you could, ' Arthur replied. Do you think of going there? Ifyou do, go to Wiesbaden, and inquire for Gretchen--how she died, andwhere she was buried. I should have gone long ago only I dreaded theocean voyage so confoundedly, and then I forget so badly. When are yougoing?'

'Oh, I don't know--I don't know as ever, ' Frank answered quickly; andyet in his heart there was the firm resolve to go to Wiesbaden and huntup Marguerite Heinrich's friends, if possible. 

'And if I find them, and find my suspicions correct, what shall I dothen?' he asked himself over and over again; and once made answer to hisquestion: 'I will either make restitution, or drown myself in theRhine. '

Jerrie was a constant source of misery to Frank, and yet when she was athome he was always managing to have her at the park house, where hecould see her, and watch her, as she moved like a young queen though thehandsome rooms, or frolicked with Maude upon the lawn. 

'She is surely Gretchen's daughter, and Arthur's, too, ' he would say tohimself, as he, too, detected in her face the likeness to his brother, which had so startled Jerrie in the mirror. 

He was always exceedingly kind to her, and almost as proud of hersuccess at Vassar as Arthur himself; and on the day when she wasexpected home he went two or three times to the cottage in the lane, carrying fruit and flowers, and even offering things more substantial, which, however, were promptly declined by Mrs. Crawford, who hadsignified her intention to take nothing more for Jerrie's board. 

'The girl pays for herself, or will, ' she said, 'and it is Harold's wishand mine to be independent. '

But she accepted the fruit and the flowers and wondered a little to seeFrank so excited, and nervous, and anxious that every thing should bedone to make Jerrie's final home-coming as pleasant as possible. 

It was a lovely July afternoon when the young ladies from Vassar wereexpected, but the train was half an hour late, and the carriage fromGrassy Spring and the carriage from Le Bateau had waited so long thatboth coachmen were asleep upon their respective boxes, when at last thewhistle was heard among the hills telling that the cars were coming. TheTracy carriage was not there, though twenty minutes before train timeMaude had come down in the victoria, and on learning of the delay hadbeen driven rapidly to the cottage in the lane, from which she had notreturned when at last the cars stopped before the station and the youngpeople alighted upon the platform, which, with their luggage, seemed atonce to be full. 

'Your checks, miss, ' the coachman from Grassy Spring said to Nina, as hetouched his hat regretfully to her, and his words were repeated to AnnEliza by the servant from Le Bateau. 

But Jerrie held hers in her hand with a rueful look of disappointment onher face as she looked in vain for Harold or Maude to greet her. For asingle moment the difference between her position and that of Nina andAnn Eliza struck her like a blow, and she thought to herself:

'For them everything, for me nothing. '

Then she rallied, and passing her checks to the baggage master, said tohim:

'If there is a boy here with a cart or a wheelbarrow, let him take mytrunks, otherwise send them by express. I see there is no one to meetme. '

'Yes'm, but they's comin', ' the man replied, with a significant nod inthe direction where a cloud of dust was visible, as the Tracy victoriacame rapidly up to the station, with Maude and Harold in it. 

The former was standing up and waving her parasol to the party upon theplatform, while, almost before the carriage stopped, Harold sprang out, and had both of Jerrie's hands in his, and held them, as he told her howglad he was to welcome her home again. He looked tired and flurried, anddid not seem quite himself, but there could be no doubt that he wasglad, for the gladness shone in his eyes and in his face, and Jerriefelt it in the warm clasp of his hands, which she noticed with a pangwere brown, and calloused, and bruised in some places as if they had oflate been used to harder toil than usual. But she had not much time forthought before Maude's arms were around her neck and Maude was standingon tiptoe and drawing down her face which she covered with kisses; and, between laughing and crying, exclaimed:

'You darling old Jerrie, how glad I am to see you again! and how talland grand you have grown! Why, I don't much more than come to yourshoulder. See, Harold, how Jerrie outshines me, ' and she lifted hersparkling face to Harold, who looked down at her as a brother might havelooked at an only sister of whom he was very fond. 

How pretty and piquant she was with her brilliant complexion and herblack eyes, and how stylish she looked in the Paris gown of embroideredlinen, which fitted her perfectly, and the big hat, which turned up justenough on the side to give her a saucy, coquettish air, as she flittedfrom one to another, kissing Nina twice, Ann Eliza once, and shakinghands with all the young men except Tom, who put his in his pockets outof her way. 

He could not stand Maude's gush, he said, and he watched her with ahalf-sneering smile as she tiptoed around, for it always seemed as ifshe walked upon her toes, courtesying as she walked. 

'I meant to have been here before the train, ' she said to Jerrie, 'and Iwas here about an hour ago; but when I found the cars were late I droveover to tell Harold, as time with him was everything. How we did drive, though, when we heard the whistle. Come, jump in, ' she continued, as sheherself stepped into the victoria. 'Jump in, and I will take you home ina jiffy. It won't hurt Hal to walk, although he is awful tired. '

'But I would rather walk; take Harold, if he is so tired, ' Jerrie said, in a tone she did not quite intend. 

'Oh, Jerrie, ' Harold exclaimed, in a low, pained voice, 'I am not tired, let us both walk, ' and going to Maude he said something to her whichJerrie could not hear, except the words, 'Don't you think it better so?'

'Of course I do; it was stupid in me not to see it before, ' was Maude'sreply, as she laid her hand on Harold's arm where it rested a moment, while she said her good-byes. 

And Jerrie saw the little, ungloved hand touching Harold so familiarly, and thought how small, and white and thin it was, with the full, blueveins showing so distinctly upon it, and then she looked more closely atMaude herself, and saw with a pang how tired and sick she looked inspite of the bright color in her cheeks which came and went so fast. There was a pallor about her lips and about her nose, while her earswere almost transparent, and her neck was so small that Jerrie felt shecould have clasped it with one hand. 

'Maude, ' she cried, pressing close to the young girl, as Harold steppedaside, 'Maude, are you sick? You are so pale everywhere except yourcheeks, which are like roses. '

'No, no, ' Maude answered quickly, as if she did not like the question. 'Not sick a bit, only a little tired. We have been at work real hard, Hal and I; but he will tell you about it, and now good-bye again, for Imust go, I shall be round in the morning. Good-bye. Oh, Tom, I forgot!We have company to dinner to-night--a Mr. And Mrs. Hart, who are friendsof Mrs. Atherton, and have just returned from Germany, bringing Fred'ssister, Marian, with them. She has been abroad at school for years, andis very nice. I ought to have told Fred and Nina. How stupid in me! Butthey will find their invitations when they get home. Now hop in, quick, and don't tear my flounces. You are so awkward. '

'I suppose Hal never tears your flounces, ' Tom said, as he took his seatbeside his sister, and gave Jerrie a look which sent the blood in greatwaves to her face and neck, for it seemed to imply that he understoodthe case and supposed she did too. 

The St. Claire carriage had driven away with Nina and Dick, and Fred, and the carriage from Le Bateau had gone, too, when at last Jerrie andHarold started down the road and along the highway to the gate throughwhich the strange woman had once passed with the baby Jerrie in herarms. The baby was a young woman now, tall and erect, with her head sethigh as she walked silently by Harold's side, until the gate was reachedand they passed into the shaded lane, where they were hidden from thesight of anyone upon the main road leading to the park house. Thenstopping suddenly, she faced squarely toward her companion, and said:

'Why didn't you come to commencement? Tom Tracy said you were shinglinga roof, and Billy Peterkin said Maude was helping you. '

CHAPTER XXIX. 

WHY HAROLD DID NOT GO TO VASSAR. 

The cottage in the lane, as its name implied, was not very pretentious, and all its rooms were small and low, and mostly upon the ground floor, except the one which Jerrie had occupied since she had grown too largefor the crib by Mrs. Crawford's bed. In this room, in which there wasbut one window, and where the roof slanted down on both sides, Jerriekept all her possessions--her playthings and her books, and the trunkand carpet-bag which had been found when she was found. Here she had cutoff her hair and slept on the floor, to see how it would seem, and hereshe had enacted many a play, in which the scenes and characters were allof the past. For the cold in winter she did not care at all, and when insummer the nights were close and hot, she drew her little bed to theopen window and fell asleep while thinking how warm she was. That sheought to have a better room had never occurred to her, and never had shefound a word of fault or repined at her humble surroundings, sodifferent from those of her girl friends. Only, as she grew taller, shehad sometimes laughingly said that if the kept on she should not muchlonger be able to stand upright in her den, as she called it. 

'I hit my head now everywhere except in the middle, ' she once said. 'Iwonder if we can't some time manage to raise the roof. '

The words were spoken thoughtlessly, and almost immediately forgotten byJerrie: but Harold treasured them up, and began at once to devise waysand means to raise the roof and give Jerrie a room more worthy of her. This was just after he had left college, and there was hanging over himhis debt to Arthur and the support of his grandmother. The first did notparticularly disturb him, for he knew that Arthur would wait any lengthof time, while the latter seemed but a trifle to a strong, robust youngman. Mrs. Crawford was naturally very economical, and could make onedollar go further than most people could two; so that very littlesufficed for their daily wants when Jerrie was away. 

'I must earn money somehow, ' Harold thought, 'and must seek work where Ican do the best, even if it is from Peterkin. '

So, swallowing his pride, he went to Peterkin's office and asked forwork. Once before, when a boy of eighteen, and sorely pressed, he haddone the same thing, and met with a rebuff from the foreman, who said tohim gruffly:

'No, sir; we don't want no more boys; leastwise, gentlemen boys. We'vehad enough of 'em. Try t'other furnace. Mr. Warner is allus takin' allkinds of trash, out of pity, and if he says "No, " go to his wife; she'llget you in. '

But the Warner factory, where Harold had once worked, was full of boys, whom the kind-hearted employer, or his wife, or both, had taken in, andthere was no place for Harold. So he waited awhile until Jerrie needed anew dress and his grandmother a bonnet, and then he tried Peterkinagain, and this time with success. 

'Yes, take him, ' Peterkin said to his foreman, 'take him, and put him tothe emery wheel; that's the place for such upstarts; that'll take thestarch out of him double quick. He's a bad egg, he is, and proud asLucifer. I don't suppose he'd touch my Bill or my Ann'Lizy with aten-foot pole. Put him to the wheel. Bad egg! bad egg!'

For some moat unaccountable reason, old Peterkin had a bitter prejudiceagainst the boy, on whose account he had once been turned from the Tracyhouse; and though he had forgiven the Tracys, and would now have votedfor Frank for Congressman if he had the chance, he still cherished hisanimosity against Harold, designating him as an upstart and a bad egg, who was to be put to the wheel. So Harold was 'put to the wheel' untilhe got a bit of steel in his eye, and his hands were blistered. But hedid not mind the latter so much, because Jerrie cried over them at nightand kissed them in the morning, and bathed them in cosmoline, and calledPeterkin a mean old thing, and offered to go herself to the wheel. 

But to this Harold only laughed. He could stand it, he said, and adollar a day was not to be sneezed at. He could wear gloves and save hishands. 

But the appearance of gloves was the signal for a general hooting andjeering from the boys of his own age who were employed there, and whohad from the first looked askance at Harold because they knew howgreatly he was their superior, and fancied an affront in everything hedid and every word he said, it was spoken so differently from their owndialect. 

'I can't stand it, ' Harold said to Jerrie, after a week's trial with thegloves. 'I'd rather sweep the streets than be jeered at as I am. I don'tmind the work. I am getting used to it, but the boys are awful. Why, they call me 'sissy, ' and 'Miss Hastings, ' and all that. '

So Harold left the employ of Peterkin, greatly to the chagrin of thatfunctionary, who had found him the most faithful boy he had ever had. But this was years ago, and matters had changed somewhat since then. Harold was a man now--a graduate from Harvard, with an air and dignityabout him which commanded respect even from Peterkin, who was sittingupon his high stool when Harold came in with his application. Billy, whowas Harold's fast friend, was now in the business with his father, andas he chanced to be present, the thing was soon arranged, and Haroldreceived into the office at a salary of twelve dollars per week, whichwas soon increased to fifteen and twenty, and at last, as the autumnadvanced and Harold began to talk of taking the same school in townwhich he had once before taught, he was offered $1, 500 a year, if hewould remain, as foreman of the office, where his services wereinvaluable. But Harold had chosen the law for his profession, and asteaching school was more congenial to him than writing in the office, and would give him more time for reading law, he declined the salary andtook the school, which he kept for two successive winters, going betweentimes into the office whenever his services were needed, which was veryoften, as they knew his worth, and Billy was always glad to have himthere. 

In this way he managed to lay aside quite a little sum of money, besidespaying his interest to Arthur, and when Maude came home from Europe inMarch he felt himself warranted in beginning _to raise the roof_. He wasnaturally a mechanic, and would have made a splendid carpenter; he wasalso something of an architect, and sketched upon paper the changes heproposed making. The roof was to be raised over Jerrie's room; there wasto be a pretty bay-window at the south, commanding a view of theCollingwood grounds and the river. There was to be another window on aside, but whether to the east or the west he could not quite decide. There was to be a dressing-room and large closet, while the main roomwas to be carried up in the centre, after the fashion of a church, andto be ceiled with narrow strips of wood painted alternately with a paleblue and gray. He showed the sketch to his grandmother, who approved it, just as she approved everything he did, but suggested that he submit itto Maude Tracy, who she heard, had become an artist and had a studio; sohe took the plan to Maude, explaining it to her, and saying it was to bea surprise to Jerrie, when she came home for good in the summer. Maudewas interested and enthusiastic at once, and entered heart and soul intothe matter, making some suggestions which Harold adopted, and decidingfor him where the extra window was to be placed. 

'Put it to the east, ' she said, 'for Jerrie is always looking toward therising sun, because, she says her old home is that way. And, besides, she can see the Tramp House she is so fond of. For my part, I think it apoky place, and never like to pass it after dark, lest I should see thedark woman standing in the door, with the candle in her hand, crying forhelp. Where was Jerry then, I wonder! In the carpet-bag, asleep, perhaps. Wouldn't that make a very effective picture! The storm, theopen door, the frantic woman in it, with the candle held high over herhead, and Jerrie clutching her dress behind, with her great blue eyesstaring out in the darkness. That is the way I have always seen it sinceyou told me about it, and the light you saw. I mean to paint thepicture, and hang it in the new room as another surprise to Jerrie. '

'Oh, don't!' Harold said, with a shudder. 'Jerrie would not like it. Italmost killed her when she first knew of the cry which Mr. Arthur heard, and the light I saw that night. She insisted upon knowing everythingthere was to know; and when I told her all the color left her face, andfor a moment she sat rigid as a stone, with a look I shall never forget, and then she cried as I never saw anybody cry before. This was threeyears ago, and she has never spoken to me of it since. '

Harold's voice trembled as he talked, while Maude cried outright. Theidea of the picture was given up, and she went back to the subject ofthe new room in which she seemed quite as much interested as Haroldhimself. When the roof was raised, and the floor laid, and theframe-work of the bay-window up, she went nearly every day to thecottage to watch the progress of the work, and to keep Harold's onehired man up to the mark, if he showed the least sign of lagging. 

'She is wus than a slave-driver, ' the man said to Harold one day. 'Why, if ever I stop to take a chair, or rest my bones a bit, she's after mein a jiffy, and asks if I don't think I can get so much done in an hourif I work as tight as I can clip it. I was never so druv in my life. '

And yet both the man and Harold liked to see the little lady there, walking through the shavings, and holding high her dainty skirts as sheclambered over piles of boards and shingles, or perching herself on thework bench, superintended them both, and twice by her intervention saveda door from swinging the wrong way, and from being a little askew. 

Mrs. Tracy was greatly opposed to Maude's going so often to the cottage, wondering what pleasure she could find in seeing an old house repaired, and predicting that she would make herself sick. But Maude washeadstrong and would have her way, especially as her father did notobject, but himself took her frequently to the cottage. Frank was almostas much interested in the work as she was, and once offered hisservices, as did Dick St. Claire and Billy Peterkin. 

'That's splendid. We'll have a bee, and get a lot done, ' Maude said; andshe pressed into the _bee_ her father and Dick, and Billy, and FredRaymond, and Tom, the latter of whom did nothing but find fault, sayingthat the ceiling ought to have been of different woods, the floorinlaid, and the tops of the windows cathedral glass. 

'And I suppose you will find the money for all that elegance, ' Maudesaid, as she held one end of a board for Harold to nail. 'We are cuttingour garment according to the cloth, and if you don't like it you'dbetter go away. We do not want any drones in the hive, do we, Hally?'

'She had taken to address him thus familiarly since they had commencedtheir carpenter work together, and Harold smiled brightly upon her asupon a child, as she stood on tip-toe at his side. 

Tom went away, but he soon came back again; for there was for him apeculiar fascination about this room for Jerrie, and sitting down upon asaw-horse, he looked on, and whittled, and smoked, while Dick blisteredhis hands, and Fred raised a blood-blister by striking his finger withthe hammer, and Billy ran a huge splinter under his thumb nail. 

Then they all went away, and Harold was left alone, for his man had beenobliged to leave, and thus the finishing up devolved upon him. But hewas equal to it. The worst was over, and all that was now required washard and constant work if he would accomplish it in time to see Jerriegraduated, as he greatly wished to do, provided he should have moneyenough left for the trip when everything was paid for. 

But whoever has repaired an old house needs not to be told that the costis always greater than was anticipated, and that there are a thousanddifficulties which beset the unwary workman and hinder his progress. AndHarold found it so. Still he worked bravely on, early and late, takingno rest except for an hour or so in the afternoon, when he found it avery pleasant change to walk through the leafy woods, so full of summerlife and beauty, to where Maude waited for him, with her sunny face andbright smile, which always grew brighter at his coming. How could heknow what was in her mind?--he, who never dreamed it possible that she, of all other girls, could fall in love with him--'that Hastings chap, poor as poverty, ' as he knew Tom sometimes called him. 

That Maude liked him, he was sure; but he supposed it was mostly for theamusement he afforded her, and for the sake of Jerrie, of whom she wasnever tired of talking. Maude's friendship was very sweet to the youngman, who had so few means of enjoyment, and whose life was one of toiland care. So he went blindly on toward the pitfall in the distance, andbegan at last to look forward with a great deal of pleasure to thereadings or talks with Maude, even though he did not find her veryintellectual. She amused and rested him, and that was something to thetired and overworked man. 

The room was finished inside at last, and looked exceedingly cool andpleasant in its dress of blue and gray, and its two rows of coloredglass in each window; for Harold had carried out Tom's suggestion inthat respect, and by going without a new hat and a pair of pants, whichhe needed, had managed to get the glass, which he set himself; for, ashe said to Maude, who assisted him in the matching and arrangement, hewas a kind of jack-at-all-trades. Maude had also helped him to putty upthe nail-holes, and had tried her hand at the painting until it gave hera sick-headache, and she was obliged to quit. 

When Arthur first heard of the raised roof, he went down to see it, andapproving of everything which had thus far been done, insisted uponfurnishing the room himself. But Harold refused, saying decidedly thatit was his own surprise for Jerrie, and no one must help him. So Arthurwent away, and told Maude confidentially that the young man Hastings wasmade of the right kind of stuff, that he liked his independence, andthat, although he should allow him to pay his debt, he should depositthe money as fast as received to his credit in the savings bank, so thathe would eventually get it all. 

'You are the darlingest uncle in the world!' Maude said, rubbing hersoft cheek against his, in that purring way many men like, which madeArthur kiss her, and tell her she was a little simpleton, but rathernice on the whole. 

'And you'll not tell Jerrie a word about the room!' Maude charged himagain and again, while they were in New York selecting the dress. 

'Not if I can help it, ' was his reply, although, as the reader knows, hecame near letting it out twice, but _held on in time_, so that theraised roof was still a secret from Jerrie when she reached the stationand was met by Maude and Harold. 

The room, was all ready, and a most inviting looking room it was, withits pretty carpet of blue and drab, and a delicate shading of pink init; its cottage furniture, simple, but suitable; its muslin curtains andchintz covered lounge, and the willow chair and round table, which Maudehad insisted upon furnishing. She _would_ have some part in furnishingthe room, she said, and Harold allowed her to get the chair, which sheput by the window looking toward the Tramp House, and the round table, which stood in the bay-window, with a Japanese bowl upon it filled withthe lilies Harold had gathered in the early morning. He had found itimpossible to go to Vassar there were so many last things to be done, and so little money left in his purse with which to make the journey, and as Maude had more confidence in her own taste for the arrangementof furniture than in his, she too decided to remain at home and see itthrough. The carpet was not put down until the morning of the day whenthe young men started for Vassar, and it was the noise of thetack-hammer which Tom had heard and likened to the shingling of a roof. 

'There must be flowers everywhere, Jerrie is so fond of them, ' Maudesaid; and she brought great baskets full from the park gardens, and acostly Dresden vase, which Arthur had left for Jerrie when he went away, together with his card and his photograph, and a note in which he hadwritten as follows:

 'MY DEAR CHILD:--Welcome, welcome home again. I wish I could see you when your blue eyes first look upon the room I came so near telling you about. Maude would have killed me if I had. You have no idea how Harold has worked to get it done, and where he got the money is more than I know. Pinched himself, in every way, of course. He is a noble fellow, Jerrie. But you know that. I saw it in your face at Vassar, and saw something else, too, which you may think is a secret. Will talk with you about it when I come home. I am off to-morrow for California. Would like to take you with me. Maybe I shall meet with robbers in the Yosemite. I'd rather like to. God bless you!

 'ARTHUR TRACY. '

'Uncle Arthur was very queer the day he went away, ' Maude said toHarold, as she put the note, and the photograph, and the card upon thedressing-bureau. 'I heard him talking to Gretchen, and saying, "Gretchen, Gretchen, Jerrie will be here by-and-by, to keep you companywhile I am gone--little Jerrie, when I first knew her, but a great tallJerrie now, with the air of a duchess. Yes, Jerrie is coming, Gretchen. "How he loves her--Jerrie, I mean; and I do not wonder, do you?'

Harold's mouth was full of tacks and he did not reply, but went steadilyon with his work until everything was done. 

'Isn't it lovely, and won't she be pleased!' Maude kept saying, as shegave the room a last look and then started for home, charging Harold tobe on time at the train, and to try and not look so tired. 

Harold _was_ very tired, for the constant strain of the last few weekshad told upon him, and he felt that he could not have gone on muchlonger, and that only for Maude's constant enthusiasm and sympathy heshould have broken down before the task was done. It was not easy work, shingling roofs and nailing down floors, and painting ceilings, andevery bone in his body ached, and his hands were calloused like a pieceof leather, and his face looked tired and pale when he at last sat downto rest awhile before changing his working suit for one scarcely better, although clean and fresher, with no daubs of paint or patches upon it. 

'They don't look first-rate, that's a fact, ' he said to himself as hesurveyed his pants, and boots, and hat, and thought what a contrast heshould present to the elegant Tom and his other friends at the station. 'But Jerrie won't care a bit; she understands, or will, when she seesher new room. How pretty it is!' he added, as he stopped to look in andadmire it. 

A blind had swung open, letting in a flood of hot sunshine and as it wasdesirable to keep the room as cool as possible, Harold went in to closethe shutter. But something was the matter with both fastening and hinge, and he was fixing it when Maude drove up, telling him the train waslate. 

'That's lucky, ' he said, 'for this blind is all out of gear;' and ittook so much time to fix and rehang it that the whistle was heard amongthe hills a mile away, just as he entered the victoria with Maude andstarted for the station upon a run. 

CHAPTER XXX. 

THE WALK HOME. 

All the way from the station to the gate Harold was trying to think ofsomething to say besides the merest commonplaces, and wondering atJerrie's silence. She had seemed glad to see him, he had seen that inher eyes, and seen there something else which puzzled and troubled him, and he was about to ask her what it was when she stopped so abruptly, and said:

'Why didn't you come to Vassar? Tom Tracy said you were shingling aroof, and Billy Peterkin said Maude was helping you. '

'Oh, that's it, is it?' Harold said, bursting into a laugh. 'That is whyyou have been so stiff and distant, ever since we left the depot, that Icould not touch you with a ten-foot pole. '

'Well, I don't care, ' Jerry replied, with a sob in her voice. 'I was sodisappointed, for I wanted you so badly. Everybody had some friendthere, but myself. You don't know how lonely I felt when I went on thestage and knew there was no home face looking at me in all that crowd. Ithink you might have come any way. '

'But, Jerrie, ' Harold said, laying his hand upon her shoulder, as theyslowly walked on, 'wait a little before you condemn me utterly. I wantedto come quite as much as you wanted to have me. I remembered what a helpit was to me when I was graduated to see your face in the crowd, andknow by its expression that you were satisfied. '

'I did not suppose you saw me, ' Jerry exclaimed, her voice verydifferent in its tone from what it had been at first. 

'Saw you!' and Harold's hand tightened its grasp on her shoulder. 'Sawyou! I scarcely saw any one else except you, and Maude, who sat besideyou. I knew you would be there, and I looked the room over, missing youat first, and feeling as if something were wanting to fire me up; then, when I found you, the inspiration came, and if I began to flag ever solittle, I had only to look at your blue eyes and my blood was up again. '

This was a great deal for Harold to say and he felt half frightened whenhe had said it; but Jerrie's answer was reassuring. 

'Oh, I didn't know that. I am so glad you told me. '

They were close to the Tramp House now. The walk from the station hadbeen hot and dusty, and Jerry was tired, so she said to Harold:

'Let's go in a moment; it looks so cool in there. '

So they went in, and Jerry sat down upon a bench, while Harold took aseat upon the table where Jerrie once had slept, with the shadow ofdeath around her, and the carpet-bag for her covering. 

'I suppose you had peals of applause and flowers by the bushel, ' Haroldsaid. 

'Yes, ' Jerry replied, 'applause enough, and flowers enough--twentybouquets and baskets in all, including yours. It was kind in you to sendit. '

She did not tell him of the wilted condition of his flowers, or that oneof the faded roses was pressed between the lids of her Latin grammar. 

'Billy sent up a heart of blue forget-me-nots, ' she continued, 'and Toma bunch of daisies on a standard of violets. What a prig Tom is, andwhat a dandy Billy has grown to be, and he stammers worse than ever. '

'But he is one of the best-hearted fellows in the world;' Harold said, 'he has been very kind to me. '

'Yes, I know;' Jerry rejoined, quickly, 'he makes his father pay you bigwages in the office and gives you a great many holidays; that is kind. But, oh, Harold, how I hate it all--your being obliged to work for sucha man as Peterkin. I wish I were rich! Maybe I shall be some day. Whoknows?'

The great tears were shining in her eyes as she talked, and brushingthem away she suddenly changed the conversation, and said:

'I never come in here that a thousand strange fancies do not begin toflit through my brain, and my memory seems stretched to the utmosttension, and I remember things away back in the past before you found mein the carpet-bag. '

She was gazing up toward the rafters with a rapt look on her face, as ifshe were seeing the things of which she was talking; and Harold, who hadnever seen her in this way, said to her very softly:

'What do you remember, Jerrie? What do you see?'

She did not move her head or eyes, but answered him. 

'I see always a sweet pale face, to which I can almost give a name--aface which smiles upon me; and a thin, white hand which is laid upon myhair--a hand not like those you have told me about, and which must havetouched me so tenderly that awful night. Did you ever try to recall aname, or a dream, which seems sometimes just within your grasp, and thenbaffles all your efforts to retain it?'

'Yes, often, ' Harold said. 

'Just so it is with me, ' she continued, 'I try to keep the fancies whichcome and go so fast, and which always have reference to the past andsome far off country--Germany, I think. Harold, I must have been olderwhen you found me than you supposed I was. '

'Possibly, ' Harold replied. 'You were so small that we thought youalmost a baby, although you had an old head on your shoulders from thefirst, and could you have spoken our language I believe you might havetold us where you were and where you came from. '

'Perhaps, ' Jerry said. 'I don't know; only this, as I grow older, thethings way back come to me, and the others fade away. The dark woman; mymother, '--she spoke the name very low--'is not half as real to me as thepale, sick face, on which the firelight shines. It is a small house, anda low room, a poor room, I think, with a big, white stove in the corner, and somebody is putting wood in it; a dark woman; she stoops; and fromthe open door the firelight falls upon the face in the chair--the womanwho is always writing when she is not in bed; and I am there, a littlechild; and when the pale face cries, I cry, too; and when she dies--oh, Harold! but you saw me play it once, and wondered where I got the idea. I saw it. I know I did; I was there, a part of the play. I was thelittle child. Then, there is a blur, a darkness, with many people and acrying--two voices--the dark woman's and mine; then, a river, or thesea, or both, and noisy streets, and a storm, and cold; and _you_ takingme into the sunshine. '

As she talked she had unconsciously laid her hand on Harold's knee, andhe had taken it in his, and was holding it fast, when she startled himwith the question:

'Do you--did you--ever think--did anybody ever think it possible, thatthe woman found dead in here, was not my mother?'

'Not your mother!' Harold exclaimed, dropping her hand in his surprise. 'Not your mother! What do you mean?'

'No disrespect to her, ' Jerrie replied--'the good, brave woman, who gaveher life for me, and whose dear hands caressed and shielded me from thecold as long as there was power in them to do it. I love and reverenceher memory as if she had been my mother; but Harold, do I look at all asshe did? You saw her--here, and at the park house. Think--am I likeher--in any thing?'

'No, ' Harold answered. 'You are like her in nothing; but you mayresemble your father. '

'Ye-es, ' Jerrie said, slowly, 'I may. Oh, Harold, the spell is on me nowso strong that I can almost remember. Tell me again about that night, and the morning; what they did at the park house--Mr. Arthur, I mean. Hewas expecting somebody; Nina told me a little once, but not much. Do youknow? Was it _Gretchen_ he expected?'

She had grasped his hand again, and was looking into his face as if hisanswer would be life or death to her. And Harold who had no idea whatwas in her mind, and who had never thought that the dark woman was nother mother, looked at her wonderingly, as he replied:

'Yes, I remember that he had a fancy in his mind that Gretchen wascoming; but he has had that fancy so often. He said she was in the shipwith him and on the train, but she wasn't. I think Gretchen is dead. '

'Yes, she is dead, ' Jerry said, decidedly; 'but tell me all you know ofthe time I came. '

So Harold told her again what he knew personally of the tragedy, and allhe remembered to have heard. There was little which Jerrie did notalready know, for as Harold had been a boy when it happened, he had notheard all that was said, and since that time other matters had crowdedthe incidents of the death and burial out of his mind. The thing mostreal to him was Jerrie herself, the beautiful girl sitting by his side, astonishing him so with her mood and her questions. He had seen heroften in her spells, as he called them; when she acted her pantomimes, and talked to people whom she said she saw; but he had only thought ofthem as the vagaries of a peculiar mind--a German mind his grandmothersaid, and he accepted her theory as the correct one. 

He had never seen Jerrie as she was now, with that rapt look in her faceand in her eyes, which shone with a strange light as she went on tospeak of the things which sometimes came and went so fast, and which shetried in vain to retain. It had never occurred to him that the woman hehad found dead was not her mother, and he thought her crazy when she putthe question to him. But he was a man, solid and steady, with novagaries of the brain, and not a tithe of the impetuosity andimmigration of the girl, who went on to ask him if he had ever seen anyone whom she resembled. 

He was wondering, in a vague kind of way, how long she meant to staythere, and if the tea-cakes his grandmother was going to make for supperwould be spoiled, when she asked the question, to which he replied. 

'No, I don't think I ever did, unless it is Gretchen. You are some likeher, but I suppose many German girls have her complexion and hair. '

The answer was not very reassuring, and Jerrie showed it in her fact, which was still upturned to Harold, who, looking down upon it and theearnest, wistful expression which had settled there, started suddenly asif an arrow had struck him, for he saw the likeness Jerry had seen inthe glass, and taking the upturned face between both his hands, hestudied it intently, while, like lightening, the possibility of thething flashed through his brain, making him colder and fainter thanJerrie herself when she looked into the mirror. 

'What if it were so?' he said to himself, while everything seemedslipping away from him, but mostly Jerrie, who, if it were so, would beseparated from him by a gulf he could not pass; for what could thedaughter of Arthur Tracy care for him, the poor boy, whose life had beenone fight with poverty, and whose worn, shabby clothes, on which thefull western sunlight was falling, told plainer than words of thepoverty which still held him in thrall. 

'Jerrie!' he cried, rising to his feet, and letting the hands which hadclasped her face drop down to her shoulders, which they pressed tightly, as if he thus would keep her with him--'Oh, Jerrie, you are like ArthurTracy, or you were when you looked at me so earnestly; but it is gonenow. Do you--have you thought that Gretchen was your mother?'

He was pale as a corpse, and Jerrie was the calmer of the two, as shetold him frankly all she had thought and felt since Arthur's visit toher. 

'I meant to tell you, ' she said, 'though not quite so soon; but when Icame in here I could not help it, things crowd upon me so. It may be, and probably is, all a fancy, but there is something in my babyhooddifferent from the woman who died, and when I am able to do it I amgoing to Wiesbaden, for that is where Gretchen lived, and where Ibelieve I came from, and if there is anything I shall find it. Oh, Harold!' and she grasped his hand in hers, 'I may not be Gretchen'sdaughter, but if I am more than a peasant girl--if anything good comesof my search, my greatest joy will be that I can share with you who havebeen so kind to me. I will gladly give you and grandma every dollar Imay ever have, and then I should not pay you. '

'There is nothing owing me, ' Harold said, the pain in his heart and hisfear of losing her growing lean as she talked. 'You have brought menearly all the happiness I have ever known; for when I was a boy andevery bone ached with the hard work I had to do--the thought that Jerrywas waiting for me at home, that her face would greet me at the window, or in the door, made the labor light; and now that I am a man--' Hepaused a moment, and Jerrie's head dropped a little, for his voice wasvery low and soft, and she waited with a beating heart for him to go on. 'Now that I am a man, life would be nothing to me without you. '

Was this a declaration of love? It almost seemed so, and but for athought of Maude, Jerry might have believed it was such, and lead him onto something more definite. As it was, her heart gave a great bound ofjoy, which showed itself on her face as she replied:

'If I make your life happier, _I_ am glad; for never had a poor, unknowngirl so good and true a brother as I. But come, I have kept you here toolong, and grandma must be wondering where we are. '

'Yes, and supper will be spoiled, ' Harold said, as he followed her tothe door. 'We are to have it in the back porch, where it is so cool, andto have tea-cakes, with strawberries from our own vines, and cream fromour own cow, or rather your cow. Did I write you that she had a splendidcalf, which we call Clover-top. 

They had come back to commonplaces now, Jerrie's clairvoyant spell hadpassed and she was herself again, simple Jerrie Crawford, walking alongthe familiar path, and talking of the cow which Frank Tracy had givenher when it was a little sickly calf, whose mother had died. She hadtaken it home and nursed it so carefully that it was now a healthylittle Jersey, whom she called Nannie. 

'A funny name for a cow, ' Harold had said, and she had replied:

'Yes, but it keeps repeating itself in my brain. I have known a Nanniesometime, sure, and may as well perpetuate the name in my bossy asanywhere. '

Nannie was in a little enclosure by the side of the lane, and atHarold's call she came at once to the fence, over which she put her facefor the caress she was sure to get, while Clover-top kicked up her heelsand acted as if she, too, understood and were glad Jerrie had come. 

'Oh, it is so pleasant everywhere, and I am so glad to be home again, 'Jerrie said, as her eyes went rapidly from one thing to another, untilat last they fell upon the raised roof shining to new and yellow in thesunlight. 

CHAPTER XXXI. 

AT HOME. 

Oh, Harold, what is that? What have you been doing?' Jerrie cried, stopping short, while a suspicion of the truth began to dawn upon her. 

'That is the roof Tom told you I was shingling, ' Harold replied; andtaking her by the arm, he hurried her into the cottage where Mrs. Crawford stood at the door, in her broad white apron and the neat muslincap which Maude has fashioned for her. 

With a cry of joy, Jerrie took the old lady in her arms, and kissed andcried over her. 

'It is so nice to be home, and everything is so pleasant!' she said, asher eyes swept the sitting-room and kitchen, and back porch where thetea-table was laid, with its luscious berries and pitchers of cream. 'Go right up stairs with Harold. I have just come down, and cannot goup again, ' Mrs. Crawford said, excitedly; and, with a bound, Jerry wasup the stairs and into the lovely room. 

When she saw them coming in the lane, Mrs. Crawford had gone up andopened the shutters, letting in a flood of light, so that nothing shouldescape Jerrie's notice. And she saw it all at a glance--the high walls, the carpet, the furniture, the curtains, and the flowers--and knew whyHarold did not come to Vassar. 

He was standing in the bay-window, watching her, and the light fell fullupon his shabby clothes, which Jerrie noticed for the first time, knowing exactly why he must wear them, and understanding perfectly allthe self-denials and sacrifices he had made for her, who had been angrybecause he did not come to see her graduated. Had she been three yearsyounger, she would have thrown herself into his arms and died there. Harold half thought and hoped she was going to do so now, for she made arush toward him, then stopped suddenly, and sinking into the willowchair--Maude's gift--began to sob aloud, while Harold stood looking ather, wishing she had not cried, and wondering what he ought to do. 

'Don't you like it, Jerrie?' he said at last. 

'Like it?' and in the blue eyes so full of tears which she flashed uponhim, he read her answer. 'Like it! Oh, Harold, it is perfect! I neversaw a room I liked better. But why did you do it? Was it because of thatfoolish speech of mine about knocking my brains out, the ceiling was solow?'

'Not at all, ' Harold replied. 'I had the idea in my head long before youwrote that to me, but could not quite see my way clear until lastspring. I have seen Nina's room and Maude's, and have heard that AnnEliza Peterkin's was finer than the Queen's at Windsor, and I did notlike to think of you in the cooped up place this was, with the slantingroof and low windows. I am glad you like it. '

And then, knowing that she would never let him rest until he had doneso, he told her all the ways and means by which he had been able toaccomplish it, except indeed, his own self-denials and sacrifices ofpride, and even comfort. But this she understood, and noticed again morecarefully the shabby coat, and pants, and shoes, and the callousedhands, which lay upon his knees as he talked, and which she wished somuch to take in hers and kiss and pity, for the hard work they had donefor her. But this would have been 'throwing herself at his head. '

She was constantly thinking of Arthur's words, and so she only cried themore, as she told Harold how much she thanked him, and never could repayhim for what he had done for her. 

'But it was a pleasure, Jerrie, ' he said. ' I never enjoyed anything inmy life as I have working in this room, with Maude to help me. She washere nearly every day, and by her courage and enthusiasm kept me up tofever heat. She puttied up the nail-holes and painted yourdressing-room, and would have helped shingle the roof if I had permittedit. She gave the chair you sit in, and the table in the window. Shewould do that and I let her; but when Mr. Arthur offered his assistance, and the other Mr. Tracy, I refused, for I wanted it all my own, foryou. '

He was speaking rapidly and excitedly, and had Jerrie looked she wouldhave seen in his face all she was to him; but she did not look up, andat mention of Maude a cloud fell suddenly upon her. But she would notlet it remain; she would be happy and make Harold so, too. So she toldhim again of her delight, and what a joyous coming home it was. 

She had not yet seen Arthur's card, and photograph, and note; but Haroldcalled her attention to them; and taking up the latter, she opened it, while her heart gave a great throb of something between joy and pain asshe saw the words, 'My dear child, ' and then went on to read the note socharacteristic of him. 

'What a strange fancy of his to go off so suddenly to California. Iwonder Mr. Frank allowed it, ' she said, as she put the note in herpocket, and then, at a call from Mrs. Crawford, went down to where thesupper was waiting for her. 

The tea cakes were a little cold, but everything else was delicious, from the fragrant tea to the ripe berries and thick, sweet cream, andJerrie enjoyed it all with the keen relish of youth and perfect health. 

After supper was over Jerrie made her grandmother sit still while shewashed up and put away the dishes, singing as she worked, and whistling, too--loud, dear, ringing strains, which made a robin in the grass fly upto the perch, where, with his head turned on one side he listened, asif in wonder, to this new songster, whose notes were strange to him. 

And Jerrie did seem like some joyous bird just let loose from prison, asshe flitted from one thing to another, now setting her grandmother's capa little more squarely on her head, and bending to kiss the silvery hairas she said to her, 'Your working days are over now, for I have comehome to care for you, and in the future you have nothing to do but tosit still, with your dear old lame feet on a cushion;' now helpingHarold water the flowers in the borders, and pinning a June pink in hisbuttonhole, while he longed to take her in his arms and kiss her as inthe days when they were children together; now, going with him to milkNannie, who, either remembering Jerrie, or recognizing a friend in her, allowed her gentle face to be petted and her horn to be decorated with aknot of blue ribbon, which Jerrie took from her throat, and which Haroldafterward took from Nannie's horn and hid away with the withered lilliesJerrie had thrown him that day at Harvard when her face and her eyes hadbeen his inspiration. 

They kept early hours at the cottage, and the people at the Park Housewere little more than through the grand dinner they were giving, whenJerrie said good-night to her grandmother and Harold, and went up to hernew room under the raised roof. It was a lovely summer night, and themoonlight fell softly upon the grass and shrubs outside, and shone fardown the long lane where the Tramp House stood, with its thick coveringof woodbine. 

Leaning from the window Jerrie looked out upon the night, while athousand thoughts and fancies came crowding into her brain, all born ofthat likeness seen by her in the mirror when Arthur was with her atVassar, and which Harold, too, had recognized that afternoon when shesat with him in the Tramp House. After Arthur had left her in May, shehad been too busy to indulge often in idle dreams, but they had comeback to her again with an overwhelming force, which seemed for a fewmoments to lift the veil of mystery and show her the past, for which shewas so eagerly longing. The pale lace was clearer, more distinct in hermind, as was the room with the tall white stove and the high-backedsettee beside it, and on the settee a little girl--herself, shebelieved--and she could hear a voice from the cushioned chair where thepale face was resting speaking to her and calling her by the name Arthurhad given her in his note. 

'My child, ' he had written; but he had only put it as a term ofendearment; he had no suspicion of the truth if it were truth; and yetwhy should he not know? Could anything obliterate the memory of a child, if there had been one, Jerrie asked herself, as her eyes wandered inthat direction of the park, which had once seemed to her like Paradise. 

'I _will_ know some time. _I_ will find it out myself, ' she said, as shewithdrew from the window and commenced her preparations for bed. 

As she stepped into her dressing room, her eye fell upon the foreigntrunk, which had come with her, and with the contents of which she wasfamiliar. They had been kept intact by Mrs. Crawford, who hoped that bythem Jerrie might some day be identified. The girl went now to the oldtrunk, and, lifting the heavy lid, took out the articles one by one witha very different feeling from what she had ever experienced before whenhandling them. The alpaca dress came first, and she examined itcarefully. It was coarse, and plain, and old-fashioned, and she feltintuitively that a servant had worn it and not she whose pale, refinedface seemed almost to touch hers as she knelt beside the box. The cloakand shawl, in which she had been wrapped, were inspected next, and onthese Jerrie's tears fell like rain, while there was in her heart anindefinable feeling of pity for the woman who had resolutely put awaythe covering from herself to save a life which was no part of her own. 

'Oh, Mah-nee, ' she sobbed, laying her face upon the rough, coarsegarments, 'I am not disloyal to you in trying to believe that you werenot my mother, and could you come back to me, Mah-nee, whoever you are, I'd be to you so loving and true. Tell me, Mah-nee, who I am; give mesome sign that what comes to me so often of that far-off land is true. There _was_ another face than yours, which kissed me fondly, and otherhands, dead now, as are the dear old hands which shielded me from thecold that awful night, have caressed me lovingly. '

But to this appeal there came no response, and Jerrie would have beenfrightened if there had. The shawl, the cloak, the dress were as silentand motionless as she to whom they had belonged; and Jerrie folded themreverently, kissing each one as she did so; then she took out thecarpet-bag, which had once held her tiny body. She always laughed whenshe looked at this and tried to imagine herself in it, and she did sonow as she held it up and said:

'I could not much more than get my two feet in you now, old bag; but youdid me good service once, and I respect you, although I have outgrownyou. '

Her own clothes came next--the little dresses, which showed a mother'slove and care; the handkerchief, marked 'J;' the aprons, and the picturebook with which she had played, and from which it seemed to her she hadlearned the alphabet, standing by that cushioned chair before the tallwhite stove. There was only the fine towel left of the clothing, andJerrie gazed along and thoughtfully at the letter 'M, ' embroidered withflowers in the corners. 

'Marguerite begins with M, ' she said, 'and Gretchen's name wasMarguerite. Oh, if it were Gretchen who worked this letter, then I cantouch what her hands have touched--the little dimpled hands in thepicture, ' and she kissed the 'M' as fervently as if it had beenGretchen's lips and Gretchen were her mother. 

On the old brass ring the key to the trunk and carpet-bag were stillfastened, together with the small straight key, for which no use hadever been found. Jerrie had never thought much about this key before, but now she held it in her hand a long, long time, while the convictiongrew that this was the key to the mystery; that could she find thearticle which this unlocked, she would know what she so longed toknow--something definite with regard to herself. But where to look shecould not guess; and with her brain in a whirl which threatened aviolent headache, she closed the chest at last, and crept wearily to bedjust as the clock, which Peterkin had set up in one of his towers, struck for half-past ten, and Grace Atherton's carriage was rolling downthe avenue from the big dinner at the Park House. 

CHAPTER XXXII. 

THE NEXT DAY. 

Jerrie was astir the next morning almost as soon as the first robinbegin to sing under her window. She had left a blind open, and the redbeams of the rising sun fell upon her face and roused her from a dreamof Germany and what she meant to do there. Once fairly awake, Germanyseemed far away, as did the fancies of the previous night. The spell, mesmeric, or clairvoyant, or whatever one chooses to call it, wasbroken, and she was only Jerrie Crawford again, dressing herself rapidlyand noiselessly so as not to awaken her grandmother, who slept in theroom beneath hers. 

'I shall get the start of her, ' she said, as she donned a simple workingdress which had done her service during the summer vacations for threesuccessive years. 'I heard her telling Harold last night to have thetubs and water ready early, for she had put off the Monday's washinguntil I came home, as I was sure to bring a pile of soiled clothes. AndI have; but, my dear grandmother, your poor old twisted hands will nottouch them. What is a great strapping girl like me for, I'd like toknow, if it is not to wash her own clothes, and yours, too?' and Jerrienodded resolutely at the fresh young face in the mirror, which noddedback with a smile of approbation of the _tout ensemble_ of the figurereflected in the glass. 

And truly it was a very pretty and piquant picture which she, made inher neat calico dress, which, as it was three years old at least, was alittle too short for her, and showed plainly her red stockings andhigh-heeled slippers, with the strap around her instep. Her sleeves wereshort, for she had cut them off and arranged them in a puff above herelbows to save rolling them up, and her white bib-apron was fastened oneach shoulder with a knot of blue ribbon, Harold's favorite color. Shehad thoroughly brushed her beautiful wavy hair, and then twisting itinto a mass of curls had tucked it under a coquettish muslin cap, whosenarrow frill just shaded her lovely face. 'You look like a peasantgirl, and I believe you are a peasant girl, and ought to be working inthe fields of Germany this minute, ' she said to herself with a mockingcourtesy, as she left the mirror and descended to the kitchen, where, early as it was, she found Harold warming some coffee over a fire ofchips, and cutting a slice of dry bread. 

'What in the world!' she exclaimed, stopping short on the threshold. 'Imean to be the first on the scene, and lo! here you are before me. Whatare you doing?'

'Getting my breakfast, ' Harold replied, turning toward her with a slightshade of annoyance on his face. 'You see, I have a job. I did not tellyou last night that a Mr. Allen, who lives across the river, four milesaway, looked in one day when I was painting your ceiling, and liked itso much that he has engaged me to paint one for him. I told him I wasonly an amateur, but he said he'd rather have me than all the bosspainters in Shannondale. He offered me three dollars a day and board, which means dinner and supper, or fifteen for the job; and I took thelast offer, as I can make the most at it by beginning early and workinglate, and we need--'

Here he stopped short, for how could he tell Jerrie that the raised roofhad taken all his means, and that he even owed the grocer for the sugarshe had eaten upon her berries, and the butcher for the bit of steakbought the previous night for her breakfast and his grandmother's. ButJerrie guessed it without his telling, but with her quick instinct anddelicate perception knew that no genuine man like Harold cares to haveeven his best friend know of his poverty if he can help it. Forcing backthe tears which sprang to her eyes, she cried, cheerily:

'Yes, I know; you are a kind of second Michael Angelo, though I doubt ifthat old gentleman, at your age, could have done my room better than youdid. I don't wonder Mr. Allen wanted you. But you are not going to trampfour miles on a hot morning, on nothing but bread and coffee, and suchcoffee--muddier than the Missouri River! You shall have a decentbreakfast, if I can get it for you. Just sit down and rest, and see whata Vassar with a diploma can do. '

As she talked she was replenishing the fire with hard-wood, putting onthe kettle, pouring out the coffee dregs saved from yesterday'sbreakfast, and hunting for an egg with which to settle the fresh cup sheintended to make. 

'No, no, Jerrie. No, you must not take that; it is all we have in thehouse, and grandma must have a fresh one every day at eleven o'clock, the doctor says--it strengthens her, ' Harold said, rising quickly, whileJerrie put the one egg back in the box and asked what Mrs. Crawford didsettle coffee with. 

'I am sure I don't know; cold water, I guess, ' Harold said, resuming hisseat, while Jerrie tripped here and there, laying the cloth, bringinghis cup and saucer and plate, and at last pouncing upon the bit of steakin the refrigerator. 

But here Harold again interfered. 

'Jerrie--Jerrie, that is for your breakfast and grandma's. You must nottake that. '

'But I shall take half of it. I would rather have a glass of Nannie'smilk any time than meat, and you are going to have my share; so, Mr. Hastings, just mind your business and let the cook alone, or she'll begivin' ye warnin', ' Jerrie answered laughingly, as she divided thesteak, which she proceeded at once to broil. 

So Harold let her have her way, and felt an increase of self-respect, and that he was something more than a common day laborer, as he ate hissteak and buttered toast, and drank the coffee, which seemed to him thebest he had ever tasted. Jerrie picked him a few strawberries, and laidbeside his plate a beautiful half-opened rose, with the dew still uponit. It was a delicate attention, and Harold felt it more than all shehad done for him. 

'Thank you, Jerrie, ' he said, picking up the rose as he finished hisbreakfast. 'It was so nice in you to think of it, just as if I were aking instead of a jack-at-all-trades, but I hardly think it suits myblue checked shirt and painty pants. Keep it yourself, Jerrie, ' and heheld it up against her white bib apron. 'It is just like the pink onyour cheeks. Wear it for me, ' and taking a pin from his collar, hefastened it rather awkwardly to the bib, while his face came in so closeproximity to Jerrie's that he felt her breath stir his hair, and felt, too, a strong temptation to kiss the glowing cheek so near his own. 'There, that completes your costume, ' he said, holding her off a littleto look at her. 'By the way, haven't you got yourself up uncommonlywell this morning? I never saw you as pretty as you are in this rig. Ifit would not be very improper, I'd like to kiss you. '

He was astonished at his own boldness, and not at all surprised atJerrie's reply, as she stepped back from him. 

'No, thank you, it would be highly improper for a man of twenty-six, whostands six feet in his boots, to kiss a girl of nineteen, who standsfive feet six in her slippers. '

There was a flush on her cheeks and a strange look in her eyes, for shewas thinking of Harvard, where he had put her from him, ashamed thatstrangers should see her kiss him. Harold had forgotten that incident, which at the time had made no impression upon him, and was now thinkingonly of the beautiful girl whose presence seemed to brighten and ennobleeverything with which she came in contact, and to whom he at last saidgood-bye, just as Peterkin's tower clock struck for half-past five. '

'I _must_ go now, ' he said, taking up his basket of brushes. 'I havelost a full half-hour with you, and your steaks, and your coddling megenerally. I ought to have been there by this time. Good-bye, ' andoffering her his hand, he started down the lane at a rapid pace, thinking the morning the loveliest he had ever known, and wondering whyeverything seemed so fresh, and bright, and sweet. 

If he could have sung, he would have done so, but he could not, and sohe talked to himself, and to the birds, and rabbits, and squirrels, which sprang up before him as he struck into the woods as the shortestroute to Mr. Allen's farm house--talked to them and to himself ofJerrie, and how delightful it was to have her home again, unspoiled byflattery, sweet and gracious as ever, and how he longed to tell her ofhis love, but dared not yet until he was surer of her and of what shefelt for him. He had no faith now in her fancies with regard to herself. Of the likeness to Arthur, which he thought he saw the previous therehad been no trace on the face which had almost touched his that morningwhen he pinned the rose upon her bib. She was not--could not beGretchen's daughter, and was undoubtedly the child of the woman found inthe Tramp House--his Jerry, whom he had found, and claimed as his own, and whom he meant to win some day, when he had his profession, and wasestablished in business. 'But that will be a long, long time, and someone else may steal her from me, ' he said to himself, sadly, as hethought of the years which must elapse before he could venture to take awife. 'Oh, if I were sure she cared for me a little, as I do for her, Iwould ask her now and have it settled; for Jerrie is not a girl to goback on her promise, and the years would seem so short, and the work soeasy, with Jerrie at the end of it all, ' he continued, and then hewondered how he could find out the nature of Jerrie's feeling for himwithout asking her directly, and so spoiling everything if he shouldhappen to be premature. 

Would his grandmother know? Not at all likely. She was too old to knowmuch of love, or its symptoms in a girl. Would Nina St. Claire know?Possibly, for she and Jerrie were great friends, and girls always toldeach other their secrets, so Maude said, and Maude was just then hisoracle. He had seen so much of her the last few months that he felt asif he knew her even better than he did Jerrie, and he was certainly moreat his ease in her presence. Then why not talk with Maude and enlist heras a partisan. He might certainly venture to make her his confidente, she had been so very communicative and familiar with him, telling himthings which he had wondered at, with regard to her father, and mother, and Tom, and the family generally. Yes, he would sound Maude, verycautiously at first, and get her opinion, and then he should know betterwhat to do. Maude would espouse his cause, he was sure, for she likedhim and worshipped Jerrie. He could trust her, and he would. 

He had reached the Allen farm-house by this time, and though he wasperspiring at every pore, for the morning was very hot, he scarcely feltthe heat or the fatigue of his rapid four-mile walk, as he mixed hispaints and prepared for his work, for there was constantly in his hearta thought of Jerrie, as she had looked in that bewitching dress, and ofthe bright, smile she had flashed upon him when she said good-bye. 

Meanwhile Jerrie had watched him out of sight, whistling merrily:

 'Gin a body meet a body, Comin' through the rye, Gin a body kiss a body, Need a body cry?'

whistling it so loud and clear that Nannie came to the fence and puther head over it with a faint low of approval, while Clover-top thrusthis white nose through the bars, and looked at her inquiringly, asJerrie pulled up handfuls of fresh grass and fed them from her hands, noticing that Nannie had lost her knot of ribbon, and wondering where itwas. Then she returned to the house, and was busying herself withpreparations for her grandmother's breakfast and her own, when thelatter appeared in the kitchen, surprised to find her there, and saying:

'Why, Jerrie, what made you get up till I called you? Why didn't you lieand rest?'

'Lie and rest, ' Jerrie answered laughingly. 'It is you who are to lieand rest, and not a great overgrown girl like me. I have given Haroldhis breakfast and seen him off. I cooked him half the steak, ' she addedas she took out the remaining half and put it on the gridiron. 'I don'tcare for steak, ' she continued, as she saw Mrs. Crawford about toprotest. 'I would rather any time have bread and milk and strawberries. I shall never tire of them;' and the big bowl full which she ate with akeen relish, proved that she spoke the truth. 

'Now, grandma, ' she said, when breakfast was over. 'I am going to do thework, washing and all. I must do something to work off my superfluoushealth, and strength, and muscle. Look at that arm, will you?' and shethrew out her bare arm, which for whiteness and roundness and symmetryof proportion, might have been coveted by the most fashionable lady inthe land. 'Go back to your rocking-chair and rest your dear, old lamefoot on your softest cushion, and see how soon I will have everythingdone. It is just seven now, and by ten we shall be all slicked up, asAnn Eliza Peterkin says. '

It was of no use to try to resist Jerrie. She would have her own way;and so Mrs. Crawford, after skimming her milk and attending to thecream, went to her rocking-chair and her cushion, and sat there quietly, while Jerrie in the woodshed pounded and rubbed, and boiled and rinsed, and wrung and starched and blued, and hung upon the line article afterarticle, until there remained only a few towels and aprons and stockingsand socks, and a pair of colored overalls which Harold had worn at hiswork. As these last were rather soiled and had no them patches ofpaint, Jerrie was attacking them with a will, when her grandmothercalled out in great trepidation:

'Jerrie, Jerrie, do wipe your hands and come quick! Here's Tom Tracyhitching his horse at the gate. '

Jerrie's first impulse was to do as her grandmother bade her, and hersecond to stay where she was. 

'If Tom chooses to call so early he must take me as he finds me, ' shethought, while to her grandmother she said: 'Nonsense! Who cares for TomTracy? If he asks for me send him to the woodshed. I can't stop mywork. '

In a moment the elegant Tom, fresh from his perfumed bath, the odor ofwhich still lingered about him, and faultlessly attired in a cool summersuit, was bending his tall figure in the door-way of the woodshed whereJerrie, who was rubbing away on Harold's overalls, received him with anod and a smile, as she said:

'Good-morning, Tom. You are up early, and so was I. Business beforepleasure, you know; so I hope you will excuse me if I keep right on. Ihave stinted myself to get through, mopping and all, by ten, and it isnow nine by Peterkin's bell. Pray be seated. How is Maude?'

She pointed to a wooden chair near the door, where Tom sat down, whollynonplussed, and not knowing at all what to say first. 

Never before had he been received in this fashion, and it struck himthat there was something incongruous between himself, in his daintyattire, with a cluster of beautiful roses in his hand, and that chair, minus a back, in the woodshed, where the smell of the soapsuds wouldhave made him faint and sick if he had not been so near to the opendoor. 

Tom had not slept well the previous night. He had joined the finedinner-party his mother had given to the Hart's, and St. Claire's andAtherton's, and had sat next to Fred Raymond's sister Marian, a verypretty young girl with a good deal that was foreign in her style and inher accent, for she had been in Europe nine years, and had only justcome home. Everything in her manner was perfect, from her low, well-modulated voice, to her sweet, musical laugh, and Tom acknowledgedto himself that she was the most highly polished and cultivated girl hehad ever met; and still she tired him, and he was constantlycontrasting her with Jerrie, and thinking how much better he shouldenjoy himself if she were there beside him, with her ready wit andteasing remarks, which frequently amounted almost to ridicule. Jerriehad been very gracious to him on the train, and had laughed and jokedwith him quite as much as she had with Dick St. Clare. 

'Perhaps she likes me better than I have supposed she did, ' he thought. 'Anyway, I'd better be on hand, now she is at home and can see Haroldevery day. He don't care a copper for Maude, or wouldn't if she didn'trun after him so much, and that will sicken him pretty soon, now that hehas Jerrie. By George, I believe I'd be as poor as he is, and paint fora living, if I couldn't have Jerrie without it. But I think I can;anyway, I am going to try. She cannot be insensible to the advantage itwould be to her to be my wife, and eventually the mistress of TracyPark. There is not a girl in the world who would not consider twicebefore she threw such a chance away. '

Such was the nature of Tom's reflections all through the dinner, and tohim the tiresome talk which followed it and the short summer nightduring which he was planning his mode of attack. 

'I'll call in the morning and take her some roses; she likes flowers, 'he thought. 'I wonder what she did with those I gave her at Vassar? Theywere not with her on the car, unless she hid them in the paper box shecarried so carefully. Yes, I guess they were there, and I shall see themstanding around some where. '

And this was the secret of Tom's early call. He had thought at first towalk, but had changed his mind, and driven down to the cottage in hislight buggy, with the intention of asking Jerrie to drive with him alongthe river road. But she did not look much like driving as she stoodthere by the wash-tub in that working-dress, which he thought the mostcharming of anything he had ever seen, notwithstanding his chagrin thatthe future Mrs. Tom Tracy should ever come in contact with anything asvulgar as soapsuds and pounding barrels. How beautiful she was in thatshort dress, with her bare arms, the whitest he had ever seen, and howpretty her feet looked in the red stockings and slippers, which hewould have sworn were threes instead of fours and a half. 

'I was coming this way, ' he said at last, 'and thought I'd stop and seehow you stood the journey, and I've brought you some roses. '

He held them toward her, and with a bright smile she came forward toreceive them. 

'Oh, thank you, Tom, ' she said, 'it was so kind in you. Roses are myfavorites after the white pond lilies, and these are very sweet. '

She buried her face in them two or three times, and then, putting themin some water, resumed her position by the wash-tub. 

'I'd like you to drive with me, ' Tom said, 'but I see you are too busy. Must you do that work, Jerrie? Can't somebody--can't your grandmother doit for you?'

'Grandmother! That old lady do my washing! No, indeed!' Jerrie answered, scornfully, as she made a dive into the boiler with the clothes-stickand brought out a pair of Mrs. Crawford's long knit stockings, anddropped them into the rinsing water with a splash. 

'Grandma has worked enough, ' she continued, as she plunged both her armsinto the water. 'Harold and I shall take care of her now. He was up thismorning at four o'clock, and has gone to Mr. Allen's, four miles away, to paint a room for him like mine. '

She said this a little defiantly, for she felt hot and resentful thatTom Tracy should be sitting there at his ease, while Harold wasliterally working for his daily bread, and also took a kind of bitterpride in letting Tom know that she was not ashamed of Harold's work. 

'Yes, ' Tom drawled, 'that new room must have cost Hal his bottom dollar. We all wondered how he could afford it. I hope you like it. '

She was too angry to tell him whether she liked it or not, for she knewthe speech was a mean one and prompted by a mean spirit, and she kept onrubbing a towel until there was danger of its being rubbed into shreds. Then suddenly remembering that Tom had not told her of Maude, sherepeated her question. 'How is Maude? She was coming to see me thismorning I hope I shall be done before she gets here. '

'Don't hurry yourself for Maude, ' Tom replied. 'She will not be hereto-day. I had nearly forgotten that she sent her love and wants you tocome there. She is sick in bed, or was when I left. She had a slighthemorrhage last night. I think it was from her stomach, though, and sodoes mother, but father is scared to death, as he always is if Maude hasa pain in her little finger. '

'Oh, Tom, ' Jerrie said, recalling with a pang the thin face, theblue-veined hands, the tired look of the young girl at the station. 'Oh, Tom, why didn't you tell me before, so I could hurry and go to her;' andleaning over her tub Jerrie began to cry, while Tom looked curiously ather, wondering if she really cared so much for his sister. 

'Don't cry, Jerrie, ' he said, at last, very tenderly for him. 'Maude isnot so bad; the doctor has no fear. She is only tired with all she hasdone lately. You know, perhaps, that she was here constantly withHarold, and I believe she actually painted for him some, and for aught Iknow helped shingle the roof, as Billy said. '

'Yes, I know; I understand, ' Jerrie replied, 'I saw it in her faceyesterday. She has tired herself out for me, and if she dies I shallhate the room forever. '

'But she will not die; that is nonsense, ' Tom began when he wasinterrupted by Mrs. Crawford, who called out:

'Oh, Jerry, here is Billy Peterkin, with his hands full. What shall I dowith him?'

Dashing away her tears, Jerry replied:

'Send him in here, of course. '

In a few moments the dapper little man was in the woodshed, with a largebouquet of hot-house flowers in one hand and a basket of deliciousblack-caps in the other. For a moment he stood staring first at Tom onthe wooden chair glaring savagely at him, and at Jerrie by the washtubwith the traces of tears on her face--then, with a wind of forced laugh, he said:

'Be-beg pardon, if I in-tr-trude. Looks dusedly like l-love in at-t-tub. '

'And if it is, you have knocked the bottom out, ' Tom said, with a sneer. Both jokes were atrocious, but they made Jerrie laugh, which wassomething. She was glad on the whole that Billy had come, and when heoffered her the berries and the flowers, she accepted them graciously, and bade him sit down, if he could find a seat. 

'Here is one on the wash bench, ' she said, 'or, will be when I haveemptied the tub;' and she was about to take up the latter, when Billysprang to her assistance and emptied it himself, while Tom sat lookingon, chaffing with anger and disgust. 

After a moment Billy stuttered out:

'Ann Eliza sent me here, and wants you to c-c-come and see her rooms. G-g-got a suite, you know; and, by Jove, they are like a b-b-bazaar, they are so f-full of things, and fl-flowers; half Vassar is there. Gotyour basket of d-daisies, Tom, and when I asked her where she g-g-got'em, she said it was n-n-none of my business. D-did she steal 'em?' andhe turned to Jerrie, whose face was scarlet, as she replied:

'No, I gave them to her, with a lot of others; I could not bring themall and it was better to dispose of home flowers, as I can get them anytime. '

Tom could have beaten the air, he was so angry. He had been vain enoughto hope that his gift was carefully put away in some box or parcel; andlo! it was in the possession of that red-haired Peterkin girl, whose_penchant_ for himself he suspected, and whom he despised accordingly. 

'Much obliged to you for giving away my flowers, ' he was going to say, when Mrs. Crawford called again, and this time in real distress. 

'Jerrie, Jerrie! you _must_ come now, for here is Dick St. Claire. '

For an instant Jerrie hesitated, and then ashamed of the feeling whichhad at first prompted her not to let Dick into the wood-shed, shereplied:

'If Tom and Billy can he admitted to my boudoir, Dick can. Send him in. '

'By George, this is jolly!' Dick said, as he bent his tall figure underthe low door-way, and seated himself upon the inverted washtub whichBilly had emptied. 'Have you all been washing?' 'No, ' Jerrie answered, proudly. 'I am the washerwoman, and all those clothes you saw on theline are my handiwork. '

'By George!' Dick said again. 'You are a trump, Jerrie! Why didn't youwear that dress when you were graduated? It's the prettiest costume Iever saw. '

'Th-that's what I think, only I d-didn't d-dare t-tell her so!' Billycried, springing to his feet and hopping about like a little robin. 

'How is Nina?' Jerrie asked, ignoring the compliment. 

'Brisk as a bee, ' Dick replied, 'and sends an invitation for you to comeover to a garden-tea to-night to meet Marian Raymond, Fred's sister. Awful pretty girl, with an accent like a foreigner; was over thereseveral years, you know. I was going to the Park House to invite you andMaude, ' he continued, turning to Tom, 'but as you are here, it will saveme the walk. Half-past five sharp. '

Then as his eye fell upon Billy, in whose face there was a look ofexpectancy, his countenance fell, for Nina had given him no instructionsto invite the Peterkins, and he felt intuitively that there was nothingin common between Ann Eliza Peterkin and the refined and aristocraticMarian Raymond, who had seen the best society in Europe, and in whoseveins some of Kentucky's bluest blood was flowing. But Dick was verykind-hearted, and never knowingly wounded the feelings of any one if hecould help it; and, after an awkward moment, during which he waswondering what Nina would do to him if he did it, he turned to Billy andsaid, as naturally as if it were what he had been expressly bidden tosay:

'Why, I shan't have to walk over to Le Bateau either. I'm in luck thishot morning, if you will take the invitation to your sister--forhalf-past five. '

'Th-thanks, ' Billy began; 'b-but am I left out?'

'Of course not. I'm an awful blunderer, ' Dick said, adding, mentally, 'and liar, too, though I didn't say anybody would be happy to see them. Poor Billy, he is well enough, and so is Ann Eliza, if she wouldn't pilethat red hair so high on the top of her head and wear so much jewelry. Well, I am in for it, and Nina can't any more than kill me. '

By this time Jerrie was bustling about, putting away the washingparaphernalia and sweeping the wood-shed, thus indicating that she hadno more time to lose with her three callers, two of whom Dick and Billy, took the hint and left, but not until she had explained to the formerthat it would be impossible for Harold to be present at thegarden-party, as she knew he would not be home until late, and wouldthen be quite too tired for company. 

'I am sorry that he cannot join us. I counted upon him, ' Dick said. 'Butyou will come, of course, and I offer my services on the spot to see youhome. Do you accept them?'

Jerrie seemed to see, without looking, the disappointment in Billy'sface, and the wrath in Tom's; but as she greatly preferred Dick'ssociety to theirs in a walk from Grassy Spring to the cottage, sheaccepted his offer, and then said, laughingly:

'Now, good-morning to you, and good riddance, too, for I am in an awfulhurry, I am going over to see Maude as soon as I can get myself ready. '

She had not thought that Tom would wait for her, and would greatly havepreferred to walk; but Tom was persistent, and moving his chair from thewood-shed outside into the shade where it was cooler, he sat fanninghimself with his hat, and watching the long line of clothes, whichJerrie had washed, flopping in the wind, with a feeling of mortifiedpride, as if his own wife had washed them. He knew that his mother hadonce been familiar with tubs, and wash-boards, and soap-suds, but thatwas before his day. Twenty-seven years had washed all that out, and hereally felt that to be a Tracy and live at Tracy Park was an honorscarcely less than to be President of the United States, and Jerrie, hewas sure, would see it as such when once the chance was offered her. Shecould not be so blind to her own interest as to refuse him, Tom Tracy, who was so much sought after by the belles of Saratoga and Newport, where he had spent a part of two or three seasons. He had been best manat the great ---- wedding in Springfield, and groomsman at another bigaffair in Boston, and had scores of invitations everywhere. Takenaltogether, he was a most desirable _parti_, and he was rather surprisedhimself at his infatuation for the girl whom he had found in the suds, and who was not ashamed that he had thus seen her. This was while he waswatching the clothes on the line, scowling at three pairs of coarse, vulgar stockings which he knew belonged to Mrs. Crawford, and the pairof blue overalls which were Harold's. 

'Yes, I do wonder at my interest in that nameless girl, whose mother wasa common peasant woman, ' he thought; but when the nameless girlappeared, fresh, and bright, and dainty, as if she had never seen awash-tub, with her hat on her arm, and two of his roses pinned on thebosom of her blue muslin dress, he forgot the peasant woman, and thelack of a name, and thought only of the lovely girl who signified thatshe was ready. 

It was very cool in the pine woods, where the heat of the summer morninghad not yet penetrated, and Tom, who was enjoying himself immensely, suggested that they leave the park and take a short drive on the riverroad. But Jerrie, who was not enjoying herself, said 'No!' verydecidedly. It would be hot there, and she was anxious to be with Maudeas soon as possible. So they drove on until they reached the groundswhich surrounded the house, and which Jerrie thought more beautiful thanshe had ever seen them. The grass was like velvet, with masses offlowers and shrubs, and urns, and bits of statuary here and there, whileover a little brook where Jerrie and Maude had often waded, and wherepoor Jack had had a little water-wheel, a rustic bridge had been built, with a pretty summer-house just beyond. Frank Tracy was a naturalgardener, and had lavished piles of money upon the grounds, in which heoften worked himself, and where he was busy now with a clump of roseswhen Tom drove up with Jerrie. 

CHAPTER XXXIII. 

AT THE PARK HOUSE. 

It was six months since Jerrie had seen Frank Tracy, and even in thattime he had changed so much that she noticed it at once, and looked athim wonderingly as he came quickly toward her with a smile on hishaggard face, and an eager welcome in his voice, as he gave her bothhis hands, and told her how glad he was to see her. 

His hair was very white, and she noticed how he stooped as he walkedwith her to the house and told her how anxiously Maude was waiting forher. 

'But she cannot talk just yet, ' he said. 'You must do all that. Thedoctor tells us there is no danger, if she is kept quiet for a few days. Oh, Jerrie, what if I should lose Maude after all. '

They were ascending the staircase now, and Frank was holding Jerrie'shand while she tried to comfort and reassure him, and then thanked himfor the fruit and the flowers he had sent to the cottage for her the daybefore. 

'You are so good to me, ' she said, 'you and Mr. Arthur. How lonely thehouse seems without him. '

'Yes, ' Frank replied, though in his heart he felt his brother's absenceas a relief, for his presence was a constant reproach to him, and helpedto keep alive the remorse which was always tormenting him. 

The sight of Jerrie, too, was a pain, but she held a namelessfascination for him, and he was constantly wondering what she would sayand do when she knew, as he was morally sure she would sometime knowwhat he had done. He was thinking of this now, and saying to himself, 'She will not be as hard upon me as Arthur, ' as he led her up the stairsand stopped at the door of Arthur's rooms. 

'Would you like to go in?' he asked. 'I have the keys, ' and he proceededto unlock the door. 

But Jerrie held back. 

'No, ' she said, as she glanced in at the silent, deserted rooms. 'It islike a grave. The ruling spirit is gone. '

'But you forget Gretchen. She is here, and one of Arthur's lastinjunctions was that I should visit her every day, and tell her he wascoming back. I have not seen her this morning. Come. '

He was leading her now by the waist through the front parlor, where thefurniture in its white shrouds looked like ghosts, and the pictures werecovered with tarletan. It was dark, too, in the Gretchen room, as theycalled it now, but Frank threw open the blinds and let in a flood oflight upon the picture, before which Jerrie stood reverently, and withfeelings such as she had never experienced before, as she looked uponthat lovely, girlish face. 

A new idea had taken possession of Jerrie since she had last seen thatpicture, and while, unsuspected by her, Frank was studying first herfeatures and then those of Gretchen, she was struggling frantically withthe past, which seemed clearer than before. Again she saw the low roomfar away--the tall stove in the corner, the dark woman opening the door, the firelight on the white face in the chair; and this time memory addedanother item to the picture, and she of the white face and wavy goldenhair seemed to hold a writing-desk on her lap and a piece of paper onwhich the pale hands were tracing words slowly and feebly, as if theeffort were a pain. 

'Oh, I can almost remember, ' she whispered, just as Frank's voice brokethe spell by saying:

'Good-morning, Gretchen. Arthur is in California, but he is surelycoming back; he bade me tell you so. '

'Is he crazy as well as Mr. Arthur? Are we all crazy together?' Jerrieasked herself, as she watched him closing the blinds and shutting outthe sunlight from the room, so that the picture was in shadow now andseemed nothing but bits of colored glass. 

'I have kept my promise to Arthur; and now for Maude, ' Frank said, andJerry was conscious of a new and strange sensation--a feeling ofownership and possession, as she went through the broad hall, glancingin at one handsome room after another, until she reached Maude's door. 

On the threshold she met Mrs. Frank, just coming out, and elegantlyattired in a tasteful muslin wrapper, with more lace and embroidery uponit than Jerrie had ever worn in her life; her hair was carefully dressedwith a cap which looked like a pen-wiper or doll's bonnet, it was sosmall, perched on the top of it; her face was powdered, and her mannerwas one of languor and fine-ladyism, which she had cultivated soassiduously and achieved so successfully. Not a muscle of her facechanged when she saw Jerrie, but she closed Maude's door quickly, andstepping into the hall, offered the tips of her fingers, as she said, ina fretful, rather than a welcoming tone:

'Good-morning. You are very late. Maude expected you two hours ago, almost immediately after Tom went out. She has worked herself into agreat state of feverish nervousness. '

'I am so sorry, ' Jerry replied. 'But I could not come sooner. I had alarge washing to do, and that takes time, you know. '

Jerry meant no reflection upon the days when Dolly had done her ownwashing, and knew that it took time, but the thought she did, and afrown settled upon her face as she replied:

'Surely your grandmother might have helped you, or Harold; and Maude isso impatient and weak this morning. The doctor says there is no dangerif she is kept quiet. She is only tired out with that room of yours. Why, I am told she has actually puttied up nail-holes, and paintedwalls, and sawed boards! I hope you like it. You ought to, for a part ofMaude's life and strength is in it. '

'Oh, Mrs. Tracy, ' Jerry cried, with tears in her eyes, 'I am so sorry. Of course I like the room, or did; but if it has injured Maude, I shallhate it. '

Dolly had given her a little stab and was satisfied, so she said in asofter tone:

'Maude may recover--I think she will; but everything must be done toplease her, and she cannot talk to you this morning--remember that. Youmust do the talking, but must not stay too long. '

'Mamma--mamma, let Jerrie in, ' came faintly from the closed room; andthen Mrs. Tracy stood aside and let Jerrie pass into the luxuriousapartment, where Maude lay upon a silken couch, with a soft, rose-colored shawl thrown over her shoulders, her eyes large and hollow, and her face as white almost as a corpse. 

One looking at her needed not to be told of her danger, or of the perilthere was in exciting her; and Jerrie felt a cold thrill creep over heras she went to the couch, and kneeling beside it, kissed the pale, quivering lips and smoothed the dark hair, while she tried to speaknaturally and cheerfully, as if in her mind there was no thought ofdanger to the beautiful girl, who smiled so lovingly upon her and keptcaressing her hands and her face, as if she would thus express hergladness to see her. 

'I know all about it, Maude, ' Jerrie said. 'Tom told me, and yourmother. You tired yourself out for me. Hush! Don't speak, or I shall goaway, ' she continued, as she saw Maude's lips move. 'You are not totalk. You are to listen, just for a day or two, and then you will hebetter, and come to the cottage and see my lovely room. It is so pretty, and I like it so much, and thank you and Harold so much. He has gone tothe Allen farm to-day to paint, ' she said, in answer to an eagerquestioning look in Maude's eyes. 'He does not know you are sick. Hewill come when he can see you--to-morrow, maybe. Would you like to havehim?'

A warm pressure of the hand was Maude's reply, as the moisture gatheredupon her heavy eyelashes. But Jerrie kissed it away, though her own hottears fell upon Maude's hair, which, however, was so thick that she didnot feel them; nor did she dream what it cost Jerrie to sit there andtell her everything of Harold which she could think of, because she knewthat would please the sick girl better. Once she made Maude laugh, asshe took off little Billy, imitating his voice so perfectly that aperson outside would have said he was in the room. Jerrie's talent forimitation and ventriloquism had not deserted her, although as she grewolder, she did not so often practice it as when a child; but she broughtit into full play now to amuse Maude, and imitated every individual ofwhom she spoke, except Arthur. He was the one person whose peculiaritiesshe could not take off. 

'I have been to Mr. Arthur's room, ' she said, 'but it seems so desolatewithout him. Do you hear from him often?'

'I have only had one letter, and then he was in Salt Lake City, at theContinental, in a room which he said was big enough for three rooms, andhad not a single bad smell in it, except the curtains, which were new, and in which he did detect a little odor. '

Here Maude laughed again, while there came into her face a faint colorand a look which made Jerrie's breath come quickly as, for the firsttime, the thought flashed across her mind that if what she had beenfoolish enough to dream of were true Maude was her cousin--her own fleshand blood. 

'Maude, ' she said suddenly, with a strong desire to fold the fraillittle body in her arms and tell her what she had thought. 

But when Maude looked up inquiringly at her she only put her head downupon the rose-colored shawl and began to cry. Then, regardless ofconsequences, Maude raised herself upon her elbow, and laying her faceon Jerrie's head began herself to cry piteously. 

'Jerrie, Jerrie, ' she sobbed, 'you think I am going to die, I know youdo, and so does everybody, but I am not; I cannot die when there is somuch to live for, and my home is so beautiful, and I love everybody somuch, and--'

Terrified beyond measure, Jerrie put her hand over Maude's mouth andsaid, almost sharply:

'If you want to live you must not talk. Be careful and you will getwell; the doctor says so. '

But Jerrie's tears belied her words when she saw the palor in Maude'sface as she sank back upon her pillow exhausted, while, with herhandkerchief she wiped a faint coloring of blood from her lips. 

'I have stayed too long, ' Jerrie said, as she arose from her low seat bythe couch. Then Maude spoke again in a whisper and said:

'Send Harold soon. '

'I will, ' Jerrie replied, and kissing the death-like face again she wentsoftly from the room, thinking to herself, as she descended the stairs, 'I believe I could give Harold to her now. '

CHAPTER XXXIV. 

UNDER THE PINES WITH TOM. 

Jerrie found Tom just where she had left him, on the piazza outside, waiting for her, it would seem, for the moment she appeared he arose, and going with her down the steps walked by her side along the avenuetoward the point where she would turn aside into the road which led tothe cottage. 

'How did you find Maude!' he asked. 

'Weaker than I supposed, ' Jerrie replied, 'and so tired. Oh, Tom, I knowshe hurt herself worrying about my room as she did, and if she dies Ishall never like it again. '

'Nonsense, ' Tom answered, carelessly. 'Maude won't die. She's got theTracy constitution, which nothing can kill. Don't fret about your room. Maude liked being there. Nothing could keep her away. And don't flatteryourself that it was all love for you which took her there so much, forit wasn't. She is just mashed with Harold, while he--well, what can ayoung man do when a pretty girl--and Mamie is pretty--when she gushes athim all the time? It is a regular flirtation, and everybody knows aboutit except mother and the Gov. '

'Who is the Gov. ?' Jerry asked, sharply. 

'Why, you Vassars must be very innocent, ' Tom replied, with a laugh, 'not to know that Gov. Is one's respected sire: the old man, some callhim, but I am more respectful. My gracious, though! isn't it sweltering?I'm nearly baked, you make me walk so fast!' and he wiped the greatdrops of swat from his forehead. 

'Why don't you go back then? Why are you walking here in the hot sun?'Jerrie asked. 

'I am going home with you, ' he replied. 'Do you think I'd let you goalone?'

'Go alone?' Jerrie repeated, stopping short and fixing her blue eyesupon him. 'You have let me go alone a hundred times, and after dark, too, when I was much smaller than I am now, and less able to defendmyself, supposing there was anything to fear, which there is not. Praygo back, and not trouble yourself for me. '

'I shall not go back, ' Tom said. 'I waited on purpose to come with you. There is something I must say to you, and I may as well say it now asany other time. '

Jerrie was tall, but Tom was six inches taller, and he was looking downstraight into her eyes with an expression in his before which hers fell, for she guessed what it was he wished to say to her, and her heart beatpainfully as, without another word, she walked rapidly on until theywere in the woods near a place where four tall pines formed a kind ofoblong square. Here an iron seat had been placed years before, when theTracy children were young, and held what they called their picnics thereunder the thick boughs of the pines which shaded them from both heat andcold. Laying his hand on Jerrie's shoulder, Tom said to her:

'Sit here with me under the pines while I tell you what for a long timeI have wanted to tell you, and which may as well be told at once. '

Still Jerrie did not speak, but she sat down upon the seat, and, takingoff her hat, began to fan herself with it, while with the end of herparasol she tried to trace letters in the thick carpet of dead pineneedles at her feet. 

Her attitude was not encouraging, and a less conceited man than Tomwould have felt disheartened, but he was not. No girl would be insaneenough to refuse Tom Tracy, of Tracy Park; and at last he made theplunge, and told her of his love for her and his desire to make her hiswife. 

'I know I was a mean little scamp when I was a boy, ' he said, 'and did alot of things for which I am ashamed; but I believe that I always lovedyou, Jerrie, even when I was teasing you the worst. I know I used tothink you the prettiest little girl I ever saw, and now I think you theprettiest big one, and I have had splendid opportunities for seeinggirls. You know I have travelled a great deal, and been in the very bestsociety; and, if I may say it, I think I can marry almost any one whom Ichoose. I used to fear lest you and Hal would hit it off together, or, rather, that he would try to get you, but, since he and Maude are sothick, my fears in that quarter have vanished, and I am constantlybuilding castles as to what we will do. I did not mean to ask you quiteso soon, but the sight of you this morning washing your clothes, withall that soapy steam in your face, decided me not to put it off. A Tracyhas no business in a washtub. '

'Did no Tracy ever wash her own clothes?' Jerrie asked, with an upwardand sidewise turn of her head, habitual with her when startled orstirred. 

There was a ring in her voice which Tom did not quite like, but heanswered, promptly:

'Oh, of course, years ago; but times change, and you certainly ought notto be familiar with such vulgar things, and at Tracy Park you will besurrounded with every possible luxury, Father, and Maude, and UncleArthur will be overjoyed to have you there; and if, on my part, love andmoney can make you happy, you certainly will be so. '

'You have plenty of money of your own?' Jerrie said, with another upwardtoss of her golden head. 

The question was full of sarcasm, but Tom did not see it, and answeredat once:

'Why, yes, or I shall have in time. Uncle Arthur, you know, is in nocondition to make a will now. It would not stand a minute. All thelawyers say that. '

'You have taken counsel, then?'

The parasol dug a great hole in the soft pines and was in danger ofbeing broken, as Tom replied:

'Oh, yes; we are sure of that. Whatever Uncle Arthur has, and it is morethan a million, will go to father, and, after him, to Maude and me; soyou are sure to be rich and to be the mistress of Tracy Park, which willnaturally come to me. Think, Jerrie, what a different life you will leadat the Park House from what you do now, washing old Mrs. Crawford'sstockings and Harold's overalls. '

'Yes, I am thinking, ' Jerrie answered, very low; and if Tom had followedthe end of her parasol, he would have seen that it was forming the wordGretchen in front of him. 

'Suppose Mr. Arthur has a wife somewhere?' Jerrie asked. 

'A wife!' Tom exclaimed. 'That is impossible. We should have heard ofthat. '

'Who was Gretchen?' was the next query. 

'Oh, some sweetheart, I suppose--some little German girl with whom heamused himself a while and then cast off, as men usually do suchincumbrances. '

Tom did not quite know himself what he was saying, or what it implied, and he was not at all prepared to see the parasol stuck straight intothe ground, while Jerrie sprang to her feet and confronted him fiercely. 

'Tom Tracy! If you mean to insinuate a thing which is not good and pureagainst Gretchen, I'll never speak to you as long as I live! Take backwhat you said about Mr. Arthur's casting her off! She was his wife, andyou know it? Dead, perhaps--I think she is; but she was his wife--histrue and lawful wife; and--I--sometimes--'

She could not add 'think she was my mother, ' for the words stuck in herthroat, where her heart seemed to be beating wildly and choking herutterance. 

'Why, Jerrie, ' Tom said, startled at her excited appearance, and anxiousto appease her, 'what can ail you? I hardly know what I said, and if Ihave offended you, I am sorry, I know nothing of Gretchen; her face is agood one and a pretty one, and Maude says you look like her; though Idon't see it, for I think you far prettier than she. Perhaps she was myuncle's wife--I guess she was: but that does not injure my prospects, for of course she is dead, or she would have turned up before this time. We have nothing to fear from her. '

'She may have left a child. What then?' Jerrie asked, with as steady avoice as she could command. 

'Pshaw! humbug!' Tom replied, with a laugh. 'That is impossible. A childwould have been heard from before this time. There is no child; I'm sureI hope not, as that would seriously interfere with our prospects. Thinkof some one--say a young lady--walking in upon us some day and claimingto be Arthur Tracy's daughter!'

'What would you do?' Jerrie asked, in a tone of smothered excitement. 

'I believe I'd kill her, ' Tom said, laughingly, 'or marry her, if I hadnot already seen you. But don't worry about that. There is no child;there is nothing between us and a million, and you have only to appointthe day which will make me the happiest of men, and free you from adrudgery, which just to think of sets my teeth on edge. Will you namethe day, Jerrie?'

If it had been possible for a look to have annihilated Tom, the scornwhich blazed in Jerrie's eyes would have done so. To hear him talk as ifthe matter were settled and the money he was to inherit from his unclecould buy her made her blood boil, and seizing her poor parasol, stillstanding up so straight in the piny sand, she stepped backward from himand said, in a mocking voice:

'Thank you, Tom, for the honor you would confer upon me, and which Imust decline, for I would rather wash grandma's stockings all my life, and Harold's overalls, too, than marry a man for money. '

'Jerrie, oh, Jerrie, you don't mean it! You do not refuse me!' Tomcried, in alarm, stretching out his arm to reach her but touching onlythe parasol, to which he clung desperately as a drowning man to a straw. 

'I do mean it, Tom, ' she said, softened a little by the pain she saw inhis face. 'I can never be your wife. '

'But why not!' Tom demanded. 'Many a girl who stands higher socially inthe world than you would gladly bear my name. I might have marriedGovernor Storey's daughter, at Saratoga, last summer. She threw herselfat my head, but one thought of you was enough to keep me from her. Youcannot be in earnest. '

'But I am. I care nothing for your money, which may or may not be yours. I do not love you, Tom; and without love I would not marry a prince. '

It was very hard for Tom to believe that Jerrie really meant to refusehim, Tom Tracy, who with all his love for her--and he did love her aswell as he was capable of loving any one--still felt that he wasstooping a little, or at least was honoring her greatly when he askedher to be his wife. And she had refused him, and kept on refusing him inspite of all he could say; and worse than all, made him feel at lastthat she did not consider it an honor to be Mrs. Tom Tracy, of TracyPark, and did not care either for him or his prospective fortune. Shecalled it that finally, then Tom grew angry and taunted her withfostering a hope that Arthur might make her his heir, or at least leaveher some portion of his money. 

'But I tell you he can't do it. A crazy man's will would never stand, and he is crazy and you know it. You will never touch a dollar of UncleArthur's money, if you live to be a hundred, unless it comes to you fromme. Don't flatter yourself that you will, and don't flatter yourselfeither that you will ever catch Hal Hastings, who is the real obstaclein my way. I know that very well, and so do you; but let me tell youthat what heart he has is given to Maude, who is silly enough toencourage him; though I doubt if she would ever marry him when it comesto that. She will look higher than a painter, a carpenter, a--'

'Tom Tracy!' and Jerrie's parasol was raised so defiantly and her eyesflashed so indignantly that Tom did not finish what he was going tosay, but cowered a little before the angry girl, who stood so tallbefore him and hurled her words at him with such scathing vehemence. 'Tom Tracy! Stop! You have said enough. When you made me believe thatyou really did care for me; and I suppose you must, or you would nothave thrown over a governor's daughter for me, or left so many lovelorn, high-born maidens out in the cold, I was sorry for you, for I hate togive any one pain, and I would rather have you my friend than my enemy;but when you taunt me with expectations from your uncle--. '

Here Jerrie paused, for the lump in her throat would not suffer thewords to come, and there arose before her as if painted upon canvas thelow room, the white stove, the firelight on the whiter face, the writingon the lap, and the little child in the far-off German city. But shewould have died sooner than have told Tom of this, or that theconviction was strong upon her that she should one day stand there underthe pines, herself the heiress of Tracy Park, Gretchen's memory honored, and Gretchen's wrongs wiped out. 

After a moment she went on:

'I care nothing for your money, and less for you, who show the meannessthere is in your nature when you speak of Harold Hastings as you havedone. Supposing he is poor--suppose he is a painter and a carpenter, andhas been what you started to call him--is he less a man for that? Athousand times no, and there is more of true manhood and nobility in hislittle finger than in your whole body; and if Maude has won his love, she should be prouder of it than of a duchess' coronet. I do not wish towound you, but when you talk of Harold, you make me so mad. Good-morning; it is time for me to be at my drudgery, as you call it. '

She walked rapidly away, leaving her parasol, which she had again thrustinto the ground, flopping in the breeze which had just sprung up, andeach flop seemed to mock the discomfited Tom, who, greatly astonishedbut not at all out of conceit with himself, sat staring blankly afterher, and with her head and shoulders more erect than usual, if possible, she went on almost upon a run until a turn in the road hid her fromview. Then he arose and shook himself together, and picking up thesoiled parasol, folded it carefully and put it upon the seat, saying ashe did so:

'By George! did that girl know what she was about when she refused tomarry me?'

CHAPTER XXXV. 

THE GARDEN PARTY. 

Jerrie went on very rapidly toward home, almost running at times, andnot at all conscious of the absence of her parasol, or that the noondaysun was beating hot upon her head, conscious only of a bitter feeling ofpain and vexation, the latter that she had allowed herself to speak soangrily to Tom, and of pain because of what he had said to her of Maudeand Harold. Do what she might, she could not forget the tone of Harold'svoice, or the look in his eyes when he bade her good-bye that morning, or that his whole manner since her return had been more like that of alover than of a brother. And still there was that little throb ofjealousy tugging at her heart-strings, notwithstanding that he had saidto herself in substance not more than an hour before that she believedshe could give Harold to Maude, whose love for him she could not doubt. 

'And I'll do it now, ' she said, at last, to herself. 'I'll fight itdown, this something which makes me hate myself. If Harold loves Maudehe shall never know from me of that horrible pain which cuts me like aknife and makes me forget to be indignant at Tom for talking so much ofhis money and his position, as if they could buy me! Poor Tom! I saidsome sharp things to him, but he deserved them, the prig! Let him marrythat governor's daughter if he can. I am sure I wish him success. '

She had reached home by this time, and found their simple dinner waitingfor her. 'Oh, grandma, why did you do it? Why didn't you wait for me?'she said, as she took her seat at the table where the dishes were all soplain, and the cloth, though white and clean, so coarse and cheap. 

Jerrie was as fond of luxury and elegance as any one, and Tracy Park, with its appurtenances, would have suited her taste better than thecottage. 

'But not with Tom, not with Tom, ' she kept on repeating to herself, asshe cleared the table and washed the dishes, and then brought in andfolded the clothes for the morrow's ironing. 

By this time she was very tired, and going to her cool, pretty room, shethrew herself upon the lounge and slept soundly for three hours or more. Sleep is a wonderful tonic, and Jerrie rose refreshed and quite herselfagain. Not even a thought of Maude and Harold disturbed her as she wentwhistling and singing around her room, hanging up her dresses one byone, and wondering which she should wear at the garden party. Decidingat last upon a simple white muslin, which, although two years old, wasstill in fashion, and very becoming, she arranged her wavy hair in afluffy mass at the back of her head, brushed her bangs into short, softcurls upon her forehead, pinned a cluster of roses on the bosom of herdress, and was ready for the party. 

'Tell Harold, if he is not too tired, I want him very much to come forme, ' she said, to Mrs. Crawford, and then about five o'clock started forGrassy Spring, where she found the guests all assembled in the pleasant, shady grounds, which surrounded the house. 

Tom was there in his character of a fine city dandy, and the moment hesaw Jerry, he hastened to meet her, greeting her with perfectself-possession, as if nothing had happened. 

'You are late, ' he said, going up to her. 'We are waiting for you tocomplete our eight hand croquet, and I claim you as my partner. '

'I c-c call that mean, T-t-tom. I was g-g-going to ask J-jerrie topl-play with m-me, ' little Billy said, hopping around them, while Dick'sface showed that he, too, would like the pleasure of playing withJerrie, who was known to be an expert and seldom missed a ball. 

Naturally, however, Marian Raymond, as a stranger, would fall to him, and they were soon paired off, Dick and Marian, Tom and Jerrie, Nina andBilly, Fred Raymond and Ann Eliza, who wore diamonds enough for a fulldress party, and whose red hair was piled on the top of her head soloosely that the ends of it stuck out here and there like the streamerson a boat on gala days. This careless style of dressing her hair, AnnEliza affected, thinking it gave individuality to her appearance; and itcertainly did attract general observation, her hair was so red andbushy. Dick had stumbled and stammered dreadfully when confessing to hissister that he had invited the Peterkins, while Nina had drawn a longbreath of dismay as she thought of presenting Ann Eliza and Billy toMarian Raymond, with her culture and aristocratic ideas. Then she burstinto a laugh and said, with her usual sweetness:

'Never mind, Dickie. You could not do otherwise. I'll prepare Marian, and the Peterkins will really enjoy it. '

So Marian, who, with all her accomplishments and foreign air, was akind-hearted, sensible girl, was prepared, and received the Peterkinsvery graciously, and seemed really pleased with Billy, whose big, kindheart shone through his diminutive body and always won him friends. Hewas very happy to be there, because he liked society, and because heknew Jerrie was coming; and Ann Eliza was very glad because she felt itan honor to be at Grassy Spring, and because she knew Tom was coming, and when he came she fastened upon him with a tenacity which he couldnot well shake off; and when croquet was proposed she was the first torespond. 

'Oh, yes, that will be nice, and I know our side will beat, ' and shelooked at Tom as it were a settled thing that she should play with him. 

But Tom was not in a mood to be gracious. He had come to theentertainment, which he mentally called a bore, partly because he wouldnot let Jerrie think he was taking her refusal to heart, and partlybecause he must see her again, even if she never could be his wife. Allthe better nature of Tom was concentrated in his love for Jerrie, andhad she married him he would probably have made her as happy as a whollyselfish man can make happy the woman he loves. But she had declined hisoffer, and wounded him deeper than she supposed. 

A hundred times he had said to himself that afternoon, as he sat alonein the lovely park--of which he had once said to Harold, he was to bethe _hare_, and of whose possession in the future he had boasted toJerrie--that he did not care a _sou_, that he was glad she had refusedhim, for after all it was only an infatuation on his part; that the girlof the carpet-bag was not the wife for a Tracy; but the twinge of painin his heart belied his words, and he knew he did love Jerrie Crawfordbetter than he should ever again love any girl, whether the daughter ofa governor or of the president. 

'And I go to the party, too, just to show her that I don't care, and forthe sake of looking at her, ' he said. 'She can't help that, and it is apleasure to look at a woman so grandly developed and perfectly formed asshe is. By Jove! Hal Hastings is a lucky dog; but I shall hate himforever. '

So Tom pulled himself together, and went to Grassy Spring in a frame ofmind not the most amiable; and when croquet was proposed, he sneered atit as something quite too _passé_, citing lawn tennis as the only decentoutdoor amusement. 

'Why, then, don't you set it up on your grounds, where you have plentyof room, and ask us all over there?' Dick asked, good-humoredly, as hebegan to get out the mallets and balls. 

To this Tom did not reply, but said, instead:

'Count me out. I don't like the game, and there are enough without me. '

Just then Jerry appeared at the gate, and he added quickly:

'Still, I don't wish to be ungracious; and now Jerrie has come, we canhave an eight hand. '

Hastening toward her, he met her as we have recorded, and claimed herfor his partner. 

'Thank you, Tom, ' Jerrie said, with a bright smile on her face, whichmade the young man's heart beat fast with both pleasure and pain, as hegave her the mallet and told her she was to play first. 

Tom was making himself master of ceremonies, and Dick kept quiet and lethim, and watched Jerrie admiringly as she made the two arches, and thethird, and fourth, and then sent her ball out of harm's way. It was along and closely contested game, for all were skilful players, exceptpoor Ann Eliza, who was always behind and required a great deal ofattention from her partner especially when it came to croqueting aball. She did not know exactly what to do, and kept her foot so longupon the ball that less amiable girls than Nina and Jerrie would havesaid she did it on purpose, to show how small and pretty it looked inher closely fitting French boot. But Jerrie's side beat, as it usuallydid. She had become a 'rover' the second round, had rescued Tom frommany a difficulty, and taken Ann Eliza through four or five wickets, besides doing good service to her other friends. 

'I p-p-propose three ch-cheers for Jerrie, ' Billy said, standing on histiptoes and nearly splitting his throat with his own hurrah. 

After the game was over they repaired to the piazza, where the littletables were laid for tea, and where Jerrie found herself _vis-à-vis_with Marian Raymond, of whom she had thought she might stand a little inawe, she had heard so much of her. But the mesmeric power which Jerriepossessed drew the Kentucky girl to her at once, and they were soon in amost animated conversation. 

'You do not seem like a stranger to me, ' Marian said, 'and I shouldalmost say I had seen you before, you are so like a picture in Germany. '

'Yes, ' Jerrie answered, with a gasp, and a feeling such as she alwaysexperienced when the spell was upon her and she saw things as in adream. 

'Was it in a gallery?'

'Oh, no; it was in a house we rented in Wiesbaden. You know, perhaps, that I was there at school for a long time. Then, when mamma came out, and I was through school, we stayed there for months, it was so lovely, and we rented a house which an Englishman had bought and made over. Sucha pretty house it was, too, with so many flowers and vines around it. '

'And the picture--did it belong to the Englishman?' Jerrie asked. 

'Oh, no, ' Marian replied: 'it did not seem to belong to anybody. Mr. Carter--that was the name of our landlord--said it was there in the wallwhen he took the house, which was then very small and low, with only twoor three rooms. He bought it because of the situation, which, thoughvery quiet and pleasant, was so near the Kursaal that we could alwayshear the music without going to the garden. 

'Yes, ' Jerrie said again, with her head on one side, and her ear turnedup, as if she were listening to some far-off, forgotten strains. 'Yes;and the picture was like me, you say--how like me?'

'Every way like you, ' Marian replied; 'except that the original musthave been younger when it was taken--sixteen, perhaps--and she wassmaller than you, and wore a peasant's dress, and was knitting on abench under a tree, with the sunshine falling around her, and at alittle distance a gentleman stood watching her. But what is the matter, Miss Crawford? Are you sick?' Marian asked, suddenly, as she saw thebright color fade for an instant from Jerrie's face, leaving it deathlywhite, while Tom and Dick knocked their heads together in their effortsto get her a glass of water, which they succeeded in spilling into herlap. 

'It is nothing, ' Jerrie said, recovering herself quickly. 'I have beenin the hot sun a good deal to-day, and perhaps that affected me and mademe a little faint. 'It has passed now;' and she looked up as brightly asever. 

'It's that confounded washing!' Tom thought; but Jerrie could have toldhim differently. 

As Marian had talked to her of the house in Wiesbaden and the picture onthe wall--of the peasant girl knitting in the sunshine--she had seen, asby revelation, through a rift in the clouds which separated her from thepast--the picture on the wall, in its pretty Florentine frame, and knewthat it resembled the pale, sweet face which came to her so often andwas so real to her. Was it her old home Marian was describing? Had shelived there once, when the house consisted of only two or three rooms?and was that a picture of her mother, left there she knew not how orwhy? These were the thoughts crowding each other so fast in her brainwhen the faintness and pallor crept over her and the objects about herbegan to seem unreal. But the cold water revived her, and she was soonherself again, listening while Marian talked of heat and sun-strokes, with an evident forgetfulness of the peasant girl knitting in thesunshine; but Jerrie soon recurred to the subject and asked, ratherabruptly: 'Was there a stove in that house--a tall, white stove, in acorner of one of the old rooms--say the kitchen--and a high-backedsettee?'

Marian stared at her a moment in surprise, and then replied:

'Oh, I know what you mean--those unwieldy things in which they sometimesput the wood from the hall. No; there was nothing of that kind, thoughthere was an old settee by the kitchen fire-place, but not a tall stove. Mr. Carter had modernized the house, and set up a real Yankeestove--Stewart's, I think they called it. '

'Was the picture in the kitchen?' Jerrie asked next. 

'No, ' Marian replied, 'it was in a little, low apartment which must oncehave been the best room. '

'And was there no theory with regard to it! It seems strange that anyone should leave it there if he cared for it, ' Jerrie said. 

'Yes, it does, ' Marian replied; 'but all Mr. Carter knew was that thepeople of whom he bought the house said the portrait was there when theytook possession, and that it had been left to apply on the back rent;also that the original was dead. He (Mr. Carter) had bought the picturewith the house, and offered to take it down, but I would not let him. Itwas such a sweet, sunny, happy face that it did me good to look at it, and wonder who the young girl was, and if her life were ever linked withthat of the stranger watching her. '

Again the faintness came upon Jerrie, for she could see so plainly onthe sombre wall the picture of the sweet-faced girl, with the longstocking in her lap--a very long stocking she felt sure it was, butdared not ask, lest they should think her question a strange one. Of thestranger in the back yard watching the young girl she had norecollection, but her heart beat wildly as she thought:

'Was that Mr. Arthur, and was the young girl Gretchen?'

How fast the lines touching her past had widened about her since shefirst saw the likeness in the mirror, and her confused memories of thepast began to take shape and assume a tangible form. 

'I will find that house, and that picture, and that Mr. Carter, and thepeople who lived there before him, ' she said to herself; and then again, addressing Marian, she asked:

'What was the street, and the number of that house?'

Marian told her the street, but could not remember the number, while Tomsaid, laughingly:

'Why, Jerrie, what makes you so much interested in an old German house?Do you expect to go there and live in it?'

'Yes, ' Jerrie replied, in the same light tone. 'I am going to Germanysometime--going to Wiesbaden, and I mean to find that house and thepicture which Miss Raymond says I am so much like; then I shall know howI look to others. You remember the couplet:

 '"Oh, wad some power the giftie gie us, To see ourselfs as others see us!"

'Look in the glass there, the best one you can find, and you'll seeyourself as others see you, ' Dick said, gallantly. 

Before Jerrie could reply, a servant appeared on the piazza, sayingthere was some one at the telephone asking for Mr. Peterkin. 

It proved to be Billy's father, who was in the village, and had receiveda telegram from Springfield concerning a lawsuit which was pendingbetween himself and a rival firm, which claimed that he had infringedupon their patents. Before replying to the telegram he wished to conferwith his son, who was to come at once to the hotel, and, if necessary, go to Springfield that night. 

'B-by Jove, ' Billy said, as he returned to the piazza and explained thematter, 'it's t-t-too bad that I must g-go, when I'm enjoying m-myselft-t-tip-top. I wish that lawsuit was in Gu-Guinea. '

Then turning to Ann Eliza he asked how she would get home if he did nutreturn. 

'Oh, don't trouble about me. I can take care of myself, ' Ann Eliza said, with a bounce up in her chair, which set every loose hair of her frowzyhead to flying. 

'M-m-maybe they'll send the ca-carriage, ' Billy went on, 'and if theydo-don't, m-may be you can g-go with T-Tom as far as his house, and thenyou wo-wont be afraid. '

Tom could have killed the little man for having thus made it impossiblefor him not to see his sister safely home. He had fully intended toforestall Dick, and go with Jerrie if Harold did not come, for thoughshe had refused him, he wished to keep her as a friend, hoping that intime she might be led to reconsider. He liked to hear her voice--to lookinto her face--to be near her, and the walk in the moonlight, with herupon his arm, had been something very pleasant to contemplate, and nowit was snatched from him by Billy's ill-advised speech, and oldPeterkin's red-haired daughter thrust upon him. It was rather hard, andTom's face was very gloomy and dark for the remainder of the evening, while they sat upon the piazza and laughed, and talked, and said thelittle nothings so pleasant to the young and so meaningless to the oldwho have forgotten their youth. 

Jerrie was the first to speak of going. She had hoped that Harold mightpossibly come for her, but as the time passed on, and he did not appear, she knew he was not coming, and at last arose to say good-night to Nina, while Dick hastened forward and announced his intention to accompanyher. 

'No, Dick, no; please don't, ' she said. 'I am not a bit afraid, and Iwould rather you did not go. '

But Dick was persistent. 

'You know you accepted my services this morning, ' he said, and his face, as he went down the steps with Jerrie on his arm, wore a very differentexpression from that of poor Tom, who, with Ann Eliza coming about tohis elbow, stalked moodily along the road, scarcely hearing and notalways replying to the commonplace remarks of his companion, who hadnever been so happy in her life, because never before had she been outalone in the evening with Tom Tracy as her escort. 

CHAPTER XXXVI. 

OUT IN THE STORM. 

For half an hour or more before the young people left the house a darkmass of clouds had been rolling up from the west, and by the time thatthey were out of the grounds and on the highway, the moonlight waswholly obscured and the sky was overcast as with a pall, while frequentgroans of thunder and flashes of lightning in the distance told of thefast coming storm. 

'Oh, I am so afraid of thunder! Aren't you?' Ann Eliza cried, in terror, as she clung closer to Tom, who, beside her, seemed a very giant, andwho did not reply until there came a gleam of lightning which showed himthe white face and the loose hair blowing out from under his companion'shat. 

There was a little shriek of fear and a smothered cry. 'Oh, Tom, aren'tyou a bit afraid?'

And then the giant answered the trembling little girl whom he would liketo have shaken off, she clung so closely to him 'Thunder and lightning, no!' I'm not afraid of anything except getting wet; and if you are, you'd better run before the whole thing is upon us; the sky is blackerthan midnight now. I never saw a storm come on so fast. Can you run?'

'Yes--some, ' Ann Eliza gasped out; 'only my boots are so tight and new, and the heels are so high. Do you think we shall be struck?'

This as a peal of thunder louder than any which had preceded it rolledover their heads, making Ann Eliza clutch Tom's arm in nervous terrorwhich was not feigned. 

'Struck? No. But don't screech and hang on to me so. We can never getalong if you do, ' Tom growled; and, taking her by the wrist, he draggedrather than led her through the woods where the great rain-drops werebeginning to fall so fast as the two showers--one from the west and onefrom the south--approached each other, until at last they met overhead, and then commenced a wild and fierce battle of the elements, thesouthern storm and the western storm each seemingly trying to outdo theother and come off conqueror. 

As the thunder and lightning and rain increased, Tom went on faster andfaster, forgetting that the slip of a girl, who scarcely came to hisshoulders, could not take so long strides as a great, hulking fellowlike himself. 

'Oh, Tom, Tom--please not so fast. I can't keep up, my heart beats sofast and my boots hurt me so, ' came in a faint, sobbing protest morethan once from the panting girl at his side; but he only answered:

'You _must_ keep up, or we shall be soaked through and through. I neverknew it rain so fast. Take off your boots, if they hurt you. You've nobusiness to wear such small ones. '

He had heard from Maude that Ann Eliza was very proud of her feet, andalways wore boots too small for them, and he experienced a savagesatisfaction in knowing that she was paying for her foolishness. Thiswas not very kind in Tom, but he was not a kind-hearted man, and he heldthe whole Peterkin tribe, as he called them, in such contempt that hewould scarcely have cared if the tired little feet, boots and all, haddropped off, provided it did not add to his discomfort. They were out ofthe woods and park by this time, and had struck into a field as ashorter route to Le Bateau. But the way was rough and stony, and Tom hadstumbled himself two or three times and almost fallen, when a sharp, loud cry from Ann Eliza smote his ear, and he felt that she was sinkingto the ground. 

His first impulse was to drag her on, but that would have been toobrutal, and stopping short he asked what was the matter. 

'Oh, I don't know. I guess I've sprained my ankle. It turned right overon a big stone, you went so fast, and hurts me awfully. I can't walkanother step. Oh, what shall we do, and am I going to die?'

'Die? No!' Tom answered, gloomily. 'But we are in an awful muss, and Idon't know what to do. Here it is raining great guns, and I am wet to myskin, and you can't walk, you say. What in thunder shall we do?'

Ann Eliza was sobbing piteously, and when a glare of lightning lightedup the whole heavens, Tom caught a glimpse of her face which was whiteas marble, and distorted with pain, and this decided him. He had thoughtto leave her in the darkness and rain, while he went for assistanceeither to the Park House or Le Bateau; but the sight of her utterhelplessness awoke in him a spark of pity, and bending over her he said, very gently for him:

'Annie, '--this was the name by which he used to call her when they werechildren together, and he thought Ann Eliza too long--'Annie, I shallhave to carry you in my arms; there is no other way. It is not very farto your home. Come!' and stooping low over the prostrate form he liftedher very carefully and holding her in a position the least painful forher, began again to battle with the storm, walking more carefully nowand groping his way through the stony field lest he should stumble andfall and sprain him own ankle, perhaps. 

'This is a jolly go, ' he said to himself, as he went on; and then hethought of Dick and Jerrie, and wondered how they were getting throughthe storm, and if she had sprained her ankle and Dick was carrying herin his arms. 

'He will sweat some, if he is, for Jerrie is twice as heavy asPeterkin's daughter;' and at the very idea Tom laughed out loud, thinking that he should greatly prefer to have Jerrie's strength andweight in his arms to his light, slim, little girl, who neither spokenor moved until he laughed, and then there came in smothered tones fromthe region of his vest:

'Oh, Tom, how can you laugh? Do you think it such fun?'

'Fun! Thunder! Anything but fun!' was his gruff reply, as he went onmore rapidly now, for they were in the grounds of Le Bateau, and thelights from the house were distinctly visible at no great distance away. 'We are here at last. Thank the Lord. ' he said, as he went up the stepsand pulled sharply at the bell. 

'Let me down. I can stand on one foot, ' Ann Eliza said; and nothing lothTom put her down, a most forlorn and dilapidated piece of humanity asshe stood leaning against him with the light of the piazza lamp fallingfull upon her. 

Her little French boots, which had partly done the mischief, werespoiled, and the heel of one of them had been nearly wrenched off whenshe stumbled over the stone. Her India muslin, with its sash, andribbons, and streamers, was torn in places and bedraggled with mud. Shehad lost her hat in the woods, and the wind and the rain had held highcarnival in her loosely-arranged hair, whose color Tom so detested, andwhich streamed down her back in many little wet tags, giving her thelook of a drowned rat after it has been tortured in a trap. 

Old Peterkin was reading his evening paper when Tom's sharp summonssounded through the house, making him jump from the chair, as heexclaimed:

'Jiminy hoe-cakes! Who can that be in this storm?'

He had seen Billy off in the train, and had returned home just as therain began to fall. Naturally both he and his wife had felt someanxiety on Ann Eliza's account, but had concluded that if the stormcontinued she would remain at Grassy Spring, and if it cleared in timethey would send the carriage for her. So neither thought of her when theloud ring came, startling them both so much. It was Peterkin himself whowent to the door, gorgeous in a crimson satin dressing gown which cameto his feet, but which no amount of pulling would make meet togetherover his ponderous stomach. An oriental smoking cap was on his head, thebig tassel hanging almost in his eyes, and a half-burned cigar betweenhis fingers. 

'Good George of Uxbridge!' he exclaimed, as his eye fell upon Tom, fromwhose soaked hat the water was dripping, and upon Ann Eliza leaningagainst him, her pale face quivering with pain, and her eyes full oftears. 'George of Uxbridge! What's up? What ails the girl!'

At sight of her father Ann Eliza began to cry, while Tom said:

'She has sprained her ankle and I had to bring her home. She cannotstep. '

'Jerusalem hoe-cakes! Spraint her ankle! Can't step! You bring her home!Heavens and earth! Here, May Jane, come lively! Here's a nice how-dy-do!Ann Liza's broke her laig, and Tom Tracy's brung her home!'

As Peterkin talked, he was taking his daughter in his arms and bringingher into the hall, hitting her lame foot against the door, and elicitingfrom her a cry of pain. 

'Oh, father; Oh-h!--it does hurt so. Put me somewhere quick, and takeoff my boot. I believe I am going to die!'

She was dripping wet, and little puddles of water trailed along thecarpet as Peterkin carried her into the sitting room, where he was aboutto lay her down upon the delicate satin couch, when his wife'shousewifely instincts were roused, and she exclaimed:

'No, father. No, not there, when she's so wet, and water spots thatsatin so dreadfully. '

'What in thunder shall I do with her? Hold her all night?' Peterkindemanded, while Tom deliberately picked up the costly Turkey hearth rug, and throwing it across the couch, said:

'Put her on that. ' So Peterkin deposited her upon the rug, hitting herfoot again, and sending her off in a dead faint. 

'Oh, she's dead! she's dead! What shall we do?' Mrs. Peterkin cried, wringing her hands, and walking about excitedly. 

'Do?' Peterkin yelled. 'Hold your yawp, and stop floppin' round like ahen with her head cut off! She ain't dead. She's fainted. Bring somecamfire, or alcohol, or hartshorn, or Pond's Extract, or something forher to smell. '

'Yes, yes; but where are they?' Mrs. Peterkin moaned, still floppingaround, as her husband had expressed it, while Tom rang the bell andsummoned the maid, to whom he gave directions. 

'Bring some camphor or hartshorn, ' he said. 'Miss Peterkin has fainted, and get off the boot as soon as possible. Don't you see how her foot isswelling?'

This to Peterkin, who made a dive at the boot, which resisted all hisefforts, even after it was unbuttoned. The leather, which was soakedthrough, had shrunk so that it was impossible to remove the boot withoutcutting it away, and this they commenced to do. 

Ann Eliza had recovered her consciousness by this time, and although thepain was terrible she bore it heroically, as piece after piece of theboot was removed, together with the silk stocking which left her poorlittle swollen foot exposed and bare. 

'By Jove, she's plucky!' Tom thought, as he watched the operation andsaw the great drops of sweat on Ann Eliza's forehead and her efforts toquiet her mother, pretending that it did not hurt so very much. 'Yes, she's plucky, ' and for the first time in his life Tom was conscious of afeeling of something like respect for Peterkin's red-haired daughter. 'She _has_ a small foot, too; the smallest I ever saw on a woman. I dobelieve she wears twos, ' he thought, while something about the littlewhite foot made him think of poor Jack's dead feet, laid under the grassyears ago. 

In this softened frame of mind he at last said good-night, althoughpressed by Peterkin to stay and dry himself, or at least take a drink asa preventive against cold, but Tom declined both, saying a hot bathwould set him all right. 'Good-bye, Annie. I'm awful sorry for thesprain, ' he said, offering her his hand; and as she took it in hers, noticing about the wrist prints of his fingers which had grasped it sotightly and held it so firmly as he dragged her along over stumps, andbogs, and stones, until she sank at his feet, 'I guess I was a brute torace her like that, ' he said to himself, as he went out into thedarkness and started for home. 'But I didn't want to go with her. Iwanted to be with Jerrie, who, I have no doubt, went straight along, without ever thinking of spraining her ankle, as Ann Eliza did. Poorlittle foot! How swollen, though, it was when they got that boot off;but she bore it like a major! Pity she has such all-fired red hair, andpiles it up like a haystack on the top of her head, with every hairlooking six ways for Sunday. '

At this point in his soliloquy Tom reached home, and was soonluxuriating in a hot bath, which removed all traces of the soaking hehad received. That night he dreamed of Ann Eliza, and how light she wasin his arms, and how patient through it all, and that the magnificentrooms at Le Bateau were all frescoed with diamonds and the floors inlaidwith gold. Then the nature of his dream changed, and it was Jerry he wascarrying in his arms, bending under her weight until his back was nearlybroken. But he did not heed it in the least, and when he bent to kissthe face lying upon his bosom, where Ann Eliza had lain, he awokesuddenly to find that it was morning and that the sun was shiningbrightly into his room. 

CHAPTER XXXVII. 

UNDER THE PINES WITH DICK. 

Jerrie was soaked through, but she did not sprain her ankle as Ann Elizahad done. And yet, had she been given her choice, rather than inflictthe pain she did inflict upon poor Dick, she would have chosen theformer unhesitatingly, and felt herself happy in doing it. Like Tom andAnn Eliza, she and Dick had run when they saw how fast the storm wascoming, but it was of no use, for by the time they entered the park, theshortest route to the cottage, the rain came down in torrents, anddrenched them to the skin in a few moments. Jerrie's hat was wrenchedoff, as Ann Eliza's had been by the wind, which tossed her long goldenhair in a most fantastic fashion. But Dick put his hat upon her head, and would have given her his coat had she allowed it. 

'No, Dick, ' she said, laughingly, as she saw him about to divest himselfof it. 'Keep your coat. I am wet enough without that. But what an awfulstorm, and how dark it grows. We shall break our necks stumbling alongat this rate. '

Just then a broad glare of lightning illuminated the darkness, andshowed Dick the four pines close at hand. He knew the place well, for, with the Tracy children, he had often played there when a boy, and knewthat the thick bushes would afford them some protection from the storm. 

'By Jove, we are in luck!' he said. 'Here's the pine room, as we used tocall it when you played you were Marie Antoinette, and had your head cutoff. I can remember just how I felt when your white sun-bonnet, withMrs. Crawford's false hair pinned it in, dropped into the basket, andhow awful it seemed when you played dead so long that we almost thoughtyou were; and when you came to light, the way you imitated the cries ofa French mob, I would have sworn there were a hundred voices instead ofone yelling: "Down with the nobility!" You were a wonderful actress, Jerrie; and it is a marvel you have not gone upon the stage. '

While he talked he was groping for the bench under the pines, where theysat down, Dick seating himself upon the parasol, which Jerrie had leftthere that morning after her interview with Tom. 

'Hallo! what's this?' he said, drawing the parasol from under him. 'Anumbrella, as I live! We are in luck. What good fairy do you suppose leftit here for us?'

Jerrie could not tell him that she had left it there, and she saidnothing; while he opened and held it so that every drop of rain whichslipped from it fell upon her neck and trickled down her back. 'GreatCæsar! that was a roarer!' Dick said, as the peal of thunder which hadso frightened Ann Eliza burst over their heads, and, echoing through thewoods, went bellowing off in the direction of the river, 'That's astunner! but I rather like it, and like being here, too, with you, ifyou don't mind it. I've wanted a chance to speak to you alone, eversince--well, ever since this morning, when I saw you in that bewilderingcostume that showed your feet and your arms so--you know, with thatthing like a napkin pinned up in front, and that jimcrack on your head, and the red stockings--and--and--'

Dick was getting bewildered and did not quite know what he was saying, so he stopped and waited for Jerrie to reply. But Jerrie did not speak, because of the sudden alarm which possessed her. She could not seeDick's face, but in his voice she had recognized a tone heard in Tom'sthat morning when she sat with him under pines as she was sitting nowwith Dick and he had asked her to be his wife. Something told her thatDick was feeling for her hands, which she resolutely put behind her outof his way, and as he could not find them, he wound his arm around herand held her fast, while he told her how much he loved her and wantedher for his wife. 

'I believe I have loved you, ' he said, 'ever since the day I first sawyou at the inquest, and you flew so like a little cat at Peterkin whenhe attacked Harold. I used to be awfully jealous of Hal, for fear hewould find in you more than a sister, but that was before he and Maudegot so thick together. I guess that's a sure thing, and it makes me boldto tell you what I have. Why are you so silent Jerrie? Don't you love mea little? That is all I ask at first, for I know I can make you love mea great deal in time. I will be so kind and true to you. Jerrie, andfather, and mother, and Nina will be so glad. Speak to me, Jerrie, andsay you will try to love me, if you do not now. '

As he talked he had drawn the girl closer to him, where she sat rigid asa stone, wholly unmindful of the little puddles of water--and they werepuddles now--running down her back, for Dick had tilted the parasol insuch a manner that one of the points rested upon the nape of her neck. But she did not know it, or think of any thing except the pain she mustinflict upon the young man wooing her so differently from what TomTracy had done. No hint had Dick given of the honor he was conferringupon her, or of his own and his family's superiority to her family andherself. All the honor and favor to be conferred were on her side; allthe love and humility on his, and for one brief moment the wild wishflashed upon her:

'Oh, if I could love him as a wife ought, I might he so happy, for he isall that is noble and good and true. '

But this was while she was smarting under the few words he had said ofHarold and Maude. He, too, believed it a settled thing between thetwo--everybody believed it--and why should she waste her love upon onewho did not care for her as she did for him? Why not encourage a lovefor Dick, who stood next in her heart to Harold? Questioning herselfthus until there flushed upon her the recollection of Harold's voice asit had spoken to her that morning, and the look in his eyes when theyrested upon her, as he said good-bye, lingering a moment as if loth toleave her, and then Dick's chance, if he had ever had any, was gone!

'I do not believe it, ' she said to herself, and then, turning her faceto Dick she cried: 'Oh, Dick, I am so sorry you have said this to me;sorry that you love me--in this way--for I can't--I can't--. I do loveyou as a friend, a brother, next to Harold, but I cannot be your wife. Icannot. '

For a moment there was perfect silence in the darkness, and then a luridflame of lightning showed the two faces--that of the man pale as ashes, with a look of bitter pain upon it, and that of the woman, whiter thanthe man's and bathed in upon which fell almost as fast as the rain dropswere falling tears, the pines. 

Then Dick spoke, but his voice sounded strange and unnatural and a greatways off:

'If I wait a long, long time--say a year, or two, or three--do you thinkyou could learn to love me just a little? I will not ask for much; only, Jerrie, I do hunger so for you that without you life would seem ablank. '

'No, Dick; not if you waited twenty years. I must still answer no. Icannot love you as your wife should love you, and as some good, sweetgirl will one day love you when you have forgotten me. '

This is what Jerrie said to him, with much more, until he knew she wasin earnest and felt as if his heart were breaking. 

'I shall never forget you, Jerrie, ' he said, 'or cease to hope that youwill change your mind, unless--' and here he started so suddenly thatthe wet parasol, down which streams of water were still coursing theirway to Jerrie's back, dropped from his hand and rolled off upon the bedof fine needles at his feet, just where it had been in the morning whenTom was there instead of himself--'unless there is some one between us, some other man whom you love. I will not ask you the question, but Ibelieve I could bear it better if I knew it was because your love wasalready given to another, and not because of anything in me. '

For a moment Jerrie was silent; then suddenly facing Dick, she laid herhand on his and said:

'I can trust you, I am sure of that; there is some one between us--someone whom I love. If I had never seen him, Dick, never known that helived--and if I had known you just as I do, I might not have answeredjust as I have. I am very sorry. '

Dick did not ask her who his rival was, nor did Harold come to his mind, so sure was he that an engagement existed between him and Maude. Probably it was some one whom she had met while away at school; and ifso, Nina would know, and he would sound her cautiously, but never lether know, if he could help it, the heart-wound he had received. 

Poor Dick! every nerve was quivering with pain and disappointment whenat last, as the rain began to cease, he rose at Jerrie's suggestion, andoffering her his arm, walked silently and sadly with her to the door ofthe cottage. Here for a moment they stood side by side and hand in hand, until Jerrie said:

'Dick, your friendship has been very dear to me. I do not want to loseit. '

'Nor shall you, ' he answered; and winding his arms around her, he kissedher lips, saying as he did so:

'That is the seal of our eternal friendship. The man you love would notgrudge me that one kiss, but perhaps you'd better tell him. Good-bye, and God bless you. When I see you again I shall try to be the same Dickyou have always known. '

For a few moments Jerrie stood listening to the sound of his footstepsas he went splashing through the wet grass and puddles of water; then, kissing her hands to him, she whispered:

'Poor Dick! it would not be difficult to love you if I had never knownHarold. '

Opening the door softly, she found, as she had expected, that both hergrandmother and Harold had retired; and taking the lamp from the tablewhere it had been left for her, she stole quietly up to her room andcrept shivering into bed, more wretched than she had ever been before inher life. 

CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

AT LE BATEAU. 

Harold got his own breakfast the next morning, and was off for his workjust as the sun looked into the windows of the room where Jerrie lay ina deep slumber. She had been awake a long time the previous night, thinking over the incidents of a day which had been the most eventfulone of her life, but had fallen asleep at last, and dreamed that she hadfound the low room far away in Wiesbaden, with the wall adorned with thepicture of a young girl knitting in the sunshine, and the strangerwatching her from a distance. 

It was late when she awoke, and Peterkin's clock was striking eight whenshe went down to the kitchen, where she found Mrs. Crawford sewing, anda most dainty breakfast waiting for her on a little round table near anopen window shaded with the hop-vines. There was a fresh egg for her, with English buns, and strawberries and cream, and chocolate served in apretty cup which she had never seen before, while near her plate waslying a bunch of roses, and on them a strip of paper, on which Haroldhad written:

 "The top of the mornin' to ye, Jerrie. I'd like to stay and see you, but if I work very hard to-day, I hope to finish the job on Monday and get my fifteen dollars. That's a pile of money to earn in three days, isn't it? I hope you enjoyed the garden-party. If I had not been so awfully tired I should have gone for you. Grandma will tell you that I went to bed and to sleep before that shower came up, so I knew nothing of it. I wonder you got home; but of course Dick came with you, or Billy, or possibly Tom. I hear you entertained all three of them at the washtub! Pretty good for the first day home! Good-bye till to-night. I only live till then, as they say in novels. 

 "HAROLD. "

This note, every line of which was full of affection and thoughtfulnessfor her, was worth more to Jerrie than the chocolate, or the bun, or thepretty cup and saucer which Harold had bought for her the night before, going to the village, a mile out of his way, on purpose to get them andsurprise her. This, Mrs. Crawford told her, as she eat eating herbreakfast, which she had to force down because of the lump in her throatand the tears which came so fast as she listened. 

'You see, ' Mrs. Crawford began, 'Mr. Allen paid Harold two or threedollars, and so he came home through the village, and bought the eggs, and the buns, and the chocolate, which he knew you liked, and the cupand saucer at Grady's. He has had it on his mind a long time to get itfor you, but there were so many other things to pay for. Don't you thinkit is pretty?'

'Yes, lovely!' Jerrie replied, taking up the delicate bit of china, through which the light shone so clearly. 'It is very pretty; but I wishhe had not bought it for me, ' and Jerrie wiped the hot tears from bothher eyes, as Mrs. Crawford continued:

'Oh, he wanted to. He is never happier than when doing something whichhe thinks pleases you or me. Harold is the most unselfish boy I everknew; and I never saw him give way, or heard him complain that his lotwas hard but once, and that was this summer, when he was building theroom, and had to dismiss the man because he had no money to pay him. That left it all for him to do, and he was already so tired andoverworked; and then Tom Tracy was always making fun of the addition, and saying it made the cottage look like a pig-sty with a steeple toit, and that you would think so too; and if it were his he'd tear theold hut down and start anew. Peterkin, too, made remarks about its beingout of proportion to the rest of the house, and wondered where Haroldgot the money, and why he didn't do this and that, but supposed hecouldn't afford it, adding that "beggars couldn't be choosers. " WhenHarold heard all that, he was tired, and nervous, and sick, anddiscouraged, and his hands were blistered and bruised with hard work. His head was aching, and he just put it on that table, where you aresitting, and cried like a baby. When I tried to comfort him, he said, "It isn't the hard work, grandmother; I don't mind that in the least;neither do I care for what they say, or should not, if there was notsome truth in it; things are out of proportion, and the new room makesthe rest of the cottage look lower than ever, and I'd like so much tohave everything right for Jerrie, who would not shame the Queen'spalace. I wish, for her sake, that I had money, and could make her homewhat it ought to be. I do not want her to feel homesick, or long forsomething better, when she comes back to us. "'

Jerrie was crying outright now; but Mrs. Crawford, who was a little deafand did not hear her, went on:

'If you were a hundred times his sister he could not love you more thanhe does, or wish to make you happier. He would have gone for you lastnight, only he was so tired, and I persuaded him to go to bed. I knewsomebody would come home with you, Dick, wasn't it? I thought I heardhis voice. '

'Yes, it was Dick, ' Jerrie answered, very low, returning again to herbreakfast, while her grandmother rambled on:

'Harold slept so soundly that he never heard the storm or knew there wasone till this morning. Lucky you didn't start home till it was over. You'd have been wet to the skin. '

Jerrie made no answer, for she could not tell of that interview underthe pines, or that she had been wet to the skin, and felt chilly evennow from the effects of it. It seemed that Mrs. Crawford would nevertire talking of Harold, for she continued:

'He was up this morning about daylight, I do believe, and had his ownbreakfast eaten and that table laid for you when I came down. He wantedto see you before he went, and know if you were pleased; but I told himyou were probably asleep, as it was late when you came in, and so hewrote something for you, and went whistling off as merrily as if he hadbeen in his carriage, instead of on foot in his working-dress. '

'And he shall have his carriage, too, some day, and a pair of the finesthorses the country affords, and you shall ride beside him, in a satingown and India shawl. You'll see!' Jerrie said, impetuously, as shearose from the table and began to clear away the dishes. 

The spell was upon her strongly now, and as her grandmother talked, theobjects around her gradually faded away; the cottage, so out ofproportion, and so humble in all its surroundings, was gone, and in itsplace a house, fair to look upon, fair as Tracy Park and much like it, and Harold was the master, looking a very prince, instead of the tired, shabbily dressed man he was now. 

'And I shall be there, too, ' Jerrie whispered, or rather nodded toherself. 'I know I shall, and I do not believe one word of the Maudeaffair, and never will until he tells me himself, or she; andthen--well, then, I will be glad for them, until I come to be reallyglad myself. '

She was moving rapidly around the kitchen, for there was a great deal tobe done--the Saturday's work and all the clothes to be ironed, and thenshe meant to get up some little surprise for Harold, to show him thatshe appreciated his thoughtfulness for her. 

About half-past ten a servant from Le Bateau brought her a note from AnnEliza, who wrote as follows. 

 'Dear Jerrie:--Have pity on a poor cripple, and come as soon as you can and see her. I sprained my ankle last night in that awful storm, and Tom had to bring me home in his arms. Think of it, and what my feelings must have been. I am hardly over it yet--the queer feelings I mean--for, of course, my ankle is dreadful, and so swollen, and pains me so that I cannot step, but must stay in my room all day. So come as soon as possible. You have never seen the inside of our house, or my rooms. Come to lunch, please. We will have it up here. Good-bye. 

 'From your loving friend, 'ANN ELIZA. 

 'P. S. --I wonder if Tom will inquire for me. '

'Tell her I will be there by lunch time, ' Jerrie said to the man, whileto her grandmother she continued: 'The baking and cleaning are all done, and I can finish the ironing when I get back; it will be cooler then, and I do want to see the inside of that show-house which Harold sayscost a hundred thousand dollars. Pity somebody besides the Peterkins didnot live there. '

And so, about twelve o'clock Jerrie walked up to the grand house of graystone, which, with its turrets, and towers, and immense arch over thecarriage drive in front of a side door, looked like some old feudalcastle, and flaunted upon its walls the money it had cost. Even the loudbell which echoed through the hall like a town clock told of wealth andshow, as did the colored man who answered the summons, and bowing low toJerrie, held out a silver tray for her card. 

'Nonsense, Leo!' Jerrie said, laughingly, for she had known the negroall her life and played with him, too, at times, when they both went tothe district school. 'I have no card with me. Miss Ann Eliza has invitedme to lunch, and I have come. Tell her I am here. '

With another profound bow, Leo waved Jerrie into the reception-room, andthen started to deliver her message. 

Seated upon one of the carved chairs, Jerrie looked about her curiously, with a feeling that the half had not been told her, everything was somuch more gorgeous and magnificent than she had supposed. But whatimpressed and at the same time oppressed her most was the height of thewalls from the richly inlaid floor to the gayly decorated ceilingoverhead. It made her neck ache staring up fourteen feet and a half tothe costly center ornament from which the heavy chandelier depended. Allthe rooms of the old house had been low, and when Peterkin built the newone, he made ample amends. 

"I mean to lick the crowd, " he said; and a man was sent to Collingwood, and Grassy Spring, and Brier Hill, and lastly to Tracy Park, to take theheight of the lower rooms. Those at Tracy Park were found to be thehighest, and measured just twelve feet, so Peterkin's orders were to"run 'em up--run 'em up fourteen feet, for I swan I'll get ahead of'em. "

So they were run up fourteen feet, and by some mistake, half a foothigher, looking when finished so cold and cheerless and bare that theambitious man ransacked New York and Boston and even sent to London forornaments for his walls. Books were bought by the square yard, picturesby the wholesale, mirrors by the dozen, with bronzes and brackets andsconces and tapestry and banners and screens and clocks and cabinets andstatuary, with every kind of furniture imaginable, from the costliestrugs and carpets to the most exquisite inlaid tables to be found inFlorence or Venice. For Peterkin sent there for them by a gentleman towhom he said:

'Git the best there is if it costs a fortune. I'm bound to lick thecrowd. '

This was his favorite expression; and when his house was done, and hestood, his broad, white shirt-front studded with diamonds and his coatthrown back to show them, surveying his possessions, he felt that he'had licked the crowd. '

Jerrie felt so, too, as she followed the elegant Leo up the stairs andthrough the upper hall--handsomer, if possible than the lower one--tothe pretty room where Ann Eliza lay, or rather reclined, with her lamefoot on a cushion and her well one incased in a white embroidered silkstocking and blue satin slipper. She was dressed in a delicate bluesatin wrapper, trimmed with swan's-down, and there were diamonds in herears and on the little white hands which she stretched toward Jerrie asshe came in. 

'Oh, Jerrie, ' she said, 'I am so glad to see you, for it is awfullylonesome here; and if one can be homesick at home, I am. I miss thegirls and the lessons and the rules at Vassar; much as I hated them whenI was there; and just before you came in I wanted to cry. I guess myrooms are too big and have too much in them; any way, I have the feelingthat I am visiting, and everything is strange and new. I do believe Iliked the old room better, with its matting on the floor and the littlemirror with the peacock feathers ornamenting the top, and that paintedplaster image of Samuel on the mantel. It is very ungrateful in me, Iknow, when father has done it mostly to please me. Do you believe--hehas hunted me up a maid; Doris is her name; and what I am ever to dowith her, or she with me, I am sure I don't know. Do you?'

Jerrie did not know either, but suggested that she might read to herwhile she was confined to her room. 'Yes, she might, perhaps, do that, if she can read, ' Ann Eliza said. 'She certainly has pretentions enoughabout her to have written several treatises on scientific subjects. Shewas a year with Lady Augusta Hardy, in Ireland. Don't you remember thegrand wedding father and mother attended in Allington two or three yearsago, when Augusta Browne was married to an Irish lord, who had beenbought by her money?--for of course he did not care much for her. Well, Doris went out with her as maid, and acts as if she, too, had married apeer. She came last night, and mamma and I are already as afraid of heras we can be, she is so fine and airy. She insisted upon dressing methis morning, and I felt all the while as if she were thinking how redand ugly my hair is, or counting the freckles on my face, andcontrasting me with 'my Lady Augusta, ' as she calls her. I wonder if sheever saw my lady's mother, Mrs. Rossiter-Browne, who told me once that Ihad a very _petty figger_, but she presumed it would _envelope_ as Igrew older. But then people who live in glass houses shouldn't throwstones, ' and Ann Eliza colored a little as she made this reference toher own father and mother, whose language was not much more correct thanMrs. Rossiter-Browne's. 

For one brought up as she had been, Ann Eliza was a rather sensiblegirl, and although she attached a great deal of importance to money, sheknew it was not everything, and that with her father's millions therewas still a wide difference between him and the men to whose society heaspired; and knew, too, that although Jerrie had not a penny in theworld, she was greatly her superior, and so considered by the world atlarge. She was very fond of Jerrie, who had often helped her with herlessons, and stood between her and the ridicule of her companions, andwas never happier than when in her society. So now she made her bring anottoman close beside her, and held her hand while she narrated in detailthe events of the previous night, dwelling at length upon the fact thatTom had carried her in his arms, and wondering if he would call toinquire after her. Jerrie thought he would; and, as if in answer to thethought, Doris almost immediately appeared with his card. She _was_ veryfine and very smart, and Jerrie herself felt awed by her dignity andmanner as she delivered her message. 'The gentleman sends hiscompliments, and would like to know how you are this morning. '

'Jerrie, it's Tom! he has come!' Ann Eliza said, with joy in her voice. 'Surely I can receive him here, for this is my parlor. '

Jerrie thought she might, but the toss of the fine maid's head showedthat she thought differently, as she left the room with her mistress'message. 

'Thunderation! I didn't want to see her. It's enough to have to call, 'was Tom's mental comment, when Doris told him he was to walk up stairs. 

Indeed, he would not have come at all if Maude, to whom he related hisadventure, had not insisted that he must. 

'You needn't see her, of course; but you must go and inquire how she is. According to your own statement you are to blame for her mishap; youdragged her along too fast. 

Tom knew there was some truth in this, and so he went the morewillingly; and, sending up his card, stood near the open door, ready toleave the moment Leo came down with the message he had received fromDoris. 

'I shall be cheek by jowl with these Peterkins, if I don't look out, ' hethought, as he ascended the stairs to the hall, where Doris stoodwaiting to show him her mistress' room. 

'What! Jerry! You here?' he exclaimed, his face clearing, and the wholeaspect of matters changing at once, as she arose to meet him. 

With Jerrie there the place seemed different, and he did not feel as ifhe were lowering himself, as he sat in the luxuriously furnished room, and joined in the dainty lunch which was brought up and served fromDresden china, and linen and cut glass, and was as delicate and daintyin its way as anything he had ever found at the Brunswick orDelmonico's. Mrs. Peterkin prided herself upon her _cuisine_, which shealways superintended, and as Peterkin was something of an epicure andgourmand, the table was always supplied with every possible delicacy. 

Tom enjoyed it all, and praised the chocolate, and the broiled chicken, and the jellies, and thought Ann Eliza not so very bad-looking in herblue satin wrapper, with the swan's-down trimmings, and made himselfgenerally agreeable. Maude was better, he said, and could talk alittle, and he asked Jerrie to go home with him and see her. But Jerriedeclined. 

'I have a great deal of work to do yet, ' she said, 'I must iron allthose clothes you saw upon the line yesterday, and so I must be going. '

Tom frowned at the mention of the clothes which Jerrie had washed; whileAnn Eliza insisted that she should stay until the dog-cart, which hadbeen sent to the station for Billy, came back, when Lewis would take herhome, as it was too warm to walk. Jerrie did not mind the walk, but shefelt morally sure that Tom meant to accompany her, and greatly preferredthe dog-cart and Lewis to another _tête-à-tête_ with him, for he did notact at all like a discarded lover, but rather as one who still hoped hehad a chance. So she signified her intention to wait for the dog-cart, which soon came, with Billy in it, anxious when he heard of his sister'saccident, delighted when he found Jerrie there, and persistent in sayingthat he and not Lewis would take her home. 

'Well, if you will, you will, ' she said, laughingly; and bidding AnnEliza good-bye, and telling Tom to give her love to Maude and say to herthat she did not believe she should be at the park that day, she had somuch to do, she was soon in the dog-cart with Billy, whose face wasradiant as he gathered up the reins and started down the turnpike, driving at what Jerrie thought a very slow pace, as she was anxious toget home. 

Something of Billy's thoughts must have communicated itself to Jerrie, for she became nervous and ill at ease and talked rapidly of things inwhich she had not the slightest interest. 

'What of the lawsuit?' she asked. 'Are you likely to settle it?'

'N-no, ' Billy answered, hurriedly. 'It will h-have to co-come intoco-court in a f-few days, and I am aw-awful sorry. I wa-wanted father top-pay what they demanded, but he won't. Hal is subpoenaed on the otherside, as he was in our office, and is supposed to know something aboutit; b-but I ho-hope he won't da-damage us m-much, as father wouldn-never forgive him if he went against us. '

'But he must tell the truth, no matter who is damaged, ' Jerrie said. 'Ye-yes' Billy replied, 'of co-course he must, b-but he needn'tvolunteer information. '

Jerry began to think that Billy had insisted upon coming with her forthe sake of persuading her to caution Harold against saying too muchwhen he was called to testify in the great lawsuit between Peterkin &Co. , manufacturers in Shannondale, and Wilson & Co. , manufacturers inTruesdale, an adjoining town; but she was undeceived when her companionturned suddenly off upon the river road, which would take them at leasttwo miles out of their way. 

'Why are you coming here!' Jerrie said, in real distress. 'It is ever somuch farther, and I must get home. I have piles of work to do. '

'Co-confound the work, ' Billy replied, very energetically for him, andreining his horse up under a wide spreading butternut tree, which grewupon the river bank, he sprang out and pretended to be busy with somepart of the harness, while he astonished Jerrie by bursting out, withoutthe least stammer, he was so earnest and so excited: 'I've something tosay to you, Jerrie, and I may as well say it now as any time, and knowthe worst, or the best. I can't bear the suspense any longer, and I gotout of the cart so as to stand where I could look you square in the facewhile I say it. '

And he was looking her square in the face while she grew hot and coldand experienced a sensation quite different from what she had when Tomand Dick made love to her. She had felt no fear of them, but she wasafraid of this little man, who stood up so resolutely, with his tongueloosened, and asked her to be his wife, for that was what he did, makinghis wishes known in a very few words, and then waiting for her answerwith his eyes fixed upon her face and a firm, set look about his mouthwhich puzzled and troubled her and made her uncertain as to how she wasto deal with this third aspirant for her hand within twenty-four hours. 

Billy had long had it in his mind that Jerry Crawford was the only girlin the world for him, but he might not have spoken quite; so soon had itnot been for a conversation held with his father the previous night, when they were alone in a private room at the hotel in Shannondale, waiting for the train which Billy was to take, and which was half anhour late. Peterkin had exhausted himself in oaths and epithets withregard to the lawsuit and those who had brought it against him, and wasregaling himself with a cigar and a glass of brandy and water, whileBilly sat by the window watching for the train and wishing himself atGrassy Spring with Jerrie. Peterkin seldom drank to excess, but on thisoccasion he had taken a little too much. When under the influence ofstimulants, he was either aggressive and quarrelsome, or jocose andtalkative. The latter mood was on him now, and as he drank his brandyand water he held forth upon the subject of matrimony, wondering why hisson did not marry, and saying it was quite time he did so and settleddown. 

'You can have the south wing, ' he said, 'and if the rooms ain't up tosnuff now, why, I'll make 'em so. The fact is, Bill, I've got moneyenough--three millions and better; but somehow it doesn't seem to do thething. It doesn't fetch us to the quality and make us fust-cut. We needbetter blood than the Peterkins or the Moshers--need boostin', and youmust get a wife to boost us. Have you ever thought on't?'

'Billy never had thought of it in that light, ' he said, although he hadthought of marrying, providing the girl would have him. 

'Have you! Thunderation! A girl would be a fool who wouldn't marry threemillions, with Lubber-too thrown in! Who is she?' Peterkin asked. 

After a little hesitancy Billy replied:

'Jerrie Crawford. '

'Jerrie Crawford! I'll be dammed! Jerrie Crawford!' and Peterkin's bigfeet came down from the back of the chair on which they were resting, upsetting the chair and his brandy at the same time. 'Jerrie Crawford! Iswow! A gal without a cent, or name either, though I used to have asneakin' notion that I knew who she was, but I guess I didn't. 'Twouldhave come out afore now. What under heavens put her into your noddle?She can't _boost_! and then she's head and shoulders taller than you be!How you would look trottin' beside her! Jerrie Crawford! Wal, I swan!'and Peterkin laughed until his big stomach shook like a bowl of jelly. 

Billy was angry, and replied that he did not know what height had to dowith it, or name either; and as for _boosting_, he wouldn't marry aking's daughter, if he did not love her; and for that matter Jerriecould boost, for she stood quite as high in town as any young lady. 

Both Nina St. Claire and Maude Tracy worshipped her, while Mrs. Athertonpaid her a great deal of attention; and so did the Mungers andCrosbys--enough sight more than they did to Ann Eliza with all hermoney. 

'Mo-money isn't ev-everything. ' Billy stammered, 'and Je-Jerrie wouldmake a ve-very different pl-place of Le Bateau. '

'Mebby she would--mebby she would; but I'd never thought of her foryou, ' Peterkin said. 'I'd picked out some; big bug, who perhaps wouldn'twipe her shoes on you. Jerrie is handsome as blazes and no mistake, witha kinder up and comin' way about her which takes the folks. Yes, itkeeps growin' on me, and I presume Arthur Tracy would give her away, which would be a feather in your cap; but lord! you'll have to git apair of the highest heels you ever seen to come within ten foot on her. '

'She's only two inches t-taller than I am, ' Billy said, and his fathercontinued:

'Wall, if your heart's set on her go it, and quick, too, I'm goin' tohave a smasher of a party in the fall, and Jerrie'll be just the one todraw, I can see her now, standin' there with the diamonds we'll give hersparklin' on her neck, and she lookin' like a queen, and the _sinecure_of all eyes. But for thunder's sake don't marry the old woman and all. Leave her to Harold, the sneak! I never did like him, and I'll be madenough to kill him if he goes agin me in the suit, and I b'lieve hewill. '

At this point Peterkin wandered off to the suit entirely and forgotJerrie, who was to boost the house of Peterkin and make it 'fust-cut. 'But not so Billy, and all the way from Shannondale to Springfield he wasthinking of Jerrie, and wondering if it were possible that she couldever look upon him with favor. Like Tom and Dick, he could scarcelyremember the time when he did not think Jerrie the loveliest girl in theworld, and ever since he had grown to manhood he had meditated makingher his wife, but had feared what his father might say, as he knew howmuch importance he attached to money. Now however, his father hadsignified his assent, and, resolving to lose no time, Billy, on hisreturn next day to Le Bateau, seized the opportunity to take Jerriehome, as the occasion for declaring his love, which he did in a manly, straightforward manner, never hinting at any advantage it would be toher to be the wife of a millionaire, or offering any inducement in anyway except to say that he loved her and would devote his life to makingher happy. Tom Tracy Jerrie had scorned, Dick St. Claire she had pitied, but this little man she felt like ridiculing. 

'Oh, Billy, ' she said, laughing merrily. 'You can't be in earnest. WhyI'm head and shoulders taller than you are. I do believe I could pickyou up and throw you into the river. Only think how we should looktogether; people would think you my little boy, and that I should notlike. So, I can never be your wife. '

Nothing cuts a man like ridicule, and sensitive as he was with regard tohis size, Billy felt it to his heart's core; and as he stood nervouslyplaying with the reins and looking at Jerrie sitting there so tall anderect in all the brightness of her wonderful beauty, it flashed upon himhow impossible it was for that glorious creature ever to be his wife, and what a fool he had made of himself. 

'For-gi-give me, Jerrie, ' he said, his chin beginning to quiver, and thegreat tears rolling down his face, 'I know you ca-can't, and Iou-oughtn't to have ask-asked it, bu-but I d-did love you so much, thatI f-forgot how impossible it was f-for one like you to lo-love oneli-like me. I am so small and insig-insignificant, and st-stutter so. Iwish I was dead, ' and laying his head upon the horse's neck, he sobbedaloud. 

In an instant Jerrie was out of the dog-cart and at his side, talking toand trying to soothe him as she would a child. 

'Oh, Billy, Billy, ' she said. 'I am so sorry for you, and sorry I saidthose cruel words about your size. It was only in fun. Your size hasnothing to do with my refusal. I know you have a big, kind heart, andnext to Harold and Dick, and Mr. Arthur, I like you better than any manI ever knew; but I cannot be your wife. Don't cry, Billy; it hurts me soto see you and know that I have done it. Please stop, and take me homeas quickly as possible. '

With a great gulp, and a long sigh like a grieved child, Billy driedhis tears, of which he was much ashamed, and helping Jerrie into thecart drove her rapidly to the door of the cottage. 

'I should not like Tom, nor Dick, nor Harold to know this, ' he said toher, as he stood a moment with her at the gate. 

'Billy!' she exclaimed, 'do you know me so little as to think I wouldtell them, or anybody? I have more honor than that, ' and she gave himher hand, which he held tightly in his while he looked earnestly intothe sweet young face which could never be his, every muscle of his ownquivering with emotion, and telling of the pain he was enduring. 

'Good-bye. I shall be more like a ma-man, and less a ba-baby when I seeyou again, ' and springing into his cart he drove rapidly away. 

Jerrie found her grandmother seated at a table and trying to iron. 

'Grandma, ' she said, 'this is too bad. I did not mean to stay so long. Put down that flat-iron this minute. I am coming there as soon as I layoff my hat. '

Running up the stairs to her room, Jerrie put away her hat, and then, throwing herself upon the bed, cried for a moment as hard as she couldcry. The look on Billy's face haunted her, and she pitied him now morethan she had pitied Dick St. Claire. 

'Dick will get over it, and marry somebody else, but Billy never, ' shesaid. 

Then, rising up, she bathed her eyes, and pushing back her tangled hair, stood for a moment before the mirror, contemplating the reflection ofherself in it. 

'Jerrie Crawford, ' she said, 'you must be a mean, heartless, good-for-nothing girl, for it certainly is not your Dutch face, noryellow hair, nor great staring eyes, which make men think that you willmarry them; so it must be your flirting, coquettish manners. I hate aflirt. I hate you, Jerrie Crawford. '

Once when a little girl, Jerrie had said to Harold, 'Why do all the boyswant to kiss me so much?' and now she might have asked, 'Why do thesesame boys wish to marry me?' It was a curious fact that she should havehad three offers within twenty-four hours; and she didn't like it, andher face wore a troubled look all that hot afternoon as she stood at theironing table, perspiring at every pore, and occasionally smiling toherself as she thought, 'Grassy Spring, Le Bateau, Tracy Park, I mighttake my choice, if I would, but I prefer the cottage, ' and then at thethought of Tracy Park her thoughts went off across the sea to Germany, and the low room with the picture upon the wall, and her resolve to findit some day. 

'Far in the future it may be, but find it I will, and find, too, who Iam, ' she said to herself, little dreaming that the finding was close athand, and that she had that day lighted the train which was so soon tobear her on to the end. 

CHAPTER XXXIX. 

MAUDE. 

Harold did not finish his work at the Allen farm-house until Tuesday, soit was not until Wednesday afternoon that he started to pay his promisedvisit to Maude. Jerrie had seen her twice, and reported her as muchbetter, although still very weak. 

'She is so anxious to see you. Don't you think you can go thisafternoon?' she said to Harold, in the morning, as she helped him weedthe garden and pick the few strawberries left upon the vines. 

'Ye-es, I guess I can--if you'll go with me, ' he said. 

He was so loth to be away from Jerrie when it was not absolutelynecessary, that even a call upon Maude without her did not seem verytempting. But Jerrie could not go now, for Nina and Marian Raymond camedown to the cottage to spend the afternoon, and Harold went alone to thepark house, where he found Maude in the room she called her studiotrying to finish a little water-color which she had sketched of thecottage as it was before the roof was raised. 

'I mean it for Jerrie, ' she had said to Harold, who stood by her whenshe sketched it, 'and I am going to put her under the tree, with her sunbonnet hanging down her back, as she used to wear it when she was alittle girl, and you are to be over there by the fence, looking at mecoming up the lane. '

It was the best thing Maude had ever done, for the likeness to Jerrieand to herself was perfect, while the cottage, embowered in trees andflowers, made it a most attractive picture. Harold had praised it agreat deal, and told her that it would make her famous. But when thecarpenter work came in Maude put it aside until now, when she brought itout again, and was just beginning to retouch it in places, as Harold wasannounced. 

She was looking very tired, and it seemed to Harold that she had lostmany pounds of flesh since he saw her last. Her face was pale, andpinched, and wan, but it flushed brightly as Harold came in, and shewent eagerly forward to meet him. 

'Hally, you naughty boy!' she began, as she gave him her little, thinhand. 'Why didn't you come before? You don't know how I have missed you. You must not forget me now that Jerrie is at home. '

She had led him to a seat, and then herself sank into a large cushionedeasy chair, against which she leaned her head wearily, while she lookedat him with eyes which ought to have told Harold how much he was to her, and so put him on his guard, and saved the misunderstanding whichfollowed. 

'No, Maude, I couldn't forget you, ' he said; and without really knowingthat he was doing it, he put his hand upon the little soft white onelying on the arm of the chair. 

Every nerve in Maude's body thrilled to the touch of that hand uponwhich she involuntarily laid her other one, noticing as she did so thesigns of toil upon it, and feeling sorry for him. One would have thoughtthem lovers, sitting there thus together, but nothing could have beenfarther from Harold's mind. He was thinking only of Jerrie, and hisresolve to confide in Maude, and get her opinion with regard to hischance. 

'Now is as good a time as any, ' he thought, wondering how he shouldbegin, and finding it harder than he had imagined it would he. 

At last after a few commonplaces, Maude told him again that he must notneglect her now that Jerrie was at home. 

'Neglect you? How can I do that?' he said, 'when I look upon you as oneof my best friends, and in proof of it, I am going to tell yousomething, or, rather, ask you something, and I hope you will answer metruly. Better that I know the worst at first than learn it afterward. '

Maude's face was aflame now with a great and sudden joy, and her softeyes drooped beneath Harold's as he went on stammeringly, for he beganto feel the awkwardness of telling one girl that he loved another, eventhough that other were her dearest friend. 

'I hardly know how to begin, ' he said, 'it is such a delicate matter, and perhaps I'd better say nothing at all. '

'Was he going to stop? Had he changed his mind--and would he not afterall, say the words she had so longed to hear?' Maude asked herself, asshe turned her eyes appealingly to him, while he sat silent and unmoved, his thoughts very, very far from her to whom he was all in all. 

Poor Maude! She was weak and sick, and impulsive and mistaken in thenature of Harold's feelings for her; so judge her not too harshly, myprudish reader, if she at last did what Arthur would have called'throwing herself at his head. '

'I can guess what you mean, ' she said, after a long pause, during whichhe did not speak. 'I have long suspected that you cared for me just as Icare for you, and have wondered you did not tell me so, but supposedthat you refrained because I was rich and you were poor; but what hasthat to do with those who love each other? I am glad you have spoken;and you have made me very happy; and even if we can never be more toeach other than we are now, because I may die, as I sometimes fear Ishall--'

'Oh, Maude, Maude, you are mistaken. I--, ' came from Harold like a cryof horror as he wrenched away his hand lying between hers, and to whichher slender fingers hung caressingly. 

What could she mean? How had she understood him? he asked himself, whilegreat drops of sweat gathered upon his forehead and in the palms of hishands, as like lightning the past came back to him, and he could see asin a printed page that what he had thought mere friendship for himselfwas a far different and deeper feeling, while he unwittingly had fannedthe flame; and was now reaping the result. 

'What can I do?' he said aloud, unconsciously, while from the depths ofthe chair on which Maude was leaning back so wearily came a plaintivevoice like that of a child:

'Ring the bell, and give me my handkerchief. '

He was at her side in a moment, bending over her, and looking anxiouslyinto the pallid face from which the bright color had faded, leaving itgray, and pinched, and drawn, it seemed to him. Had he killed her byblurting out so roughly that she was mistaken; and thus filling her withmortification and shame? No, that could not be, for as he brought herhandkerchief and bent still closer to her, she whispered to him:

'I am not mistaken, Hally. I am going to die, but you have made the lastdays of my life very, very happy. '

She thought he was referring to herself and her situation when he toldher she was mistaken, and with a smothered groan he was starting for thecamphor, as she bade him do, when the door opened, and Mrs. Tracyherself appeared. 

'What is it?' she asked, sharply; then, as she saw Maude's face she knewwhat it was, and going swiftly to her, said to Harold:

'Why did you allow her to talk and get excited? What were you saying toher?'

Instantly Maude's eyes went up to Harold's with an appealing look, as ifasking him not to tell her mother then--a precaution which was needless, as he had no intention to tell Mrs. Tracy, or any one, of the terribleblunder he had made; and with a hope that the reality might dawn uponMaude, he answered, truthfully:

'I was talking to her of Jerrie. I am very sorry. '

If Maude heard she did not understand, for drops of pinkish blood wereoozing from her lips, and she looked as if she were already dead, as inobedience to Mrs. Tracy's command, Harold took her in his arms andcarried her to the couch near the open window, where he laid her down astenderly as if she were indeed his affianced wife. 

'Thanks, ' she sighed, softly, and her bright, beautiful eyes looked upat him with an expression which half tempted him to kiss the quiveringlips from which he was wiping the stains so carefully, while Mrs. Tracy, at the door, gave some orders to a servant. 

'You can go now, ' she said, returning to the couch, and dismissing himwith her usual hauteur of manner; while Maude put up her hand andwhispered:

'Come soon--and Jerrie. '

Had Harold been convicted of theft or murder he could scarcely have feltworse than he did as he walked slowly through the park, reviewing thesituation and wondering what he ought to do. 

'If it almost killed her when she thought I loved her, it would surelykill her to know that I do not, ' he thought. 'I cannot undeceive hernow, while she is so weak; but when she is better and able to bear it, Iwill tell her the truth. '

'And if she dies?' came to him like the stab of a knife, as heremembered how white she looked as he held her in his arms. 'If shedoes, ' he said, 'no one shall ever know of the mistake she made. In thisI will be true to Maude, even should the world believe I loved her andhad told her so. But, oh, Heaven! spare me that, and spare Maude's lifefor many years. She is too young, too sweet, too good to die. '

This was Harold's prayer as he rested for a moment in the pine-room, where he had often played with the little girl, and where he could nowsee her so plainly picking up the cones, or sitting on the soft bed ofneedles, with the bloom on her cheeks and the brightness in her softblack eyes which had looked so lovingly at him an hour ago. 'SpareMaude; do not let her die!' was his prayer, and that of many othersduring the week which followed, when Maude's life hung on a thread, andevery bell at the park house was muffled, and the servants spoke only inwhispers; while Frank Tracy sat day and night in the room where hisdaughter lay, perfectly quiet, except as she sometimes put up her handto stroke his white hair or wipe away the tears constantly rolling downhis cheeks. 

In Frank's heart there was a feeling worse than death itself, for keenremorse and bitter regret were torturing his soul as he sat beside thewreck of all his hopes and felt that he had sinned for naught. He knewMaude would die, and then what mattered it to him if he had all themoney of the Rothschilds at his command?

'Oh, Gretchen, you are avenged, and Jerrie, too! Oh, Jerrie!' he said, one day, unconsciously, as he sat by his daughter, who, he thought, wassleeping. But at the mention of Jerrie's name her eyes unclosed andfixed themselves upon her father with a look in which he read an earnestdesires for something. 

'What is it, pet?' he asked. 'Do you want anything?'

They had made her understand that, she must not speak, for the slightesteffort to do so always brought on a fit of coughing which threatened ahemorrhage, of which she could not endure many more. But they hadbrought her a little slate, on which she sometimes wrote her requests, though that, too, was an effort. Pointing now to the slate, she wrote, while her father held it:

'I want Jerrie. '

'I thought so; and you shall have her for just as long as she willstay, ' Frank said; and a servant was dispatched to the cottage with themessage that Jerrie must come at once, and come prepared to pass thenight, if possible. 

It had been very dreary for Maude during the time she had been shut upin her room, to which no one was admitted except her father and mother, the doctor, and the nurse. Many messages of enquiry and sympathy, however, had come to her from the cottage, and Grassy Spring, and LeBateau, where Ann Eliza was still kept a prisoner with her sprainedankle; and once Jerrie had written to Maude a note full of love andsolicitude and a desire to see her. As a postscript she added:

'Harold sends his love, and hopes you will soon be better. You don'tknow how anxious he is about you. Why, I believe he has lost ten poundssince your attack, for which he seems to blame himself, thinking heexcited you too much by talking to you. '

Maude listened to this note, which her father read to her, with a smileon her face and tears on her long eyelashes; but when he came to thepostscript she laughed aloud, as a little child laughs at the return ofits mother, for whom it has been hungering. This was the first word shehad had from him, except that he had called to enquire for her, and shehad so longed for something which should assure her that he rememberedher even as she did him. She had no distrust of him, and would as soonhave doubted that the sun would rise again as to have doubted hissincerity; but she wanted to hear again that he loved her, and now shehad heard it, and, folding her hands upon her breast, she fell into themost, refreshing sleep she had had since her illness. Could Maude havetalked and seen people, or if she had been less anxious to live, shewould probably have told Jerrie and Nina, and possibly Ann ElizaPeterkin, of what had passed between herself and Harold, but she had notseen them; while life, with Harold to love her, looked so bright andsweet, that if by keeping silence she could prolong it, she would do sofor months, if necessary. To live for Harold was all she wished orthought about; and often when they hoped she was sleeping, she lay sostill, with her eyes closed and her arms folded upon her breast, just asif she were praying in her dreams, her father thought. She _was_ prayingfor life and length of days, with strength to make Harold as happy as heought to be, and was thinking of and planning all she meant to do forhim when once they were married. First to Europe, where she would be soproud to show him the places she had seen, and where Jerrie would bewith them, for in all her plans Jerrie had almost as prominent a placeas herself. 

'I am nothing without Jerrie, ' she thought 'She keeps me up, and Jerriewill live with us, and Mrs. Crawford; that makes four, just enough for anice game of whist in long winter evenings, when it is so cold outsidebut warm and bright within--always bright for Harold, whose life hasbeen so full of care and toil. Poor boy! how I pitied his great warmhand when it was holding mine so lovingly, and how I could have kissedevery seam and scar upon it. But by and by his hands shall be white likeTom's, though not so soft. I hate a hand which feels like a fluff ofcotton. He shall not live here, for Harold could never get along withmother and Tom; but we will build a house together, Hally and I, withJerrie to help and plan--build one where the cottage stands, or near it, so Jerrie can still see the old Tramp House she is so fond of. Not ahouse like this, with such big rooms, but a pretty, modern Queen Annhouse, with every room a corner room, and a bay-window in it. And Haroldwill have an office in town, and I shall drive down for him everyafternoon and take him home to dinner and to Jerrie. '

Such was the nature of Maude's thoughts, as she lay day after day uponthe couch, too weak to do more thin lift her hands or rise her headwhen the dreadful paroxysms of coughing seized her and racked herfragile frame. Still she was very happy, and the happiness showed itselfupon her, where there rested a look of perfect content and peace, whichher father and mother had noticed and commented upon, and which Jerriesaw the moment she entered the room and stood by Maude's side. 

'Dear Maude, ' she said, as she took the hot hands in hers and kissedthem tenderly. 

Then she sat down beside her, and smoothed her hair, and told her howlovely she looked in her pretty rose-colored wrapper, and how sorryevery one was for her, and that both she and Nina would have been thereevery day, only they knew they could not see her. Then, as the greatblack eyes fixed themselves steadily upon her, with a look of enquiry inthem, she set her teeth hard, and began:

'I don't think anyone has been more sorry than Harold. Why, for thefirst few days after you were taken so ill he just walked the floor allthe time he was in the house, and when grandma asked what ailed him, hesaid, "I am thinking of Maude, and am afraid my call upon her was thecause of the attack. "'

'N--n--, ' Maude began, but checked herself in time, and taking up herslate, wrote, 'Tell him it was not his call. I am glad he came. '

'Yes I will, ' Jerrie replied, scarcely able to keep back her tears, whenshe saw how cramped and irregular the handwriting was, so unlikeMaude's, and realized more and more how weak and sick was the littlegirl whose eyes followed her everywhere and always grew brighter andsofter when she was talking to her of Harold. 

All day and all night Jerrie sat by her, sometimes talking to her andanswering the questions she wrote upon the slate, but oftener in perfectsilence, when Maude seemed to be asleep. Then Jerrie's tears fell likerain, the face upon the pillow looked so much like death, and she keptrepeating to herself the lines:

 'We thought her dying when she slept. And sleeping when she died. '

When the warm July morning looked in at the windows of the sick-room, bringing with it the perfume of hundreds of flowers blooming on thelawn, and the scent of the hay cut the previous day, it found Jerriestill watching by Maude, her own face tired and pale, with dark ringsabout her eyes, which were heavy with tears and wakefulness. She had notslept at all, and her head was beginning to ache frightfully when thenurse came in and relieved her, telling her breakfast was ready. Maudewas awake, and wrote eagerly upon the slate:

'You'll come back? You'll stay all day? You do me so much good, and I ama great deal better for your being here. '

Jerrie hesitated a moment; her head was aching so hard that she longedto get away. But selfishness was not one of Jerrie's faults, and puttingher own wishes aside, she said:

'Yes, I will stay until afternoon, and then I must go home. I did nottell you that Harold was going away to-night, did I?'

Maude shook her head, and Jerry went on:

'You know, perhaps, that some time ago a Mr. Wilson, of Truesdale, suedPeterkin for some infringement on a patent, or something of that sort. '

Maude nodded, and Jerrie continued:

'The suit comes off to-morrow, and Harold is subpoenaed as a witness, ashe was in Peterkin's office a while and knows something about thearrangement between them. I am sorry he has got to swear againstPeterkin; it will make him so angry, and he hates Harold now. The suitis to be called in the morning and Judge St. Claire and Harold are goingto-night on the five o'clock train; and as he may be gone a day or two Imust be home to see to packing his bag. But I will stay with you just aslong as I can. '

She said nothing of her head which throbbed in a most peculiar way, making her dizzy and half blind as she went down to breakfast, which shetook alone with Mrs. Tracy. Frank had eaten his long before, and was nowpacing up and down the long piazza with his head bent forward and hishands locked together behind him. 

'I shall never have rest or peace again until it is known. Oh, if itwould only come out without my telling, ' he said to himself, littledreaming how near it was to coming out and that before that day's sunhad set Jerrie would know!

Tom seldom appeared until after ten, and when Jerrie went for a fewmoments into the grounds, to see if the fresh air would do her good, shefound him seated in an arm-chair under a horse chestnut tree, stretchinghimself and yawning as if he were just out of bed. 

'Jerrie, you here? Did you stay all night? If I'd known that, I'd havemade an effort to come down to breakfast, though I think getting up inthe morning a bore. Why, what's the matter? You look as if you weregoing to faint. Sit down here, ' he continued, as he saw Jerrie reelforward as if she were about to fall. 

He put her into the chair and stood over her, fanning her with his hatand wondering what he should do, while for a moment she lostconsciousness of the things about her, and her mind went floating offafter the picture on the wall in Wiesbaden, which was haunting her thatmorning. 

When she came to herself, Tom and Dick and Billy were all three hoveringaround, and so close to her that without opening her eyes she could havetold exactly where each one was standing, Tom by the smell of tobacco, with which his clothes were saturated, Billy by the powerful scent ofwhite rose with which he always perfumed his handkerchief, and Dick, because, as she had once said to Nina when a child, he was so clean andlooked as if he had just been scrubbed. The two young men had come toenquire for Maude, and had found Jerrie half swooning under the tree, with Tom fanning her frantically and acting like a wild man. 

Jerrie had seen Dick twice since her refusal of him, and both times hermanner, exactly like what it had always been to him, had put him at hisease, so that a looker-on would never have dreamed of that episode underthe pines when she nearly broke his heart. Billy, however, was moreconscious. He had not seen Jerrie since he took her home in hisdog-cart, and his face was scarlet and his manner nervous andconstrained as he stood before her, longing and yet not daring to fanher with his hat just as Tom was doing. 

Of the three young men who had sought her hand, Billy's wound was thedeepest, and Billy would remember it the longest; for, mingled with hisdefeat, was a sense of mortification and hatred of his own personalappearance, which he could not help thinking had influenced Jerrie'sdecision. 'And I don't blame her, by Jove!' he said to himself ahundred times. 'She could not marry a pigmy, and I was a fool to hopeit; but I shall love her just the same as long as I live, and if I canever help her I will. '

And when at last Jerrie was better, and assured him so with her ownsweet graciousness of manner, and put her hand upon his shoulder tosteady herself as she stood up, he felt that paradise was opening to himagain, and that although he had lost Jerrie as a wife, he still had heras a friend, which was more than he had dared expect. 

'Are you better now? Can you walk to the house?' Tom asked. 

'Oh, yes; I can walk. The giddiness is gone, ' Jerrie replied. 'I don'tquite know what ails me this morning. '

Never before could she remember having felt as she did now, with thatsharp pain in her head, that buzzing in her ears, and more than all, that peculiar state of mind which she called "spells, " and which seemedto hold her now, body and soul. Even when she returned to Maude's room, and sat down beside her couch, her thoughts were far away, andeverything which had ever come to her concerning her babyhood came toher now, crowding upon her so fast that once it seemed to her that thetop of her head was lifting, and she put up her hand to hold it in itsplace. And still she staid on with Maude, although two or three timesshe arose to go, but something kept her there--chance, if one chooses tocall by that name the something which at times moulds us to its will andinfluences our whole lives. Something kept her there until the morningwas merged into noon and the noon into the middle of the afternoon, andthen she could stay no longer. The hour had come when she must go, forthe other force which was to be the instrument in changing all herfuture was astir, and she must go to keep her unconscious appointmentwith it. 

CHAPTER XL. 

'DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU HAVE DONE?'

Judging from the result, this question might far better have been put torather than by Peterkin, as he stood puffing, and hot, and indignant inthe Tramp House, looking down upon Jerrie, who was sitting upon thewooden bench, with her aching head resting upon a corner of the oldtable standing against the wall just where it stood that stormy nightfifteen years ago, when death claimed the woman beside her, but left herunharmed. 

After saying good-bye to Maude, Jerrie had walked very slowly throughthe park, stopping more than once to rest upon the seats scattered hereand there, and wondering more and more at the feeling which oppressedher and the terrible pain in her head, which grew constantly worse asshe went on. 

'I'm afraid I'm going to be sick, ' she said to herself. 'I never feltthis way before; and no wonder, with all I have gone through the lastfew weeks. The getting ready for the commencement, the coming home, andall the excitement which followed, with three men, one after another, offering themselves to me, and the drenching that night in the rain, andthen watching by Maude without a wink of sleep, it is enough to make abehemoth sick, and I am so dizzy and hot--'

She had reached the Tramp House by this time, and, feeling that shecould go no farther without resting herself, she went in, and seatingherself upon the bench, laid her tired, aching head upon the table, andfelt again for a few moments that strange sensation as if the top of herhead were rising up and up until she could not reach it with her hand, for she tried, and thought of Ann Eliza, with her hair piled so high onher head. 

'The loss of an inch or two might improve me, ' she said, though I'drather keep my scalp. '

Then she seemed to be drifting away into the realms of sleep, and allaround her were confusion and bewilderment. The window, across whichthe woodbine was growing, changed places with the door; the floor roseup and bowed to her, while the room was full of faces, beckoning to andsmiling upon her. Faces like the one she knew so well, the pale face inthe chair; faces like her own, as she remembered it when a child; faceslike the dark woman dead so long ago and buried in the Tracy lot, andfaces like Arthur's as she had seen him oftenest, when he spoke solovingly, and called her little Cherry. Then the scene changed, and theold Tramp House was full of wondrous music, which came floating in atevery crevice and through the open door and windows, while she listenedintently in her dreams as the grand chorus went on. It as was if Arthur, from the top of the highest peak beyond the Rocky Mountains, andGretchen, from her lonely grave in far-off Germany, were calling to eachother across two continents, their voices meeting and mingling togetherin the Tramp House in a jubilistic strain, now wild and weird like thecry of the dying woman looking out into the stormy night, now soft andlow as the lullaby a fond mother sings to her sleeping child, and nowswelling louder and louder, and higher and higher, until the raftersrang with the joyous music, and the whole world outside was filled withthe song of gladness. 

Wake up, Jerrie! Wake from the dream of rapture to a reality far morerapturous, for the time is at hand, the hour has come, heralded by theshadow which falls over the floor as Peterkin's burly figure crosses thethreshold and enters the silent room. 

After Peterkin's conversation with his son concerning his future wife, Jerrie had grown rapidly in the old man's favor. It is true she hadneither name nor money, the latter of which was scarcely necessary inthis case, but he was not insensible to the fact that she possessedother qualities and advantages which would be a help to the house ofPeterkin in its efforts to rise. No girl in the neighborhood was morepopular or more sought after than Jerrie, or more intimate with thebig-bugs, as he styled the St. Claires, and Athertons, and Tracys. Jerrie would _draw_; Jerry would _boost_; and he found himself formingmany plans for the young couple, who were to occupy the south wing; andin fancy he saw Arthur at Le Bateau half the time at least, while therest of the time the carriages from Grassy Spring, and Brier Hill, andTracy Park, were standing under the stone arch in front of the door. How, then, was he disappointed, and enraged, too, when told by his sonthat Jerrie had refused him?

Peterkin had been in Springfield nearly a week, and after his returnhome had waited a little before broaching the subject to his son; sothat it was not until the morning before the day of the lawsuit that helearned the truth by closely questioning Billy, who shielded anddefended Jerrie as far as possible. 

'Not have you! Refused you! Don't love you! Don't care for money!Thunderation! What does the girl mean? Is she crazy? Is she a fool? Isshe in love with some other idiot?'

'I th-think so, yes; th-though it did not occur to me then, ' Billyanswered, very meekly; 'and if so she ca-can't care for me any mo-morethat I ca-can care for any other girl. '

'And you are a fool, too, ' was the affectionate rejoinder. 'I'll bedummed if you ain't a pair! Who is the lucky man? Not that dog Harold, who is goin' to swear agin' us to-morrow? If it is, I b'lieve I'll shoothim. '

'Father, ' Billy cried in alarm, 'be quiet; if I can st-stand it, youcan. '

But Peterkin swore he wouldn't stand it. He'd do something, he didn'tknow what; and all the morning he went about the house like a madman, swearing at his wife, because she wasn't _up to snuff_, and couldn't hoeher own with the 'ristocrats; swearing at Billy because he was a fool, and so small that 'twas no wonder a bean-pole like Jerrie wouldn't lookat him, and swearing at Ann Eliza because her hair was so red, andbecause she had sprained her ankle for the sake of having Tom Tracybring her home, hoping he would keep calling to see her, and thus giveher a chance to rope him in, which she never could as long as the worldstood. 

'Neither you nor Bill will ever marry, with all your money, unless youtake up with a cobbler, and he with a washwoman, ' was his farewellremark, as he finally left the house about three o'clock and started forthe village, where he had some of his own witnesses to see before takingthe train for Springfield at five. 

His wife had ventured to suggest that he go in a carriage, as it was sowarm, but he had answered, savagely:

'Go to thunder with your carriage and coat-of-arms! What good have theyever done us only to make folks laugh at us for a pack of fools? Nothingunder heaven gives us a h'ist, and I'm just goin' to quit the folderoland pad it on foot, as I used to when I was cap'n of the 'Liza Ann--durnit!'

And so, with his bag in his hand, he started rapidly down the road inthe direction of Shannondale. But the sun was hot, and he was hot, andhis bag was heavy, and, cursing himself for a fool that he had not takenthe carriage, he finally struck into the park as a cooler, if a longer, route to the station. 

As he came near the Tramp House, which gave no sign of its sleepingoccupant, something impelled him to look in at the door. And this he didwith a thought of Jerrie in his heart, though with no suspicion that shewas there; and when he saw her he started suddenly, and uttered anexclamation of surprise, which roused her from her heavy slumber. 

'Oh!' she exclaimed, shedding back her golden hair from her flushed faceand lifting her eyes to him; but whatever else she might have said wasprevented by his outburst of passion, which began with the question:

'Do you know what you have done?'

Jerrie looked at him wonderingly, but made no reply, and he went on:

'Yes, do you know what you have done?--you, a poor, unknown girl, who, but for the Tracys, would have gone to the poor-house sure as guns, where you orter have gone! Yes, you orter. You refuse my Bill! you, whohain't a cent to your name; and all for that sneak of a Harold, who willswear agin me to-morrer. I know he's at the root on't, though Billdidn't say so, and I hate him wuss than pizen; he, who has been at thewheel in my shop and begged swill for a livin'! he to be settin' up fora gentleman and a cuttin' out my Bill, who will be wuth more'n amillion, --yes, two millions, probably, and you have refused him! Do youhear me, gal?'

He yelled this last, for something in Jerry's attitude made him thinkJerrie was not giving him her undivided attention, for she was stilllistening to the music, which seemed to swell higher and higher, louderand clearer, until it almost drowned the voice of the man demanding asecond time so fiercely:

'Do you hear me, gal?'

'Yes, I hear you, ' she said. 'You are talking of Harold, and sayingthings you shall not repeat in my presence. '

'Hoity-toity, miss! What's to hinder me repeatin' in your presence thatHarold Hastings is a sneak and a snob, a hewer of wood, a drawer ofwater, and a--'

Jerrie had risen to her feet, and stood up so tall and straight that, itseemed to Peterkin as if she towered even above himself, while somethingin the flash of her blue eyes made him think of Arthur when he turnedhim from the house for accusing Harold of theft, and also of the littlechild who had attacked him so fiercely on that wintry morning when thedead woman lay stretched upon the table at the Park House, with her darkface upturned to the ceiling above. 

'I shall hinder you, ' she said, her voice ringing clear and distinct;'and if you breathe another word against Harold, I'll turn you from thisroom. The Tramp House is mine; Mr. Arthur gave it to me, and you cannotstay in it with me. '

"Heavens and earth! hear the girl! One would s'pose she was the Queen ofSheby to hear her go on, instead of a beggar, whose father was the Lordonly knows who, and whose mother was found in rags on this 'ere table. Drat the dum thing!" Peterkin roared, bringing his fist down with suchforce upon the poor old rickety table that it fell to pieces under theblow and went crashing to the floor. 

Jerrie's face was a face to fear then, and Peterkin was afraid, andbacked himself out of the room, with Jerrie close to him, never speakinga word, but motioning him to the door, through which he passed swiftly, and picking up his bag, walked rapidly away, growling to himself:

'There's the very Old Harry in that gal's eye. Bill did well to get shetof her; and yit, if she'd married him, how she would have rid over alltheir heads! Well, to be sure, what a dum fool she is!'

CHAPTER XLI. 

WHAT JERRIE FOUND UNDER THE FLOOR. 

Meantime Jerrie had gone back to the wreck of the table, which she triedto straighten up, handling it as carefully and as reverently as if ithad been her mother's coffin she was touching. One of the legs had beenbroken off before, and she and Harold has fastened it on and turned itto the side of the house where it would be more out of the way of harm, and it was this leg which had succumbed first to the force of Peterkin'sfist, and as the entire pressure of the table was brought to bear uponit in falling, it had been precipitated through a hole in the baseboard, which had been there as long as she could remember the place, notso large at first, but growing larger each year, as the decaying boardscrumbled or were eaten away by rats. 

Jerrie called it a rat-hole, and had several times put a trap there tocatch the marauders, who sometimes scampered across her very feet, soaccustomed were they to her presence. But the rats would not go into thetrap, and then she pasted a newspaper over the hole, but this had beentorn, and hung in shreds, while the hole grew gradually larger. 

Taking up the top of the table, Jerrie dragged it to the centre of theroom, and, putting three of the legs upon it, went to search for thefourth, one end of which was just visible at the aperture in the wall. As she stooped to take it out, a bit of the floor under her feet gaveway, making the opening so large that the table leg disappeared fromview entirely. Then Jerrie went down upon her knees, and, thrusting herhand under the floor, felt for the missing leg, striking against stones, and brushes, and bits of mortar, and finally touching something fromwhich she recoiled for an instant, it was so cold and slimy. 

But she struck it again in her search, this time more squarely, and, grasping it hard in her hand, brought it out to the light, while anundefinable thrill, half of terror, half of joy, ran through her frame, as she held it up and examined it carefully. 

It was a small hand-bag of Russian leather, covered with mold andstained with the damp of its long hiding-place, while a corner of itshowed that the rats had tested its properties, but, disliking eitherthe taste or the smell had left it in quiet. And there under the floor, not two feet from where Jerrie had often played, it had lain ever sincethe wintry night years before when on the table a strange woman hadstruggled with death, and in her struggle the bag, which held so muchthat was important to the child beside her, had probably fallen from herrude bed into the hole just behind it, and which was then large enoughto receive it. Then the rats, attracted by this novel appearance intheir midst, had investigated and dragged it so far from the openingthat it could not been seen unless one went down upon the floor to lookfor it. 

This was the conviction that flashed upon Jerrie as she stood, withwidely dilated eyes and quivering nostrils, staring at the bag, withoutthe power at first to speak or move. 

The music was gone now--Gretchen's voice and Arthur's--and there wasonly in her ears a roaring sound like the rushing of distant watersfalling heavily, while the objects in the room swam around her, and sheexperienced again that ringing sensation as if the top of her head wereleaving her. She was so sure that here at last was a message from thedead--that she had the mystery of her babyhood in her grasp--and yet, for full two minutes she hesitated and held back, until at last thesweet, pale face which had haunted her so often seemed about to touchher own with a caress which brought the hot tears to her eyes, and thespell which had bound her hands and feet was broken. 

The bag was clasped, but not locked, although there was a lock, andJerrie thought involuntarily of the little key lying with the otherarticles on the dead woman's person. To unclasp the bag required alittle strength, for the steel was covered with rust; but it yielded atlast to Jerrie's strong fingers; and the bag came open, disclosing firstsome square object carefully wrapped in a silk handkerchief which hadbeen white in its day, but which now was yellow and soiled by time. Atthis, however, Jerrie scarcely looked, for her eye had fallen upon apackage of papers lying beneath it--papers folded with care, andsecurely tied with a bit of faded blue ribbon. 

Seating herself upon the bench where she had been sleeping whenPeterkin's voice aroused her, Jerrie untied the package, and then beganto read, first slowly, as if weighing every word and sentence, thenfaster and faster, until at last it seemed that her burning eyes, fromwhich the hot tears were streaming like rain, fairly leaped from page topage, taking in the contents at a glance, and comprehending everything. 

When she had finished, she sat for a moment rigid as a corpse, and then, with a loud, glad cry, which made the very rafters ring, and wentfloating out upon the summer air, "Thank Heaven, I have found mymother!" she fell upon her face, insensible to everything. 

How long she lay thus she did not know, but when she came back toconsciousness the sunlight had changed its position in the room, and shefelt it was growing late. 

Starting suddenly up, and wiping from her face a drop of blood which hasoozed from a cut in her forehead caused by her striking it against somehard substance when she fell, she looked about her for a moment in abewildered kind of way, not realizing at first what had happened; andeven when she remembered, she was too much stunned and astonished totake it all in as she would afterward when she was calmer and couldthink more clearer. 

Taking up the papers one by one, in the order in which she had foundthem, she tied them again with the blue ribbon, and put them into thebag. 

'There was something more, ' she whispered, trying to think what it was. 

Then, as her eye fell upon the first package she had taken out, andwhich was wrapped in a silk handkerchief, she took it up, and removingthe covering, started as suddenly as if a blow had been dealt her, forthere was the tortoise-shell box, with its blue satin lining, and itsdiamonds, which seemed to her like so many sparks of fire flashing inher eyes and dazzling her with their brilliancy. 

Just such a box as this, and just such diamonds as these, Mrs. FrankTracy had lost years ago, and as Jerrie held them in her hand and turnedthem to the light, till they showed all the hues of the rainbow, sheexperienced a feeling of terror as if she were a thief and had beenconvicted of the theft. Then, as she remembered what she had read, sheburst into a hysterical fit of laughing and crying together, andwhispered to herself:

'I believe I am going mad like him. '

After a time she arose, and with the bag on her arm and the diamonds inher hand, she started for home, with only one thought in her mind:

'I must tell Harold, and ask him what to do. '

She had forgotten that he was to leave that afternoon on thetrain--forgotten everything, except the one subject which affected herso strongly, so that in one sense she might be said to be thinking ofnothing, when, as she was walking with her head bent down, she camesuddenly face to face with Harold, who, with his satchel in his hand, was starting for the train due now in a few minutes. 

'Jerrie, ' he exclaimed, 'how late you are! I waited until the lastminute to say good-bye. Why, what ails you, and where have you been?' hecontinued, as she raised her head and he saw the bruise on her foreheadand the strange pallor of her face. 

'In the Tramp House, ' the answered, in a voice which was not hers atall, and made Harold look more curiously at her. 

As he did so he saw peeping from a fold of the silk handkerchief thecorner of the tortoise-shell box which he remembered so well, and thesight of which brought back all the shame and humiliation and pain ofthat memorable morning when he had been suspected of taking it. 

'What is it? What have you in your hand?' he asked. 

Then Jerrie's face, so pale before, flushed scarlet, and her eyes had inthem a wild look which Harold construed into fear, as, without a word, she laid the box in his hand, and then stood watching him is he openedit. 

Harold's face was whiter than Jerrie's had been, and his voice trembledas he said, in a whisper:

'Mrs. Tracy's diamonds!'

'Yes, Mrs. Tracy's diamonds, ' Jerrie replied, with a marked emphasis onthe _Mrs. Tracy_. 

'How came you by them, and where did you find them, ' Harold asked next, shrinking a little from the glittering stones which seemed like fieryeyes confronting him. 

'I can't tell you now. Put them up quick. Don't let any one see them. Somebody is coming, ' Jerrie said, hurriedly, as her ear caught a soundand her eye an object which Harold neither saw nor heard as hemechanically thrust the box into his side pocket and then turned just asTom Tracy came up on horseback. 

'Hallo, Jerrie! hallo, Hal!' he cried, dismounting quickly and throwingthe bridle-rein over his arm. 'And so you are off to that suit?' hecontinued, addressing himself to Harold. 'By George, I wish I were awitness. I'd swear the old man's head off; for, upon my soul, I believehe is an old liar?' Then turning to Jerrie, he continued: 'Are youbetter than you were this morning? Upon my word, you look worse. It'sthat infernal watching last night that ails you. I told mother you oughtnot to do it. '

Just then a whistle was heard in the distance; the train was atTruesdale, four miles away. 

'You will never catch it, ' Tom said, as Harold snatched up his bag andstarted to run, 'Here, jump on to Beaver, and leave him at the station. I can go there for him. '

Harold knew it was impossible for him to make time against the train, and, accepting Tom's offer, he vaulted into the saddle and gallopedrapidly away, reaching the station just in time to give his horse to thecare of a boy and to leap upon the train as it was moving away. 

Meanwhile Tom walked on with Jerrie to the cottage, where he would havestopped if she had not said to him:

'I would ask you to come in, but my head is aching so badly that I mustgo straight to bed. Good-bye, Tom, ' and she offered him her hand, a mostunusual thing for her to do on an ordinary occasion like this. 

What ailed her, Tom wondered, that she spoke so kindly to him and lookedat him so curiously? Was she sorry for her decision, and did she wish torevoke it?

'Then, by Jove, I'll give her a chance, for every time I see her I findmyself more and more in love, ' Tom thought, as he left her and startedfor the station after Beaver, whom he found hitched to a post and pawingthe ground impatiently. 

Mrs. Crawford was in the garden when Jerrie entered the house, and thusthere was no one to see her as she hurried up stairs and hid the leatherbag away upon a shelf in her dressing-room. First, however, she took outtwo of the papers and read them again, as if to make assurance doublysure; then she tried the little key to the lock, which it fittedperfectly. 

'There is no mistake, ' she whispered; 'but I can't think about it now, for this terrible pain in my head. I must wait till Harold comes home;he will tell me what to do, and be so glad for me. Dear Harold; his daysof labor are over, and grandmother's, too. Those diamonds are a fortunein themselves, and they are _mine_! my own! she said so! Oh, mother, Ihave found you at last, but I can't make it real; my head is so strange. What if I should be crazy?' and she started suddenly. 'What if thatdreadful taint should be in my blood, or what if I should die just as Ihave found my mother! Oh, Heaven, don't let me die; don't let me lose myreason, and I will try to do right; only show me what right is. '

She was praying now upon her knees with her throbbing head upon the sideof the bed, into which she finally crept with her clothes on, even toher boots, for Jerrie was herself no longer. The fever with which fordays she had been threatened, and which had been induced by over-studyat Vassar, and the excitement which had followed her return home, couldbe kept at bay no longer, and when Mrs. Crawford, who had seen her enterthe house, went up after a while to see why she did not come down totea, she found her sleeping heavily, with spots of crimson upon hercheeks, while her hands, which moved incessantly, were burning withfever. Occasionally she moaned and talked in her sleep of the TrampHouse, and rats, and Peterkin, who had struck the blow and knockedsomething or somebody down, Mrs. Crawford could not tell what, unless itwere Jerrie herself, on whose forehead there was a bunch the size now ofa walnut. 

'Jerrie, Jerrie, ' Mrs. Crawford cried in alarm, as she tried to removethe girl's clothes. 'What is it, Jerrie? What has happened? Who hurtyou? Who struck the blow?'

'Peterkin, ' was the faint response, as for an instant Jerrie opened hereyelids only to close them again and sink away into a heavier sleep orstupefaction. It seemed the latter, and as Mrs. Crawford could notherself go for a physician, and as no one came down the lane thatevening, she sat all night, by Jerrie's bed, bathing the feverish handsand trying to lessen the lump on the forehead, which, in spite of allher efforts, continued to swell until it seemed to her it was as largeas a hen's egg. 

'Did Peterkin strike you, and what for?' she kept asking; but Jerrieonly moaned and muttered something she could not understand, except oncewhen she said, distinctly:

'Yes, Peterkin. Such a blow; it was like a blacksmith's hammer, andknocked the table to pieces. I am glad he did it. '

What did she mean? Mrs. Crawford asked herself in vain, and when at lastthe early summer morning broke, she was almost as crazy as Jerrie, whowas steadily growing worse, and who was saying the strangest thingsabout arrests and blows, and Peterkin, and Harold, and Mr. Arthur, whosename she always mentioned with a sob and stretching out of her hands, asto some invisible presence. Help must be had from some quarter; and fortwo hours, which seemed to her years, Mrs. Crawford watched for thecoming of someone, until at last she saw Tom Tracy galloping up onBeaver. 

'Tom, Tom, ' she screamed from the window, as she saw him dismounting atthe gate, 'don't get off, but ride for your life and fetch the doctor, quick. Jerrie is very sick; has been crazy all night, and has a bunch onher head as big as a bowl, where she says Peterkin struck her. 

'Peterkin struck Jerrie! I'll kill him!' Tom said as he tore down thelane and out upon the highway in quest of the physician, who was soonfound and at Jerrie's side, where Tom stood with him, gazing awe struckupon the fever stricken girl, who was tossing and talking all the time, and whose bright eyes unclosed once and fixed themselves on him, as hespoke her name and laid his hand on one of hers. 

'Oh, Tom, Tom, ' she said, 'you told me you'd kill her. Will you killher? Will you kill her?' And a wild, hysterical laugh echoed through theroom, as she kept repeating the words, 'Will you kill her? Will you killher?' which conveyed no meaning to Tom, who had forgotten what he hadsaid he would do if a claimant to Tracy Park should appear in the shapeof a young lady. 

Whatever Jerrie took up she repeated rapidly until something else cameinto her mind, and when Mrs. Crawford, referring to the bunch on herhead, said to the physician, 'Peterkin struck the blow, she says, ' shebegan at once like a parrot. 'Peterkin struck the blow! Peterkin struckthe blow!' until another idea suggested itself, and she began to ringchanges on the sentence. 'In the rat-hole; in the Tramp House; in theTramp House; in the rat-hole, ' talking so fast that sometimes it wasimpossible to follow her. 

The blow on her head alone could not have produced this state of things;it was rather over-excitement, added to some great mental shock, thenature of which he could not divine, the doctor said to Tom, who in hiswrath at Peterkin was ready to flay him alive, or at least to ride himon a rail the instant he entered town. 

It was a puzzling case, though not a dangerous one as yet, the physiciansaid. Jerrie's strong constitution could stand an attack much moresevere than this one; and prescribing perfect quiet, with strict ordersthat she should see no more people than was necessary, he left, promising to return in the afternoon, when he hoped to find her better. Tom lingered a while after the doctor had left, and showed himself sothoughtful and kind that Mrs. Crawford forgave him much which she hadharbored against him for his treatment of Harold. 

All night Tom's dreams had been haunted with Jerrie's voice and Jerrie'slook as she gave him her hand and said, 'Good-bye, Tom, ' and he hadridden over early to see if the look and tone were still there, and ifthey were, and he had a chance, he meant to renew his offer. But wordsof love would have been sadly out of place to this restless, feverishgirl, whose incoherent babblings puzzled and bewildered him. 

One fact, however, was distinct in his mind--Peterkin had struck her aterrible blow in the Tramp House. Of that he was sure, though why heshould have done so he could not guess; and vowing vengeance upon theman, he left the cottage at last and rode down to the Tramp House, wherehe found the table in a state of ruin upon the door, three of the legsupon it and the other one nowhere to be seen. 

'He struck her with it and then threw it away, I'll bet, ' he said tohimself, as he hunted for the missing leg; 'and it was some quarrel hepicked with her about Hal, who is going to swear against him. Jerriewould never hear Hal abused, and I've no doubt she aggravated the wretchuntil he forgot himself and dealt her that blow. I'll have him arrestedfor assault and battery, as sure as I am born. '

Hurrying home, he told the story to his mother, who smiled incredulouslyand said she did not believe it, bidding him say nothing of it to Maude, who was not as well as usual that day. Then he told his father, whostarted at once for the cottage, where Mrs. Crawford refused to let himsee Jerrie, saying that the doctor's orders were that she should be keptperfectly quiet. But as they stood talking together near the open door, Jerrie's voice was heard calling:

'Let Mr. Frank come up. '

So Frank went up, and, notwithstanding all he had heard from Tom, he wassurprised at Jerrie's flushed face and the unnatural expression of hereyes, which turned so eagerly toward him as he came in. 

'Oh, Mr. Tracy, ' she said, as he sat down beside her and took one of herburning hands in his, 'you have always been kind to me, haven't you?'

'Yes, ' he replied, with a keen pang of remorse, and wondering if shewould call it kindness if she knew all that he did. 

'And I think you like me some, ' she continued: 'don't you?'

'Like you!' he repeated; 'yes, more than you can ever know. Why, sometimes I think I like you almost as much as I do Maude. '

As if the mention of Maude had sent her thoughts backward in a verydifferent channel, she said abruptly, while she held his gaze steadilywith her bright eyes:

'You posted that letter?'

Frank knew perfectly well that she meant the letter which, together withthe photograph, and the Bible, and the lock of the baby's golden hair, had lain for years in his private drawer--the letter whosesuperscription he had studied so many times, and which had seldom beenabsent from his thoughts an hour since that night when, from her perchon the gate-post, Jerrie had startled him with the question she wasasking him now. But be affected ignorance and said, as indifferently ashe could, with those blue eyes upon him seeming to read his inmostthoughts:

'What letter do you mean?'

'Why, the one Mr. Arthur wrote to Gretchen, or her friends, inWiesbaden, and gave me to post. You took it for me to the office, and Isat on the gate so long in the darkness waiting for you to come and tellme you had posted it sure. '

'Oh, yes, I remember it perfectly, and how you frightened me sitting upthere so high like a goblin, ' Frank answered, falteringly, his face ascrimson now as Jerrie's, and his eyes dropping beneath her gaze. 

'Gretchen's friends never got that letter, ' Jerrie continued. 

'No, they never got it, ' Frank answered, mechanically. 

'If they had, ' Jerrie went on, 'they would have answered it, for she hadfriends there. '

Frank looked up quickly and curiously at the girl talking so strangelyto him. What had she heard? What did she know? or was this only anoutburst of insanity? She certainly looked crazy as she lay theretalking to him. He was sure of it a moment after when, as if the natureof her thoughts had changed suddenly, she said to him:

'Yes, you have been very kind to me, you and Maude--you and Maude--and Ishan't forget it. Tell her I shan't forget it. --I shan't forget it. '

She repeated this rapidly, and was growing so wild and excited thatFrank thought it advisable to leave her. As he arose to go she looked uppleadingly at him, and said:

'Kiss me, Mr. Tracy, please. '

Had he been struck by lightning, Frank could hardly have been moreastonished than he was at this singular request, and for a moment hestared blankly at the girl who had made it, not because he was at allaverse to granting it, but because he doubted the propriety of the act, even if she were crazy. But something in Jerrie's face, like Arthur's, mastered him, and, stooping down, he kissed the parched lips throughwhich the breath came so hotly, wondering as he did so what Dolly wouldsay if she could see him, a white-haired man of forty-five, kissing ayoung girl of nineteen, and that girl Jerrie Crawford. 

'Thanks, ' Jerrie said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. 'Ithink you have been chewing tobacco, haven't you? But I sha'nt forgetit; I sha'nt forget it. I shall do right. I shall do right. Tell Maudeso; tell Maude so. '

She was certainly growing worse, Frank thought, as he went down toconfer with Mrs. Crawford as to what ought to be done, and to offer hisservices. He would remain there that afternoon, he said, and send aservant over to be in the house during the night. 

'She is very sick, ' he said; 'but it does not seem as if her sicknesscould be caused wholly by that bruise on her head. Do you think Peterkinstruck her?'

'She says so, ' was Mrs. Crawford's reply, 'though why he should do it, Icannot guess. '

Then she added that a servant would not be necessary, as Harold would behome by seven. 

'But he may not, ' Frank replied. 'Squire Harrington came at two, andreported that the suit was not called until so late that they would notprobably get through with the witnesses to-day, so Hal may not be here, and I will send Rob anyway. '

On his way home Frank, too, looked in at the Tramp House, and saw thebroken-down table, and hunted for the missing leg, and with Tomconcluded that something unusual had taken place there, though he couldnot guess what. 

That evening, as Jerrie grew more and more restless and talkative, Mrs. Crawford listened anxiously for the train, and when it came, waited andwatched for Harold, but watched in vain, for Harold did not come. Several of her neighbors, however, did come; those who had gone to thecity out of curiosity to attend the lawsuit, and 'see old Peterkinsquirm and hear him swear;' and could she have looked into the houses inthe village that night, she would have heard some startling news, foralmost before the train rolled away from the platform, everybody at ornear the station had been told that Mrs. Tracy's diamonds, lost nine orten years ago, had been found in Harold Hastings' pocket, and that hewas under arrest. 

Such news travels fast, and it reached the Park House just as the familywere finishing their late dinner. 

'I told you so! I always thought he was guilty, or knew something aboutthem, ' Mrs. Frank exclaimed, with a look of exultation on her face asshe turned to her husband. 'What do you think now of your fine youngman, who has been hanging around here after your daughter until she ishalf-betwaddled after him?'

Frank's face was very grave as he answered, decidedly:

'I do not believe it. Harold Hastings never took your diamonds. '

'How came he by them, then?' she asked, in a loud, angry voice. 

'I don't know, ' her husband replied; 'there is some mistake; it will becleared in time. But keep it from Maude; I think the news would killher. '

Meantime Tom had sat with his brows knit together, as if intentlythinking; and when at last he spoke he said to his father:

'I shall go to Springfield on the ten o'clock train, and you'd better gowith me. '

To this Frank made no objections. If his wife's diamonds were reallyfound, he ought to be there to receive them; and, besides, he might saya word in Harold's defence, if necessary. So ten o'clock found him andTom at the station, where also was Dick St. Claire, with several otheryoung men, pacing up and down the platform and excitedly discussing thenews, of which they did not believe a word. 

'I almost feel as if they were hurting me when they touch Hal, he's sucha noble fellow, ' Dick said to Mr. Tracy and Tom. 'We are all as mad ascan be, and so a lot of us fellows, who have always known him, are goingover to speak a good word for him, and go his bail if necessary. I don'tbelieve, though, they can do anything after all these years; but fatherwill know. He is there with him. '

And so the night train to Springfield carried fourteen men fromShannondale, thirteen of whom were going to stand by Harold, while thefourteenth hardly knew why he was going or what he believed. Arrived inthe city, their first inquiry was for Harold, who, instead of being inthe charge of an officer as they had feared, was quietly sleeping in hisroom at the hotel, while Judge St. Claire had the diamonds in hispossession. 

CHAPTER XLII. 

HAROLD AND THE DIAMONDS. 

When Harold sprang upon the train as it was moving from the station andentered the rear car, he found old Peterkin near the door, button-holingJudge St. Claire, to whom he was talking loudly and angrily of thatinfernal cheat, Wilson, who had brought the suit against him. 

'Yes, yes, I see; I know; but all that will come out on the trial, ' thejudge said, trying to silence him. 

But Peterkin held on, until his eye caught Harold, when he let the judgego, and seating himself beside the young man began in a soft, coaxingtone for him:

'I don't see why in thunder you are goin' agin me, who have allus beenyour friend, and gin you work when you couldn't git it any where else;and I can't imagine what you're goin' to say, or what you know. '

Harold's face was very red, but his manner was respectful as he replied:

'You cannot be more sorry than I am that I am subpoenaed as a witnessagainst you. I did not seek it. I could not help it: but, being awitness, I must answer the questions truthfully. '

'Thunder and lightning, man! Of course you must! Don't I know that?' theirascible Peterkin growled, getting angry at once. 'Of course you mustanswer questions, but you needn't blab out stuff they don't ask you, soas to lead 'em on. I know 'em, the blood-hounds; they'll squeeze youdry, once let 'em git an inklin' you know sunthin' more. Now, if thisgoes agin me, I'm out at least thirty thousand dollars; and between youand I, I don't mind givin' a cool two thousand, or three, or mebby five, right out of pocket, cash down, to anybody whose testimony, withoutbein' a lie--I don't want nobody to swear false, remember--but, heavenand earth, can't a body furgit a little, and keep back a lot if theywant to?' 'What are you trying to say to me?' Harold asked, his facepale with resentment, as he suspected the man's motive. 

'Say to you? Nothin', only that I'll give five thousand dollars down tothe chap whose testimony gits me off and flings old Wilson. '

'Mr. Peterkin, ' Harold said, looking the old wretch full in the face, 'if you are trying to bribe me, let me tell you at once that I am not tobe bought. I shall not volunteer information, but shall answertruthfully whatever is asked me. '

'Go to thunder, then! I always knew you were a bad aig, ' Peterkinroared; and as there was nothing to be made from Harold, he changed hisseat to try his tactics elsewhere. 

Left to himself, Harold had time to think of the diamonds, which, indeed, had not been absent from his thoughts a moment, since Jerriegave them to him. They were closely buttoned in his coat pocket, wherethey burned like fire, as he wondered where and how Jerrie had foundthem. 

'In the Tramp House it must have been, ' he said to himself; 'but who putthem there, and how did she chance to find them, and why did she look sowild and excited, so like a crazy person, when she gave them to me, bidding me let no one see them?'

These questions he could not answer, and his brain was all in a whirlwhen the train reached Springfield, and, with the others, he registeredhimself at the hotel. Suddenly, like a gleam of lightning seen through arift of clouds, there came back to him, with a horrible distinctness, the words the child Jerry had spoken to him that day years ago, when hehad walked homeward with her through the leafy woods from the ParkHouse, where he had been questioned so closely by Mrs. Tracy with regardto her diamonds and what he had been doing in the house on the morningof their disappearance. 

'I know where those diamonds are, but I shan't tell while there is sucha fuss, ' she had said, and in his abstraction he had scarcely noticed itthen, but it came back to him now with fearful significance, making himsick, and faint, and cold, although the great drops of sweat stoodthickly upon his lips and under his hair, as, after the gas was lighted, he sat alone in a little reception-room opening from one of the parlors. Did Jerrie know where they were, and had she known all the time and notspoken? And, if so, was she not guilty as an accessory, at least intrying to shield another? For that she took them herself he never for amoment dreamed. It was some one else, and she knew and did not tell. Hewas certain of it now, as every incident connected with her strangesickness came back to him, when she seemed to be doing penance foranother's fault. She had called herself an accessory, and that was whatshe was, or rather what the world would call her, if it knew. To him shewas Jerrie, the girl he loved, and he would defend her to the bitterend, no matter how culpable she had been in keeping silence so long. 

But who took them! That was the question puzzling him so much as he satthinking with his head bent down, and so absorbed that he did not hear astep in the adjoining room, or know that Peterkin had seated himselfjust where a large mirror showed him distinctly the young man in thenext room, whom he recognized at once, though Harold never moved for afew moments or lifted his head. 

At last, however, he unbuttoned his coat and after glancing cautiouslyaround to make sure no one was near, he took the box from his pocket, and holding the stones to the light examined them carefully, taking inhis hand first the ear-rings and then the pin, and holding them in sucha way that two or three times they flashed directly in the eyes of thecruel man watching him. 

'Yes, they are Mrs. Tracy's diamonds; there can be no mistake, ' hewhispered, just as he became conscious that there was some one in thedoor looking at him. 

Quick as thought he put the box out of sight just as Peterkin's voice, exultant and hateful, cried out:

'Hallo, Mr. Prayer-book! your piety won't let you keep back a darnedthing you know agin me, but it lets you have in your possession diamondswhich I'd eenamost sware was them stones Miss Tracy lost years ago andsuspected you of takin. I know the box anyway, I heard it described sooften, and I b'lieve I know them diamonds. I seen 'em in thelookin'-glass, settin' in t'other room, and seen you look all round likea thief afore you opened 'em. So, fork over, and mebby you can give meback May Jane's pin you stole at the party the night Mr. Arthur camehome. Fork over, I say!'

Too much astonished at first to speak, Harold stood staring at the manwho had attacked him so brutally, while his hand closed tightly over thediamonds in his pocket, as if fearing they might be wrenched from him byforce. 

'Will you fork over, or shall I call the perlice?' Peterkin asked. 

'Call the police as soon as you like, ' Harold replied, 'but I shall notgive you the diamonds. '

'Then you own that you've got 'em! That's half the battle!' Peterkinsaid, coming up close to him, and looking at him with a meaning smilemore detestable than any menace could have been. 'I know you've got 'em, and I can run you if I try, and then what will your doxie think of you!Will she refuse my Bill for a thief, and treat me as if I was dirt?'

'What do you mean, sir?' Harold demanded, feeling intuitively that byhis _doxie_ Jerrie was meant, and feeling a great horror, too, lest bysome means Jerrie's name should be mixed up with the affair before shehad a chance to explain. 

The reference to Billy was a puzzle, but Peterkin did not leave him indoubt. 

'I mean that you think yourself very fine, and always have, and that aregirl of the carpet-bag thinks herself fine, too, and refused my Bill foryou, who hain't a cent in the world. I seen it in her face when Itwitted her on it, and she riz up agin me like a catamount. But I'll beeven with you both yit. I've got you in my power, young man, but--' andhere he came a step or two nearer to Harold, and dropping his voice to awhisper said: 'I sha'n't do nothin', nor say nothin' till you've ginyour evidence, and if you hold your tongue I will. You tickle me, andI'll tickle you! see!'

Harold was too indignant to reply, and feeling that he was degradinghimself every moment he spent in the presence of that man, he left theroom without a word, and went to his own apartment, but not to sleep, for never had he spent so wretched a night as that which followed hisinterview with Peterkin. Of what the man could do to him, he had nofear. His anxiety was all for Jerrie. Where did she find the diamonds, and for whom did she keep silence so long? and what would be said ofthe act when it was known, as it might be, though not from him?

Two or three times he arose and lighted the gas, examined the diamondscarefully to see if there were not some mistake. But there could benone. He had seen them on the lady's person and had heard them describedso accurately that he could not be mistaken; and then the box was thesame he had once seen when Jack took him to his mother's room to showhim what Uncle Arthur had brought. That was a tortoise shell, of an ovalshape, lined with blue satin, and this was a tortoise shell, ovalshaped, and lined with blue satin. Harold felt, when at last thedaylight shone into his room, that if it had tarried a moment longer hemust have gone mad. He was very white and haggard, and there were darkrings under his eyes, when he went down to the office, where the firstperson he met was Billy, who also looked pale and worn, with a differentexpression upon his face from anything Harold had ever seen before. Itwas as if all life and hope had gone, leaving him nothing now to carefor. In his anxiety and worry about the diamonds Harold had scarcelygiven a thought to what Peterkin had said of Jerrie's refusal of Billy, for it seemed so improbable that the latter would presume to offerhimself to her; but at sight of Billy's face it came back to him with athrob of pity for the man, and a thrill of joy for himself for whomPeterkin had said his son was rejected. 

'Does Billy know of the diamonds, I wonder?' he thought. 

As if to answer the question in the negative, Billy came quicklyforward, and offering his hand, bade Harold good-morning, and thenmotioning him to a seat, took one beside him, and began:

'I'm awful sorry, Hal, th-that you are mix-mixed up in th-this but I supsuppose you m-must t-tell the truth. '

'Yes, I must tell the truth, Harold said. '

'Fa-father will be so m-mad, ' Billy continued. 'I wi-wish I couldt-t-testify f-for you, bu-but I can't. You were th-there, I wa-wan't, and all I know fa-father told me; bu-but d don't volunteer information. '

'No, ' Harold said, slowly, wishing that the ocean were rolling betweenhim and this detestable suit. 

Once he resolved to go to Judge St. Claire, deliver up the diamonds, andtell him all he knew about them, but this would be bringing Jerrie intothe matter, and so he changed his mind and wondered aimlessly about thetown until it was time for him to appear at the court-house, where acrowd was gathering. It was late before the suit known as _Wilson vs. Peterkin_ was called, and later still when Harold took the stand. 

White and trembling, so that both his hands and his knees were shakingvisibly, he seemed more like a criminal than a witness, he was soagitated and pre-occupied, too, it would seem, for at first his answerswere given at random, as if he hardly knew what he was saying; nor didhe, for over and beyond the sea of long faces confronting him, Judge St. Claire's wondering and curious--Billy's wondering, too--Wilson'sdisappointed and surprised, and Peterkin's threatening and exultant byturns--he saw only Jerrie coming to him in the lane and asking him tokeep the diamonds for her--saw her, too, away back years ago up in thelittle low room, with her fever-stained cheeks and shorn head, talkingthe strangest things of prisons, and substitutes, and accessories, andassuring some one that she would never tell, and was going for him, ifnecessary. 

Who was that man? Where was he now? and why had he imposed this terriblesecret upon Jerrie?

These were the thoughts crowding through his brain while he was beingquestioned as to what he knew of the agreement between the plaintiff anddefendant while in the office of the latter. Once a thought of Maudecrossed his mind with a keen pang of regret, as he remembered the lovelyface which had smiled so fondly upon him, mistaking his meaning utterly, and appropriating to herself the love he was trying to tell her wasanother's. And with thoughts of Maude there came a thought of Arthur, the very first which Harold had given him, Arthur, the crazy man, whohimself had hidden the diamonds and for whom Jerrie was ready tosacrifice so much. It was clear as daylight to him now, the anxiety andstain were over, and those who were watching him so intently as he gavehis answers at random, with the sweat pouring like rain down his face, were electrified at the start he gave as he came to himself and realizedfor the first time where he was, and why he was there. Arthur wouldnever see Jerrie wronged. _She_ was safe, and with this load lifted fromhim, he gave his whole attention to the business on hand, answering thequestions now clearly and distinctly. 

When at last the lawyer said to him, 'Repeat what you can remember ofthe conversation which took place between the plaintiff and thedefendant on the morning of ----, 18--, ' he gave one sorry look at poorBilly, who was the picture of shame and confusion, and then, in a clear, distinct voice, which filled every corner of the room, told what he hadheard said in his presence, and what he knew of the transaction, provingconclusively that the plaintiff was right and Peterkin a rascal, andthis in the face of the man who had asked him not to _blab_ and whoshook his fist at him threateningly as the narrative went on. 

'Would you believe the defendant under oath?' was asked at the close, and Harold answered, promptly:

'Under oath--yes. '

'Would you, if not under oath?'

'If an untruth would be to his advantage, no, ' and then Harold wasthrough. 

As he stepped down from the witness stand old Peterkin arose, so angrythat at first he could scarcely articulate his words. 

'You dog! you liar! you thief! he screamed; 'to stand there and lie soabout me! I'll teach you--I'll show 'em what you are. If there's aperlice here, I call on 'em to arrest this feller for them diamonds ofMiss Tracy's! They are in his pocket--or was last night. I seen 'emmyself, and he dassent deny it. '

By this time the court-house was in wild confusion, as the spectatorsarose from their seats and pressed forward to where Peterkin stooddenouncing Harold, who was white as ashes, and looked as if he weregoing to faint, as Billy hastened to his side, whispering:

'Lean on me, and I will get you out of this. Father is mad. '

But order was soon restored, though not until Peterkin had yelled again, as Harold was leaving the room:

'Search him, I tell you! Don't let him escape! He's got 'em in hispocket--Miss Tracy's diamonds! Lord of heavens! don't you remember therow there was about 'em years ago?'

Of what followed during the next hour Harold knew very little. Therewas a crowd around him, and cries of 'He is going to faint!' whileBilly's stammering voice called pleadingly, 'St-stand back, ca-can'tyou, and gi-give him air. '

Then, a deluge of water in his face; then a great darkness and thevoices sounded a long way off, and he felt so tired and sleepy, andthought of Jerry, and Maude, and lived over again the scene in theTramp-House, when he found the former in the bag, and felt her littlefat arms around his neck as he staggered with her through the snow, wondering why she was so heavy, and why her feet were dragging on theground. When he came more fully to himself, he was in a little room inthe court-house, and Billy's arm was lying protectingly across hisshoulder, while Billy's father was bellowing like a bull:

'Be you goin' to let him go! Ain't you goin' to git a writ and arresthim! Why don't you handcuff him, somebody? And you, Bill, be you a foolto stan' there a huggin' him as if he was a gal! What do you mean?'

'Ha-Hal is my fr-friend, father. He never to-took the diamonds, ' Billyanswered, sadly, while Judge St. Claire, who had the box of jewels inhis hand and was looking very anxious, turned to the angry man clamoringso loudly for a _writ_ and said, sternly:

'Even if Harold took the diamonds--which he did not, I am certain ofthat--there is some mistake which he will explain; but if he took them, it is too late to arrest him. A theft commited ten years ago cannot bepunished now. '

'May the Lord give you sense, ' Peterkin rejoined, with a derisive laugh. 'Don't tell me that a body can't be punished for stealin' diamonds ef'twas done a hundred years ago, '

'But it is true, nevertheless, ' the judge replied. 

Turning to another lawyer who was standing near, Peterkin asked:

'Is that so, square? Is it so writ? Is that the law?'

'That is the law, ' was the response. 

'Wall, I'll be condumbed, if that don't beat all!' Peterkin exclaimed. 'Can't be sent to prison! I swow! There ain't no law or justice fornobody but _me_, and I must be kicked to the wall! I'll give up, andwon't try to be nobody, I vurm!' And as he talked he walked away toruminate upon the injustice of the law which could not touch HaroldHastings, but could throw its broad arms tightly around himself. 

Meanwhile the Judge had ordered a carriage and taken Harold with him tohis private room in the hotel, where the hardest part for Hal was yet tocome. 

'Now, my boy, ' the judge said, after he had made Harold lie down uponthe couch and had locked the door, 'now, tell me all about it. How cameyou by the diamond?'

It was such a pitiful, pleading, agonized face which lifted itself fromthe cushion and looked at Judge St. Claire, as Harold began:

'I cannot tell you now--I must not? but by and by perhaps I can. Theywere handed to me to keep by some one, just for a little while. I cannottell you who it was. I think I would die sooner than do it. Certainly Iwould rather go to prison, as Peterkin wishes me to. '

There was a thoughtful, perplexed look on the judge's face as he said:

'This is very strange, Harold, that you cannot tell who gave them toyou, and with some people will be construed against you. '

'Yes, I know it; but I would rather bear it than have that person's namebrought in question, ' was Harold's reply. 

'Do you think that person took them?' the judge asked. 

'No, a thousand times, no!' and Harold leaped to his feet and began topace the floor hurriedly. 'They never took them, never; I'd swear tothat with my life. Don't talk any more about it, please; I can't bearit. I have gone through so much to-day, and last night I never slept awink. Oh, I am so tired!' and with a groan he threw himself again uponthe couch, and, closing his eyes, dropped almost instantly into a heavyslumber, from which the judge did not rouse him until after dinner, whenhe ordered some refreshments sent to his room, and himself awoke theyoung man, whose face looked pinched, and white, and haggard, and whocould only swallow a cup of coffee and a part of a biscuit. 

'I am so tired, ' he kept repeating; 'but I shall be better in themorning;' and long before the night train had come he was in bedsleeping off the effects of the day's excitement. 

The next morning when he went down to the office he was surprised andbewildered at the crowd which gathered around him--the friends who hadcame on the train to stand by and defend him, if necessary; and as thehome faces he had known all his life looked kindly into his, and thefamiliar voices of his boyhood told him of sympathy for and faith inhim, while hand after hand took his in a friendly clasp, that of DickSt. Claire clinging to his with a grasp which said plainer than wordscould have done: 'I believe in you, Hal, and am so sorry for you, ' thetension of his nerves gave way entirely, and, sinking down in theirmidst, he cried like a child when freed from some terrible danger. 

He had not thought before that he cared for himself what people said, but he knew now that he did, and this assurance of confidence from hisfriends unnerved him for a time; then, dashing away his tears andlifting up his face, on which his old winning smile was breaking, hesaid:

'Excuse me for this weakness; only girls should cry, but I have borne somuch, and your coming was such a surprise. Thank you all. I cannot saywhat I feel. I should cry again if I did. '

'Never mind, old boy, ' Dick's cheery voice called out. 'We know what youwould say. We came to help you, just a few of us; but if anything hadreally happened to you, why, all Shannondale would have turned out tothe rescue. '

'Thank you, Dick, ' Harold said, the tears starting again; then, as hiseye fell for the first time upon Tom, he exclaimed, with a glad ring inhis voice, 'and you, too, Tom!'

'Yes, I thought I'd come with the crowd and see the fun, ' Tom answered, indifferently, as he walked away by himself. 

Tom had said very little, on the train, or after they had reached thehotel, but no one had listened with more eagerness to every detail ofthe matter than he had done, and all that morning he was busy gatheringup every item of information, and listening to the guesses as to who theperson could be who gave the diamonds to Harold. 

The jewels had been identified by his father and by himself, although anidentification was scarcely necessary as Harold had distinctly said:

'They are the Tracy diamonds, and the person who gave them, to me saidso. '

But who was the person? That was the question puzzling the heads of allthe Shannondale people as the morning wore on, and each went where heliked. At last, toward noon, Tom found himself near Harold in front ofthe court-house, and going up to him, said:

'Hal, I wan't to talk to you a little while. '

'Yes, ' Hal said, assentingly, and selecting out a retired corner, Tombegan:

'Hal, I've never shown any great liking for you, and I don't s'pose Ihave any, but I don't like to see a man kicked for nothing, and so Icame over with the rest. '

'Thank you, Tom, ' Harold replied, 'I don't think you ever did like me, and I don't think I cared if you didn't, but I'm glad you came. Is thatall you wished to say to me?'

'So, ' Tom answered. 'Jerrie is very sick--'

'Jerrie! Jerrie sick! Oh, Tom!'

It was a cry of almost despair as Harold thought, 'What if she shoulddie and the people never know. '

'She had an awful headache when you left her in the lane, and I walkedhome with her, and the next morning she was raving mad--kind of a brainfever, I guess. '

Harold was stupefied, but he managed to ask:

'Does she talk much? What does she say?'

There was alarm in his voice, which the sagacious Tom detected at once, and, strengthened in his suspicion, he replied:

'Nothing about the diamonds, and the Lord knows I hope she won't. '

'What do you mean!' Harold asked, in a frightened tone. 

'Don't you worry, ' Tom replied. 'I wouldn't harm Jerrie any more thanyou would, but--Well, Hal, you are a trump! Yes, you are, to hold yourtongue and let some think you are the culprit. Hal, Jerrie gave you thediamonds. I saw her do it in the lane as I came up to you. I did notthink of it at the time, but afterward it came to me that you tooksomething from her and slipped it into your pocket, and that you bothlooked scared when you saw me. Jerrie was abstracted and queer all theway to the house, and had a bruise on her head, and she keeps talking ofthe Tramp House and Peterkin, who, she says, dealt the blow. I went tothe Tramp House, and found the old table on the floor, with three of thelegs on it; the fourth I couldn't find. I thought at first that the oldwretch had quarreled with her about you on account of the suit, and shehad squared up to him, and he had struck her; but now I believe _he_ hadthe diamonds, and she got them from him in some way, and he struck herwith the missing table-leg. If you say so, I'll have him arrested. '

Tom had told his story rapidly, while Harold listened breathlessly, until he suggested the arrest of Peterkin, when he exclaimed:

'No, no, Tom. No; don't you see that would mix Jerrie's name up with thediamonds, and that must not be. She must not be mentioned in connectionwith them until she speaks for herself; and, besides, I do not believeit was Peterkin who took them. It might have been your Uncle Arthur. '

'Uncle Arthur?' Tom said, indignantly. 'Why, he gave them to mother. '

'I know he did, ' Harold continued; 'but in a crazy fit he might havetaken them away and secreted them and then forgotten it, and Jerriemight have known it, and not been able to find them till now. Manythings go to prove that;' and very briefly Harold repeated someincidents connected with Jerrie's illness when she was a child. 

'That looks like it, certainly, ' Tom said; 'but I am awfully loth togive up arresting the brute, and believe I shall do it yet for assaultand battery. He certainly struck her. You will see for yourself the lumpon her head. '

So saying Tom arose to go away, but before he went made a remark quitecharacteristic of him and his feeling for Harold, to whom he said, witha laugh:

'Don't for thunder's sake, think us a kind of a Damon and Pythias twins, because I've joined hands with you against Peterkin and for Jerrie. Herod and Pilate, you know, became friends, but I guess at heart theywere Pilate and Herod still. '

'No danger of my presuming at all upon your friendship for myself, though I thank you for your interest in Jerrie, ' Harold replied. 

Then the two separated, Tom going his way and Harold his, until it wastime for the afternoon train which was to take them home. 

The suit had gone against Peterkin, and it was in a towering rage thathe stood in the long depot, denouncing everybody, and swearing he wouldsell out Lubbertoo and every dumbed thing he owned in Shannondale andtake his money away, 'and then see how they'd git along without hiscapital to boost 'em. ' At Harold he would not even look, for histestimony had been the most damaging of all, and he frowned savagelywhen on entering the car he saw his son in the same seat with him, talking in low, earnest tones, while Harold was evidently listening tohim with interest. Small as he was and mean in personal appearance, there was more of true manhood in Billy's finger than in his father'swhole body. The suit had been a pain and trouble to Billy, frombeginning to end, for he knew his father was in the wrong, and he boreno malice toward Harold for his part in it, and when the diamonds cameup, and his father was clamoring for a writ, he was the first to declareHarold's innocence and to say he would go his bail. Now, there was inhis mind another plan by which to benefit his friend, and rival, too--for Billy knew he was that; and the heart of the little man achedwith a bitter pain and sense of loss whenever he thought of Jerrie, andlived over again the scene under the butternut tree by the river, whenher blue eyes had smiled so kindly upon him and her hands had touchedhis, even while she was breaking his heart. When Billy reached hismajority his father had given him $100, 000, and thus he had business ofhis own to transact, and a part of this was just now centered inWashington Territory, where, in Tacoma, on Puget Sound, he owned realestate and had dealings with several parties. To attend to this an agentwas needed for a while, and he said to himself;

'I'll offer it to Hal, with such a salary that he cannot refuse it; thatwill get him out of the way until this thing blows over. '

Billy knew perfectly well that although everybody said Harold wasinnocent and that nine-tenths believed it, there would still be a few inShannondale--the scum whose opinions his father's money controlled--who, without exactly saying they doubted him, would make it unpleasant forhim in many ways; and from this he would save him by sending him toTacoma at once, and thus getting him out of the way of anyunpleasantness which might arise from his father's persecutions or thoseof his clan. It was this which he was proposing to Harold, who at oncethought favorably of it--not because he wished to escape from thepublic, he said, but because of the pay offered, and which seemed to himfar more than his services would be worth. 

'You are a noble fellow, Billy, ' he said. 'I'll think of the plan, andlet you know after I've seen Jerrie and Judge St. Claire. '

'A-all ri-right; he'll a-advise you to go, ' Billy said, as they arose toleave the car, followed by Peterkin, who had been engaged in a fiercealtercation with Tom, who had accused him of having struck Jerrie, andthreatened to have him arrested for assault and battery the moment theyreached Shannondale. 

'Thunder and lightning and guns' old Peterkin exclaimed, while thespittle flew from his mouth like the spray from Niagara. 'I assault andbatter Jerry Crawford!--a gal! What do you take me for, young man? I'm agentleman, I be, if I ain't a Tracy; and I never salted nor batterednobody, and she'll tell you so herself. Heavens and earth! this is theway 'twas, ' and Peterkin shook from his head to his feet--for, like mostmen who clamor so loudly for the law, he had a mortal terror of it forhimself, and Tom's threatening looks and words made him afraid. 'This ishow 'twas. I found her in the Tramp-House, and I was all-fired mad ather about somethin'--I shan't tell what, for Bill would kill me; but Ipitched into her right and left; and, by gum, she pitched into me, sothat for a spell it was nip-and-tuck betwixt us; and, by George, if shedidn't order me out of the Tramp-House, and said it was her'n; and I'llbe dumbed if I don't believe she'd av put me out, too, body and bones, if I hadn't gone. She was just like a tiger; and, I swan, I was kinderfeared on her, and backed out with a kinder flourish of my fist on thatdarned old rotten table, which went all to smash; and that's all I know. You don't call that 'sault and batter, do you?'

Tom could not say that he did, but he replied:

'That's your version of it. Jerrie may have another, and her friendsain't going to have her abused by a chap like you; and my advice is thatyou hold your tongue, both about her and Harold. It will he better foryou. Do you understand?'

'You bet!' Peterkin said, with a meaning nod, breathing a little morefreely as he caught sight of the highest tower of _Lubbertoo_, and morefreely still when he arrived at the station, where he was met by hiscoat-of-arms carriage, instead of a writ, and was suffered to gopeaceably home, a disappointed, if not a better man. 

CHAPTER XLIII. 

HAROLD AND JERRIE. 

The news which so electrified all Shannondale was slow in reaching Mrs. Crawford, but it did reach her at last, crushing and overwhelming herwith a sense of shame and anguish, until as the day wore on, GraceAtherton, and Mrs. St. Claire, and Nina, and many others came toreassure her, and to say that it was all a mistake, which would be sooncleared up. 

Thus comforted and consoled, she tried to be calm, and wait patientlyfor the train. But there was a great pity for her boy in her heart asshe sat by Jerrie's bedside and watched her in all her varying moods, now perfectly quiet, with her wide open eyes staring up at the ceilingas if she were seeing something there, now talking of Peterkin, and theTramp House, and the table, and the blow, and again of the bag, whichshe said was lost, and which her grandmother must find. 

Thinking she meant the carpet bag, Mrs. Crawford brought that to her, but she tossed it aside impatiently saying:

'No, no; the other one, which tells it all. Where is it! I must havelost it. Find it, find it. To be so near, and yet so far. What did itsay? Why can't I think? Am I like Mr. Arthur--crazy, like him?'

Mrs. Crawford thought her crazier than Arthur, and waited still moreimpatiently for Harold, until she heard his step outside, and knew thathe had come. 

'Harold!'

'Grandma!' was all they said for a moment while the poor old lady wassobbing on his neck, and then he comforted her as best he could, telling her that it was all over now--that no one but Peterkin hadaccused him--that everybody was ready to defend him, and that after alittle he could explain everything. 

'And now I must see Jerrie, ' he continued, starting for the stairs, andglad that his grandmother did not attempt to follow him. 

Jerrie had heard his voice, and had raised herself in bed, and as hecame in, met him with the question:

'Have you brought them? Has any one seen them?'

The strange light in her eyes should have told Harold how utterlyincapable she was of giving any rational answers to his questions, buthe did not think of that, and instead of trying to quiet her, he plungedat once into the subject she had broached:

'Do you mean the diamonds?' he asked. 

'Yes, ' she replied, 'the diamonds! the diamonds! Where are they?'

'Mrs. Tracy has them by this time, ' Harold replied. 

'Mrs. Tracy!' Jerrie exclaimed. 'What has she to do with them? They arenot hers. They are mine--they are mine! Bring them to me--bring them tome. '

She was terribly excited, and for a time Harold bent all his energies tosoothe her, and at last when from sheer exhaustion she became quiet hesaid to her:

'Jerrie, where did you find the diamonds?'

She looked at him curiously, but made no reply, and he continued:

'You must tell me where you found them: it is necessary I should know. '

Still she did not reply, but stared at him, as if not fullycomprehending what he meant. 

'Jerrie, ' he said again, 'do you love me?'

Quickly her eyes filled with tears, and she replied:

'Love you, Harold! Yes, more than you ever dreamed of; more than youlove me. '

Instantly Harold had his arms around her, for she had risen to a sittingposture, and pillowing her head upon his breast, he said:

'No, darling, that is impossible, for I love you better than my life, 'and his lips pressed hers passionately. He felt that this was theirbetrothal, for he did not take into consideration the state of her mind;but she undeceived him quickly, for although she kissed him back, shesaid, with a tinge of sarcasm in her voice:

'Aren't you afraid they will see you?'

'Who are they?' he asked, and she replied

'The people, and the Harvard boys and Maude. '

He did not know at all what she meant, but at the mention of Maude hegroaned involuntarily, as the white face came up before him again andthe eyes looked into his, fuller far of love and tenderness than thoseconfronting him so steadily, with no consciousness of his real meaningin them. 

'Those diamonds have caused me a great deal of trouble, ' he began again, 'and will cause me more unless you tell me where you found them. Try andthink. Was it in the Tramp House?'

That started her at once, and she began to rave of the Tramp House, andthe rat-hole, and the table, and Peterkin, who dealt the blow. Thebruise on her head had not proved so serious as was at first feared, andwith her tangled hair falling over her face Harold had not noticed it. But he looked at it now and questioned her of it, and asking if Peterkinhad struck her there. 

'No, ' she said, and began the senseless babbling of rat-holes, andtable-legs and bags, and diamonds until Harold became alarmed and wentfor his grandmother. 

There was nothing to be learned from Jerrie in her present condition, and so Harold started for the Tramp House to see what that would tellhim. The table was still upon the floor, with the three legs piled uponit, while the fourth one was missing. But Harold found it at last; for, remembering what Jerrie had said of the rat-hole, he investigated thatspot, and from its enlarged appearance drew his own conclusion. Jerriehad found the diamonds there; he had no doubt of it, and he told TomTracy so; for, as if there was a fascination about the place for him, Tom appeared in the door-way just as Harold was leaving it. Sitting downupon the bench where Jerrie had sat that day when Peterkin attacked her, the two young men who had been enemies all their lives, but who were nowdrawn together by a common sympathy and love for the same girl, talkedthe matter over again, each arriving at the same theory as the mostprobable one they could accept. 

'Arthur, in a crazy fit, had secreted the diamonds, and Jerrie knew it, but possibly not where he had put them. This accounted for her strangesickness when a child, while her finding them later on, added to othercauses, would account for her sickness now. Peterkin owns that he wasblowing her up for something, and that he knocked the table down withhis fist, but he swears he didn't touch her, ' Tom said, repeating insubstance all Peterkin had said to him in the train when shaking withfear of a _writ_. 

'And do you still mean to keep silent with regard to Jerrie?' Tom asked. 

'Yes, ' Harold replied; 'her name must not be mentioned in connectionwith the diamonds. I can't have the slightest breath of suspiciontouching Jerrie, _my sister_. '

'Sister be hanged!' Tom began savagely, then checked himself, and addedwith a sneering laugh: 'Don't try to deceive me, Hal, with your sisterbusiness. You love Jerrie, and she loves you, and that is one reason whyI hate you, or shall, when this miserable business is cleared up. Justnow we must pull together and find out where she found the diamonds, andwho put them there. To write to Uncle Arthur would do no good, thoughseeing him might; the last we heard he was thinking of taking the coastvoyage from San Francisco to Tacoma. '

'Tom, ' Harold exclaimed, with great energy, as he sprang to his feet, 'that decides me;' and then he told of the offer Billy had made him onthe car. 'When I saw how sick Jerrie was, I made up my mind not toaccept it, although I need the money badly. But now, if Jerrie gets noworse, I shall start for Tacoma in a few days and shall find your uncleArthur, if he is to be found. '

It was growing dark when the two young men finally emerged from thehouse and stood for a moment outside, while Harold inquired for Maude. 

'She is not very well, that's a fact, ' Tom said, gloomily; 'and nowonder, when mother keeps her cooped up in one room, without enoughfresh air, and lets nobody see her except the family and the doctor, forfear they will excite her. She knows nothing about the diamonds, northat Jerrie is sick. I did tell her, though, that you had come home;and, by Jove! I pretty near forgot it. She wants to see you bad; but, Lord! mother won't let you in. No use to try. She's like a she-wolfguarding its cub. Good-night. '

And Tom walked away, while Harold went back to the cottage, where hefound Jerrie sleeping very quietly, with a look on her face so like thatit had worn in her babyhood, when he called her his little girl, that heinvoluntarily stooped down and kissed it as one would kiss a beautifulbaby. 

The next morning Jerrie was very restless, and talked wildly of theTramp House and the diamonds, insisting that they were hers and must bebrought to her. 

'Why did you tell her about them?' Mrs. Crawford asked, reproachfully. 

But Harold did not reply, his mind was so torn with distracting doubtsas to whether he ought to take the western trip or not. 

If he went, he must go at once, and to leave Jerrie in her present stateseemed impossible. He would consult the physician first, and Judge St. Claire next. The doctor gave it as his opinion that Jerrie was in nodanger, if she were only kept quiet. She had taken a severe cold andovertaxed her strength, while most likely she had inherited from someone a tendency to be flighty when anything was the matter, and hethought Harold might venture to leave her. 

'Yes, I'd go if I were you, ' he added, looking intently at the youngman; for, like Billy, he too thought it might be pleasanter for him tobe out of the way for a time, although he did not say so. 

And this was the view the judge took of it, after a few moments'conversation. His first question had been:

'Well, my boy, can you tell me now who gave them to you?'

'No, I can't, ' was Harold's reply; and then, acting upon a suddenimpulse, he burst out impetuously: 'Yes, I will tell you, for I cantrust you, and I want your advice so badly. '

So he repeated rapidly all he knew, and his theory with regard toArthur, whom he wished so much to find, and of Billy's proposition thathe should go on his business to Tacoma. For a few moments the judgeseemed perplexed and undecided, for he was balancing in his mind thepros and cons for going from the people, or staying to face them. If hestayed he might have some unpleasant things to bear and hear, for therewere those who would talk, in spite of their protestations of the youngman's innocence; while to go might look like running away from thestorm, with the matter unexplained. On the whole, however, he decidedthat it was better to go. 

'Jerrie's interests are safe with me, ' he said, 'and by the time youreturn everything will be explained; but find Mr. Tracy as soon aspossible. I am inclined to think your theory with regard to himcorrect. '

So it was decided that Harold should go, and the next night wasappointed for him to start. Had he known that Peterkin, and even Mrs. Tracy, were each in his or her own way insinuating that he was runningfrom public opinion, nothing could have induced him to leave. But he didnot know it, and went about his preparations with as brave a heart as hecould command under the circumstances. Jerrie was more quiet now, thoughevery effort on his part to learn anything from her concerning thediamonds brought on a fit of raving, when she would insist that thejewels were hers, and must be brought to her at once. 

'But you told me they were Mrs. Tracy's, ' he said to her once. 

With a cunning gleam in her eyes, she replied:

'So they are, or were; but oh, how little you know!'

And this was all he could get from her. 

He told her he was going away, but that did not seem to affect her, andshe only began to talk of Maude, who, she said, must not be harmed. 

'Have you seen her? have you seen her?' she kept saying. 

'Not yet, ' he replied, 'but I am going to say good-bye;' and on the dayof his departure he went to the Park House and asked if he could seeMaude. 

'Of course not, ' was Mrs. Tracy's prompt reply, when the request wastaken to her. 'No one sees her, and I certainly shall not allow him toenter her room. '

'But, Dolly, ' Frank began, protestingly, but was cut short by the lady, who said:

'You needn't "Dolly" me, or try to take his part, either. I have myopinion, and always shall. He cannot see Maude, and you may tell himso, ' turning now to the servant who had brought Harold's message, andwho softened it as much as possible. 

Harold had half expected a refusal, and was prepared for it. Taking acard from his pocket, he wrote upon it:

 'DEAR MAUDE, --I am going away for a few weeks, and am very sorry that I cannot see you; but your mother knows best, of course, and I must not do anything to make you worse. I shall think of you very often, and hope to find you much better when I return. 

 'HAROLD. '

'Will you give this to her?' he said to the girl, who answered that shewould, and who, of course, read every word before she took it to heryoung mistress, late in the afternoon, while the family were at dinner, and she was left in charge of the invalid. 

'Mr. Hastings sent you this, ' she said, handing the card to Maude, intowhose face the bright color rushed, but left it instantly as she readthe few hurried lines. 

'Going away! Gone! and I didn't see him!' she exclaimed, regardless ofconsequences. 'And mother did it. I know she did. I _will_ talk till Ispit blood; then see what she'll say!' she continued, as the frightenedgirl tried to stop her, and as she could not, ran for Mrs. Tracy, whocame in much alarm, asking what was the matter. 

'You sent Harold away. You didn't let him see me, and he is--'

Maude gasped, but could get no farther, for the paroxysm of coughingwhich came on, together with a hemorrhage which made her so weak thatthey thought her dying all night, she lay so white, and still, andinsensible, save at times when her lips moved, and her mother, bendingover her, heard her whisper:

'Send for Harold. '

But it was too late now; the train had come and gone, and taken Haroldwith it, away from the girl _he_ loved and from, the girls who loved himso devotedly, and both of whom, for a few days after his departure, wentdown very near to the gates of death, and whose first enquiry, when theyat last came back to life and consciousness, was for Harold and why hestayed away. 

CHAPTER XLIV. 

JERRIE CLEARS HAROLD. 

The next day two items of news went like wildfire through the littletown of Shannondale--the first, set afloat by Peterkin and helped on byMrs. Tracy, that Harold had run away from public opinion, which was fastturning against him since he could not explain where he found thediamonds; and the second, that both Maude Tracy and Jerrie Crawford wereat the point of death, which made Harold's sudden departure all the moreheinous in the eyes of his enemies; for what but conscious guilt couldhave prompted him to leave his sister, who, it was said, was calling forhim with every breath, and charging him with having taken the diamonds?Now, this was false; for although Jerrie's fever had increased rapidlyduring the night, and her babbling was something terrible to hear, therewas in it no accusation of Harold, although she was constantly talkingto him, and asking for the diamonds and the bag. 

'It is a pity he ever told her about them, ' the doctor said, as twiceeach day, morning and night, for four successive days, he came andlooked upon her fever-stained cheeks, and counted her rapid pulse, andtook her temperature, and listened to her strange talk; and then, with ashake of his head, drove over to Tracy Park and stood by poor littleMaude's couch, and looked into her death-white face, and counted herfaint heartbeats, and tried in vain to find some word of encouragementfor the stricken man, who looked about as much like death as the younggirl so dear to him. And every morning, on his way from the cottage toTracy Park, the doctor saw under the pines two young men, Tom and Dick, seated upon the iron bench each whittling a bit of pine, which one wasunconsciously fashioning into a cross and the other into a grave-stone. 

Tom had found Dick there working at his cross, and, after a simplegood-morning, had sat down beside him and whittled in silence uponanother bit of wood until the doctor appeared on his way to Tracy Park. Then the whittling ceased, and both young men arose, and, going forward, asked how Jerrie was. 

'Pretty bad. Hal oughtn't to have gone, though I told him there was nodanger. We must telegraph if she gets worse, ' was the reply, as thedoctor rode on. 

Tom and Dick separated, and saw no more of each other until the nextmorning, when they went again, and whittled in silence under the pinesuntil the doctor came in sight, when the same questions were asked andanswered as on the previous day. 

Billy never joined them, but sat under the butternut tree where Jerriehad refused him, for hours and hours watching the sluggish river, andwondering what the world would be to him if Jerrie were not in it. HadBilly been with Tom and Dick, he could not have whittled as they did, for all the nerve power had left his hands, which lay helplessly in hislap, and when he walked he looked more like a withered old man than ayoung one of twenty-seven. 

Maude was the first to rally--her first question for Harold, her secondfor Jerrie--and her father, who was with her, answered truthfully thatHarold had not returned, and that Jerrie was sick and could not come toher. He did not say how sick, and Maude felt no alarm, but waitedpatiently until Jerrie should appear. For Maude, on her brass bedsteadwith its silken hangings, and every possible luxury around her, therewere hired nurses and a mother's care, with many kind inquiries, whileit would seem as if every hand in town was stretched out to Jerrie, whowas a general favorite. Flowers and fruit and delicacies of every kindwere sent to the cottage, carriage after carriage stopped before thedoor, offer after offer of assistance was made to Mrs. Crawford, whileNina and Marian Raymond were there constantly; and Billy went toSpringfield for a chair in which to wheel his sister to the cottage, forshe could not yet mount into the dog-cart; and Tom and Dick whittled onuntil the cross and the grave-stone were finished, and, with a sicklysmile, Tom said to Dick:

'Would you cut Jerrie's name upon it?'

'No; oh, no!' Dick answered, with a gasp. 'She may be better to-morrow. '

When, after a few days, the crisis was past, and Jerrie's strongconstitution triumphed over the disease which had grappled with it, thewhole town wore a holiday air as the people said to each other gladly:'Jerrie is better; Jerrie will live!'

Her recovery was rapid, and within a week after the fever left her andshe awoke to perfect consciousness, she was able to sit up a part ofevery day, and had walked across the floor and read a letter from Haroldto his grandmother, full of solicitude for herself and enthusiasm forhis trip over the wild mountains and across the vast plains to thelovely little city of Tacoma, built upon a cliff and looking seawardover the sound. 

'Dear Harold, ' Jerrie whispered. 'I shall be so glad when he comes home. Nothing can be done till then, and I am so bewildered when I try tothink. '

In her weak state, everything seemed unreal to Jerrie, except the factthat she had found her mother--and such a mother!--and many times eachday she thanked her God who had brought her this unspeakable joy, andasked that she might do right when the time came to act. She knew thebag was safe, for she had climbed to the top shelf and found it justwhere she had put it. But where were the diamonds? Had Harold taken themwith him? Had he told any one? Did his grandmother know anything aboutthem? she wondered. She tried in many ways to draw Mrs. Crawford out, but was unsuccessful, for there were now too much pain and bitternessconnected with the diamonds for Mrs. Crawford to speak to her of them. The poisonous breath of gossip had been at work ever since Harold wentaway, quietly aided and abetted by Mrs. Tracy, who never failed to rollher eyes and shrug her shoulders when Harold's name was mentioned, andopenly pushed on by Peterkin, until Tom Tracy went to him one day andthreatened to have him tarred and feathered and ridden on a rail, if heever breathed Harold's name again in connection with the diamonds. 

'Wall, I swow!' was all Peterkin said, as he put an enormous quid oftobacco in his mouth, and walked away, thinking to himself, 'Twould takean all-fired while to scrape them tar and feathers off of me, I'm sobig, and I b'lieve the feller meant it. Them high bucks wouldn't like nobetter fun than to make a spectacle of me; so I guess I'll dry up aspell. '

But the trouble did not stop with Peterkin's talk, for a neighboringSunday paper, which fed its readers with all the choicest bits ofgossip, came out with an article headed 'The Tracy Diamonds, ' and afternarrating the story in the most garbled and sensational manner, went onto comment upon the young man's having run away, rather than face publicopinion, and to comment upon the law which could not touch him becausethe offence was committed so long ago. 

One after another, and without either knowing that the other had doneso, Tom, and Dick, and Billy, waited upon the editor of the Sunday_News_, threatening to sue him for libel if he did not retract everyword of the offensive article in his next issue, which he did. But themischief was done, and the paper found its way at last to Jerrie, sentunwittingly by Ann Eliza, who covered it over a basket of fruit andflowers which was carried one afternoon to the cottage. 

Jerrie had been down stairs several times, but was in her room when thebasket was brought to her. Raising the paper, she was about to throw iton the floor, when her eye caught the words, 'The Tracy Diamonds, ' andwith bloodless lips and wildly beating heart she read the articlethrough, understanding the situation perfectly, and resolving at oncehow to act. It seemed to her that she was lifted above and out ofherself, she felt so strong, and light, and well, as she threw on herbonnet and shawl, and taking the leather bag in her hand, hurried downstairs in quest of Mrs. Crawford. 

'Grandma!' she exclaimed, 'why haven't you told me about Harold, and thesuspicion resting on him, and why did you let him go until I was better, and what are the people saying? Tell me everything. '

Jerrie would not be put off, and Mrs. Crawford told her everything sheknew, and that she herself had added to the mystery by the strangethings she had said in her delirium about the diamonds, which sheinsisted were hers. 

'And they are mine!' Jerrie said, while Mrs. Crawford looked at her inalarm, for her madness had returned. 

'Where are you going?' she gasped, as Jerrie turned toward the door. 

'To Tracy Park, to claim my own and clear Harold!' was the reply. 'WhenI come back I will tell you all, but now I cannot wait. '

'But, Jerrie, you are not strong enough to walk there, and besides theyhave company this afternoon, some kind of a new-fangled card party, andyou must not go, ' Mrs. Crawford said. 

'I have the strength of twenty horses, ' Jerrie said, 'and if they havecompany, so much the better, for there will be more to hear my story. Good-bye. '

She was off like an arrow, and went almost upon a run through the leafywoods until the house was reached, and then she stopped a moment to takebreath and look about her. How very fair and beautiful it was, that homeof the Tracys, and Jerrie's heart beat so hard that she felt for amoment as if she were choking to death as she sat under a maple tree andtried to think it all over, to make sure there was no mistake. Openingthe box she took out two documents, and read them again as she had thenight she was taken sick. One was a certificate of marriage, the otherof a birth and baptism; there was no mistake. 

Holding the papers in one hand and the bag in the other, she went on tothe house, from which shouts of laughter were issuing, Nina's voice, andMarian's, and Tom's, and Dick's, and Mrs. Tracy's. Jerrie shuddered alittle when she heard that, for it brought back to her mind all theslights she had received from that woman who was so cruel to Harold, andthe pity which had been springing up in her heart ever since she lookedup at the windows of Maude's room and thought of the white-faced girllying there, died out, and it was more a Nemesis than a gentle, forgiving woman who walked boldly into the hall and entered unbidden atthe drawing-room door. 

Mrs. Tracy was having a progressive euchre party that afternoon. Afriend in Boston had written her about it, and, proud to be the first tointroduce it in Shannondale, she stood, flushed and triumphant, with therestored diamonds in her ears and at her throat, laughing merrily withthe others at Judge St. Claire, who had won the booby prize--a littledrum, as something he could beat--and who, with a perplexed look in hisface, was staring at the thing as if he did not quite get the joke. 

Apart from the rest, Frank Tracy sat looking on, though with no apparentinterest in the matter. He had joined in the game because his wife toldhim he must, and had borne meekly her sarcastic remarks when he trumpedher ace and ordered up on nothing. His thoughts were not with the cards, but up stairs with Maude, who seemed to be much better, and for whomthere was constantly a prayer in his heart. 

'Spare her, and I will make reparation; I will tell the truth. '

He was trying to bribe the Lord to hear him, and there was some suchthought in his mind when he saw Jerrie in the door--tall, thin, andwhite from her recent sickness, with eyes which rolled, and shone, andflashed as Arthur's did sometimes, and falling at last upon Mrs. Tracy, where they rested with an intensity which must have drawn that lady'snotice to her, if Frank had not exclaimed, as he rose to his feet:

'Jerrie! How did you get here?'

Then all turned and looked at her, and crowded around her withexclamations of surprise and inquiries as to how she got there. 

For a moment Jerrie stood like one in a catalepsy, with no power to moveor speak, but when Mrs. Tracy came forward, and in her iciest tones saidto her: 'Good-afternoon, Miss Crawford. To what am I indebted for thisunexpected pleasure?' her faculties came back, her tongue was loosened, and she replied in a clear voice, which rang through the room like abell, and was, indeed, the knell to all the lady's greatness:

'I am here to claim my own, and to clear Harold from the foul suspicionheaped upon him--by whom, at first, I do not know, but it was helped onby you. I have seen the paper, have heard the whole from grandma, and amhere to defend him. It was I who gave him the diamonds! It was for me hekept silent, and let you think what you would. '

'You gave him the diamonds?' Mrs. Tracy repeated, as one by one all themembers of the party, even the judge and Tom, gathered close to her intheir astonishment. 'You gave him the diamonds! You! and have come toconfess yourself a--'

She never finished the sentence, for something in Jerrie's facefrightened her, while her husband, who had come forward, laid his handwarningly upon her arm. 

So absorbed were they all that no one saw the little white-robed girl, who, they supposed, was lying up stairs in her room, but who at thesound of Jerrie's voice had, in her eagerness to see her, crept down thestairs, and now stood in the door-way opposite to Jerrie, her large, bright eyes looking in wonder upon the scene, and her ears listeningintently to what was as new to her as it had been to Jerrie an hour ago. 

'Don't give me the name you have more than once given to Harold, ' Jerriesaid, as with a gesture she silenced Mrs. Tracy. 'The diamonds are mine, not yours. Can one steal his own?'

'Yours! Your diamonds! What do you mean?' Mrs. Tracy asked. 

'They were my mother's, ' Jerrie replied, 'and she sent them to me. '

They all thought her crazy except Frank, to whom there had come a horridpresentiment of the truth, and who had clutched hard his wife's arm asshe said questioningly, in a mocking, aggravating tone:

'And your mother was--?'

Then Jerrie stepped into the room, and stood in their midst like a queenamong her subjects as she answered:

'My mother was Marguerite Heinrich, of Wiesbaden, better known to you asGretchen; and my father is Arthur Tracy, and I am their lawful child. Itis so written here, ' and she held up the papers and the bag; 'I amJerrie Tracy!'

CHAPTER XLV. 

WHAT FOLLOWED. 

'Thank God that it is out! I couldn't have borne it much longer, ' leapedinvoluntarily from Frank's lips. 

No one heard it save Jerrie, and she scarcely heeded it then; for withone bound, as it seemed to the petrified spectators, who divided rightand left to let her pass, she reached the opposite door-way, andstooping over the little figure lying there so still, lifted ittenderly, and carrying it up stairs, laid it down in the room it wouldnever leave again until other hands than hers carried it out and laidit away in the Tracy lot, where only Jack and the dark woman were lyingnow. 

Maude had heard all Jerrie was saying, and understood it, too; and atthe words, 'I am Jerrie Tracy, ' she felt an electric thrill pass overher, like what she had experienced when watching the acting in somegreat tragedy; then all was darkness, and she knew no more until Jerriewas bending over her and she heard her mother saying:

'Leave her to me, Miss Crawford. You have done harm enough for one day. You have killed my daughter!'

'No!' Maude cried, exerting all her strength. 'She has not hurt me. Shemust not go, I want her; for if what she said is true, she is my owncousin. Oh, Jerrie, I am so glad!' and throwing her arms around Jerrie'sneck, Maude sobbed convulsively. 

As yet Maude saw only the good which had come to her, if the news weretrue; the evil had not yet been presented to her, and she clung tightlyto Jerrie, who, nearly distraught herself, did not know what to do. Sheknew that Mrs. Tracy looked upon her as an intruder, and possibly aliar; but she cared little for that lady's opinion. She only thought ofFrank and what he would say. 

Lifting up her head at last from the pillow where she had lain it for amoment, while Maude's thin little hands caressed the golden hair, shesaw him standing at the foot of the bed, taller, straighter than she hadseen him in years, with a look on his face which she knew was notadverse to herself. 

'Jerrie, ' he said, slowly and thickly, for something choked his speech, 'I can't tell you now all I feel, only I am glad for you and Arthur, butgladder for myself. '

What did he mean? Jerrie wondered; while Maude's eyes sought hisquestioningly, and his wife said, sharply:

'You are talking like a lunatic! Do you propose to give up so easily toa girl's bare word! Let Jerrie prove it, before she is mistress here. '

Then into Maude's eyes there crept a look of terror and pain, and shewhispered:

'Yes, Jerrie, prove it. There were papers in your hand, and a bag, andyou said, "It is so written here. " Bring the papers and read them tous--here in this room. I can bear it. I must hear them. I must know. ''Better let her have her way, ' Frank said; and Dolly could have knockedhim down, he spoke so cheerfully; while Jerrie answered:

'I can't read them myself aloud. They are written in German. '

'But Marian can. I saw her there. Let them all come up; they will haveto know, ' Maude persisted. 

After a moment, during which a powerful tonic had been given to hisdaughter, Frank went down to his guests, who were eagerly discussing thestrange story, which not one of them doubted in the least. 

In her haste to reach Maude, Jerrie had dropped the bag and the twopapers, which Judge St. Claire picked up and held for a moment in hishand; then passing the papers to Marian, he said:

'It can be no secret now, and Jerrie will not care. What do the paperscontain?'

Running her eyes rapidly over them, Marian said:

'The first is a certificate of marriage between Arthur Tracy andMarguerite Heinrich, who were married October 20th, 18--, in the Englishchurch at Wiesbaden, by the Rev. Mr. Eaton, then the officiatingclergyman. The second is a certificate of the birth and baptism ofJerrine, daughter of Arthur and Marguerite Tracy, who was born atWiesbaden, January 1st, 18--, and christened January 8th, 18--, by theRev. Mr. Eaton. '

Then a deep silence fell upon the group, while Tom stood like oneparalyzed. He understood the situation perfectly, and knew that ifJerrie was mistress there, he could never hope to be master. 

'May as well evacuate at once, ' he said at last, with an attempt tosmile as he walked slowly out of the house, which he felt was hisinheritance no longer. 

Just then Frank came down, saying that Maude insisted upon knowing whatwas in the papers which Marian was to read, while the others were tocome up and listen. He did not seem at all like a man who had lostanything, but bustled about cheerily; and when the judge said to himapologetically, 'We know the contents of two of the papers. They arecertificates of the marriage of Arthur with Gretchen, and of Jerrie'sbirth. I hope you don't mind if we read them, ' he answered, briskly. 

'Not at all--not in the least. Arthur and Gretchen! I thought so. Whereis Tom? He must hear the papers. '

He found his son under the true where he had been sitting the morningwhen Jerrie came near fainting there, and in his hand was a curious bitof pine finished like a grave-stone--the same he had whittled under thepines, and on which he was now carving, 'Euchred, August --, 18--. '

'This is the monument to our downfall, ' he said, as his father came upto him with something so pitiful in his face and voice that Frank gaveway suddenly, and, sitting down beside him, laid his hand upon his tallson's head and cried for a moment like a child, while Tom's chinquivered, and he was mortally afraid there was something like tears inhis own eyes, and he meant to be so brave and not show that he was hurt. 

'I am sorry for you, my boy, ' Frank said at last, 'but glad forJerrie--so glad--and she will not be hard on us. '

'I shall ask no favors of her. I can stand it if you can, though moneyis a good thing to have. '

And then, without in the least knowing why, he thought of Ann Eliza, andwondered how her ankle was getting along, and if he ought not to havecalled upon her again. 

'Marian is going to read the papers in Maude's room, and I have come foryou, ' Frank said. 

'I don't care to hear them, ' Tom replied. 'I am satisfied that we arebeggars, and Jerrie the heiress. '

But Frank insisted, and Tom went with him to his sister's room, followedby their friends, for whom the dinner was waiting and spoiling in thekitchen, where as yet no hint of what was transpiring had reached, savethe fact that Maude had been down stairs and fainted. She was proppedupon pillows scarcely whiter than her face save where two crimson spotsburned brightly, and her eyes were fixed constantly upon Jerrie, who satbeside her, holding her cold, clammy hands, which she occasionallypatted, and kissed and caressed. 

'Where did you find the bag?' the judge asked; and then Jerrie narratedthe particulars of her interview with Peterkin, whose destruction of thetable had resulted in her finding the bag with the diamonds in it. 'They were mother's, ' she said, the last words almost a sob, as sheturned her eyes upon Mrs. Tracy, who stood like a block of stone, withno sympathy or credulity upon her face. 'Father bought them for her atthe same time with Mrs. Tracy's, which they are exactly like. It is sowritten in her letter. And she sent them for me. They are mine and Igave them to Harold to keep untill I could think what to do. Thediamonds are mine. '

She was still looking at Mrs. Tracy, on whom all eyes were now restingas the precious stones flashed, and glittered, and shone in the sunlightin the hall in all the colors of the rainbow. 

For an instant the proud woman hesitated, then, quickly unclasping theear-rings and the pin, she laid them in Jerrie's lap. 

'You are welcome to your property, if it is yours, I am sure, ' she said, and was about to leave the room. 

But her husband kept her back. 

'No, Dolly, ' he said. 'You must stay, and hear, and know. It concerns usall. '

As he had closed the door and stood against it she had no alternativeexcept to stay, but she walked to the window and stood with her back tothem all, while Marian put into English and read, in a clear, distinctvoice, and without the least hesitation, that message from the dead. 

CHAPTER XLVI. 

THE LETTERS. 

There were four of them--two in Arthur's handwriting: one directed toMrs. Arthur Tracy, Wiesbaden, postmarked Liverpool; one to MargaretHeinrich, Wiesbaden, postmarked Shannondale; one in a strangehandwriting to Arthur Tracy, if living; and one to Arthur Tracy'sfriends if he were dead, or incapable of understanding it. And it wasthis last which Marian read; for as Arthur was living, she felt thatwith his letters strangers had nothing to do. The letter to the friends, which had evidently been written at intervals, as the writer's strengthwould permit, was as follows:

 'WIESBADEN, December ----, 18--, 'To the friends of Mr. Arthur Tracy, if he is dead, or incapable of understanding this letter, from his wife, who was Marguerite Heinrich, and whom he always called Gretchen. 

 'I want to tell you about it for the sake of my little Jerrie, whom, if her father is dead, I give to your care, praying God to deal with you as you are good and just to her. I was seventeen when I first saw Mr. Tracy. My father was dead. I was an only child, and my mother kept a little fancy shop in Wiesbaden. I went to school and learned what other girls like me learned--to read and write, and knit and sew, and fear God and keep His commandments. People called me pretty. I don't know that I was, but he told me so when he came to me one day as I was knitting under a tree in the park. He had a picture made of me as I was then, and it is on the wall, but I have pawned it for the rent, as I have almost everything. '

'Oh, Jerrie!' Marian exclaimed at this point. 

But Jerrie's face was buried in Maude's pillow and she made no response. So Marian read on:

 'He came many times, for I was always there waiting for him, I am afraid; but when he said he loved me, and wanted me for his wife I could not believe it, he was so grand, so like nobility, and I so poor and plain. Then mother died suddenly--oh, so suddenly--well to-day--dead to-morrow--with cholera, and I was left alone. 

 '"Gretchen we must he married now, " he said to me, the night after the funeral; and I answered him, "yes, we must be married;" and we were, the next day, in the little English Church, by Mr. Eaton, the pastor. You will find the certificate with the other papers. Do you ever remember a beautiful moonlight night, when the air was soft, and warm, and sweet with many summer flowers, and there was music in the distance, and heaven seemed so near that you could almost touch the blue lining which separates it from us? Well, just like that was my life with Arthur for a few months. Oh, how I loved him, and how he loved me! It frightened me sometimes, he was so fierce and--I don't know what the word is--so something in his love. He never left me a moment. He couldn't, he said, for I was his balance-wheel, and without me he was lost. I think now he was crazy then. I know he was afterward when he did such queer things and forgot so often--sometimes the house we lived in, sometimes his own name, and at last, me, his Gretchen! That was so sad, when he went away, and stayed away for weeks, and said he had forgotten. But he was sorry, too, and made it up, and for ten day heaven came down again so I could touch it; then he went away and I have never seen him since. 

 'You must excuse me, his friends--if I stop a little while to cry; it makes me no lonesome to think of the long years--four and more--which have been buried with the yesterdays, under the flowers, and under the snow, since Arthur went away and left me all alone. If I had told him, he might have come back, he was so fond of children; but I was not sure, and would not tell a lie, and let him go without a hint. I wrote him once I had something to tell him when he came which would make him glad, as it did me, and he never replied to it, though he wrote two or three times more, and sent me money, but did not tell me where he was, only he was being cured, he said--that was all. In January my baby was born, and I had her christened Jerrine, by Mr. Eaton. You will find it among the papers. Then, how I longed for him, and waited, and watched; but he never came, and I knew he had forgotten; but I did not doubt his love, or that he would one day come back; and I tried to improve myself and learn what was in books, so I could mate with him better when he came home, which he never did; and the years went on, and my little Jerrine grew more lovely every day. She is standing by me now, and says, "Are you writing to him?"

 'Darling Jerrie, you will be kind to her, won't you, for his sake, and for me, too, who will be dead when you yet this?'

Jerrie was sobbing now, and Maude's arm was around her neck, while Frankhad walked to a window, and, like his wife, was looking out upon thelawn, which he did not see for the tears which filled his eyes. 

 'When the money stopped, ' the letter went on, 'we grew so poor, Jerrie and I and Nannine--that is the French woman who lives with me and whom Jerrie calls Mah-nee. She will bring my child to you when I am dead; and oh, be kind to her, for a truer, more faithful woman never lived. She is such a comfort to me, except when she scolds about Arthur and calls him a _bête noire_, which he is not, as you will see. He was shut up, I don't know where, but think it was where they put people with bad heads, and he forget everything till he was out, and as far as Paris on his way to America. Then he remembered and wrote me from Liverpool such a letter--full of love and sorrow for the past, and sent me such lovely diamonds, just like those he had bought for his sister in America, he said--and he was going home at such a date on the Scotia, and he wished me to join him in Liverpool. I send the letter with this to prove that I write true. But it was too late, for I was too weak to travel; neither could I write to him, for he gave me no address. 'That was last September, and I have been dying ever since, for my heart broke when I thought of what was and what might have been could I have found him. The money he sent me then I am saving for Nannine and Jerrie to take them to America when I am dead. All the days and nights I prayed that Arthur might remember and write me again, and God heard, and he did; and five days ago I received his letter. So crazy it was, but just as full of love and tenderness and a desire to see me. He told me of his lovely home and the Gretchen room, where my picture is in the window; and in case there should be no one to meet me at the station when I arrived he sent me directions how to find Tracy Park, and told me just what to do when I reached New York. He would come for me himself, he said, only the sea made him so sick and he was afraid he should forget everything if he did. But you will see in his letter what he wrote and how fond he was of me; and if he is alive and too crazy to understand now, tell him, when he is better, how I loved him and prayed for him every hour that God would bring him, at last, where I am going so soon. Nannine will take him my Bible, with passages marked by me, and a photograph which I had taken a year ago, and which will tell you how I looked then. Now I am so thin and pale that Arthur would hardly know me. I send, too, a lock of Jerrie's hair, cut when she was three weeks old. Darling Jerrie! She is such a comfort to me, and so old and womanly for her years! She will remember much of our life here, for she notices everything and understands it, too, and goes over, as in a play, what she sees and hears. 

 'We have been cold and hungry sometimes; but not often; the neighbors are so kind; and when I am dead they will see that Nannine is made ready for America, with Jerrie; and the papers, and the diamonds, which I might have pawned when our need was greatest, but I could not. I must save them for Jerrie, and may she wear them some day, and many days in the years to come, when her mother is dust and ashes in the ground, but a glorified spirit in Paradise, where I shall watch over her, and, if I can, be with her often, and keep myself in her mind, so that she will never forget my face or the old home in Germany. 

 'God bless my little daughter, and make her a true, noble woman; and God bless you, Arthur's friends, who read this, and incline you to be kind and just to Jerrie, and see that she has her own; for there must be money at Tracy Park; and if you are poor and Jerrie comes rich, tell her from her mother to be kind to you, and give as you have given to her. Now I must stop, I am so tired, and it is growing dark, and Nannie has opened the stove door to let the light fall on the paper in my lap, and Jerrie is standing by me and says, "Are you going to God pretty soon?"

 'Yes, darling, very soon--to-night, perhaps, or to-morrow, or when He will. The air grows cold, the night is coming on, my eyes grow dim, my head is tired. I think, yes, I think it will be to-morrow. 

 'Good-bye. 

 'GRETCHEN TRACY. '

As she finished reading Marian arose, and going up to Jerrie kissed herlovingly and said to her in German:

'That was your mother's picture in our old home in Wiesbaden. I am soglad for you. '

A low sob was Jerrie's reply, and then Judge St. Claire asked:

'Is that all?'

'Yes, ' Marian said; 'All except Mr. Tracy's letters to Gretchen. Oh, no, ' she added; 'there is something more;' and feeling in the bag, shedrew out two small papers, one crumpled and worn, as if it had beenoften referred to, the other folded neatly and tied with a white ribbon. 

This Marian opened first, and found it to be a certificate, written inEnglish, to the effect that Mrs. Arthur Tracy, _née_ MargueriteHeinrich, died at such a date and was buried by the Rev. Mr. Bellows, the resident rector of the English church; the other was in Arthur'shandwriting, and the directions he had written to his wife, as to whatshe was to do and how to find Tracy Park. 

'Yes, ' Judge St. Claire said, coming forward and taking the paper fromher hand, 'this is what the station-master saw the poor woman examiningthat night in the storm. She probably dropped it into the bag withoutstopping to fold it. There can be no doubt. '

Then a deep silence reigned for a moment in the room, until Mrs. Tracy, who, all through the reading had stood like a block of granite by thewindow, turned and walking swiftly up to Jerrie, said, in a bitter tone:

'Of course there is no mistake. I do not doubt that you are mistresshere, and am ready to leave at once. Shall we pack up and quitto-night?'

'Dolly!' 'Mother!' came angrily and sternly from both Tom and Frank, and'Oh, mamma, please, ' came faintly from Maude, while Jerrie lifted up herhead, and looking steadily at the cruel woman, said:

'Why are you so hard with me? I cannot help it. I am not to blame. Imean to do right; only wait--a little. I am so sick now--so dizzy andblind. Oh, somebody lead me out where I can breathe. I am choking here. '

It was Tom who reached her first, and passing his arm around her, tookher into the open air and to a seat under the tree where once before shehad almost fainted, as she did now, with her head upon his shoulder, forhe put it there, and then pushed her hair back from her face as he saidlightly:

'Don't take it so hard; if we can stand it, you can!'

Then Jerrie straightened up and said:

'Oh, Tom, do you want to kill me now?'

'What do you mean?' he asked, and she replied:

'Don't you know you said under the pines that you would kill anyclaimant to Tracy Park who might appear against you?'

'I remember it, ' Tom said, 'but I didn't think then that the claimantwould be Jerrie, my cousin, ' and he put his arm around her as hecontinued: 'I can't say that I am not awfully cut up to be turned neckand heels out of what I believed would be my own, but if it must be, Iam glad it is you who do it, for I know you'll not be hard upon us, orlet Uncle Arthur be, even if mother is so mean. Remember, Jerrie, that Iloved you and asked you to be my wife when I believed you poor andunknown. '

Tom was very politic and was speaking good words for himself, but allthe good there was in him seemed now to be on the surface and whileinwardly rebelling at his misfortune, he felt a thrill of joy in knowingthat Jerrie was his cousin, and would not be hard upon him. 

'Shall we go back to the house?' he said at last, and they went back, meeting the people upon the piazza, where they stopped for a momentwhile Jerrie's hands were shaken, and she was kissed and congratulatedthat at last the mystery was cleared, and her rights restored to her. 

'Mr. Arthur Tracy ought to be here, ' Judge St. Claire said. 

'Yes, I'd thought of that, ' Tom replied, first, 'and shall telegraph himto-morrow, '

Then they said good night, and without going in to see either Mr. OrMrs. Tracy again, Tom and Jerry walked slowly toward the cottage, through the leafy woods, where the trees met in graceful archesoverhead, and the moonlight fell in silver flecks upon the grass, andthe summer air was odorous and sweet with the smell of the pines and thebalm of Gilead trees scattered here and there. It was a lovely place, and Tom thought so with a keen sense of pain, as, after leaving Jerrieat her gate, he walked slowly back until he reached the four pines, where he sat down to think and wonder what he should do as a poor man, with neither business nor prospects. 

'I don't suppose the governor has laid up much, ' he said, 'for sinceUncle Arthur came home he has done very little business, and has spentwhat really was his own recklessly and without a thought of saving, hewas so sure to have enough at last, and Uncle Arthur was so free to giveus what we asked for. But that will end when he knows he has a daughter, and as he never fancied me much, I shall either have to beg, or work, orstarve, or marry a rich wife, which is not so easy for a poor dog to do. I don't suppose that Governor's daughter would look at me now, noranyone else who is anybody. By George, I ought to have called on AnnEliza before this time. I wonder if it's too late to go there now. Ibelieve I'll walk round there anyway, and if I see a light, I'll go in, and if old _paterfamilias_--how I'd like to kick him--is there, I'lltell him the news, and that I know now he did not strike Jerrie with thetable-leg, and perhaps I'll apologize for what I said when in the car. Tom Tracy, you are a scoundrel, and no mistake, ' he added, with energy, as he arose, and struck into the field, through which he had dragged AnnEliza the night of the storm. 

There were lights at Le Bateau, and Tom was soon shaking hands with old_paterfamilias_, who was at home, and with Ann Eliza, who was now ableto come down stairs. 

CHAPTER XLVII. 

ARTHUR. 

He had enjoyed himself immensely, from the moment he first caught sightof grand old Pike's Peak on the distant plains until he entered the cityof the Golden Gate, and, standing on the terrace of the Cliff House, looked out upon the blue Pacific, with the sea lions disporting on therocks below. For he went there first, and then to China-town, andexplored every nook and corner, and opium den in it, and drank tea attwenty dollars a pound in a high-toned restaurant, and visited thetheatre and the Joss House, and patronized the push-cars, as he calledthem, every day, and experienced a wonderful exhilaration of spirits, ashe sat upon the front seat, with the fresh air blowing in his face, andonly the broad, steep street, lined with palaces, before him. 

'This is heaven! this clears the cobwebs!' he would say to Charles, whosat beside him with chattering teeth and his coat-collar pulled highabout his ears, for the winds of San Francisco are cold even in thesummer. 

Arthur's first trip was to the Yosemite, taking the Milton route, andmeeting with the adventure he so much desired; for in the early morning, between Chinese Camp and Priest's, the stage was suddenly stopped by twomasked marauders, one of whom stood at the horses' heads, while theother confronted the terrified passengers with the blood-curling words:

'Hands up, every soul of you!'

And the hands went up from timid women and strong men, until click-dickcame in rapid succession from the driver's box, where Arthur sat, andshot after shot followed each other, one bullet grazing the ear of thehighwayman at the horses' head, and another cutting through the slouchedhat of his comrade near the stage. 

'Leave, or I'll shoot you dead! I've five more shots in this one, andtwo more revolvers in my pockets, and I'm not afraid!' Arthur yelled, jumping about like a maniac, as for the time being he was, and sostartling the robbers that they fled precipitately, followed for alittle distance by Arthur, who leaped from the stage and started inpursuit, with a revolver in each hand, and ball after ball flying aheadof him as he ran. 

When at last he came back, the passengers flocked around him, graspinghis hands and blessing him as the preserver of their money, if not oftheir lives. After that Arthur was a lion, whom all people in the valleywished to see and talk with, and with whom the landlord bore as he hadnever borne with a guest before, for Arthur found fault with the rooms, which he likened to bath-tubs, and fault with the smells which came fromthe river, and fault with the smoke in the parlour, but made ampleamends by the money he spent so lavishly, the scores of photographs hebought, and the puffs he wrote for the San Francisco papers, extollingthe valley as the very gate of heaven, and the hotel as second only tothe Palace, and signing himself "Bumble Bees. "

He went on every trail, and started for the highest possible peak, andwhen he stood on the top of old Capitan and looked down upon the worldbelow, he capered and shouted like a madman, singing at the top of hisvoice, "Mine eye have seen the coming of the glory of the Lord, glory, glory, hallelujah!" until the rocky gorges rang with the wild echoeswhich went floating down the valley below, where the sun was shining sobrightly and the grass was growing so green. 

On his return to San Francisco after an absence of several weeks, hetook up his abode at the Palace Hotel, which he turned topsy-turvy withhis vagaries; but as in the valley, so here in the city, the landlordcould afford to bear much from one who spent his money so freely andpaid so lavishly; and so he was allowed to change rooms every day if heliked, and half the plumbers in the city were called in to see whatcaused the smells which he declared worse than anything he had ever metin his life, and which were caused in part by the disinfectants which hebought by the wholesale and kept in his bath room, his wash-room, andunder his bed, until the chambermaid tied her nose in camphor when shewent in to do her work. 

But his career was brought to a close suddenly one morning in August, when, just as he was taking his coffee and rolls in his room, Charlesbrought him the following telegram:

 'Come immediately. There's the devil to pay. 

 'TOM TRACY. '

Arthur read the message two or three times, not at all disturbed by it, but vastly amused at its wording; then, putting it down, he went on withhis breakfast until it was finished, when he took a card from his pocketand wrote upon it:

 'Pay him then, for I sha'n't come. ARTHUR TRACY. '

This was handed to Charles with instructions to forward it to TracyPark. This done, he gave no further thought to the message so full ofsuch import to himself, but began to talk of and plan his contemplatedtrip to Tacoma by the next steamer which sailed. It was six o'clock whenhe had his dinner in his own private parlour, where he was served byboth Charles and a waiter, and where a second telegram was brought him. 

'Confound it, ' he said, 'have they nothing to do at home but to tormentme with telegrams? Didn't I tell them to pay the old Harry and have donewith it? What do they mean?' and putting the envelope down by his platehe went quietly on with his dinner until he was through, when he took itup, and, breaking the seal, read:

 'Come at once. I need you. JERRIE. '

That changed everything, and with a bound he was in the next room, gesticulating fiercely, and ordering Charles to step lively and geteverything in readiness to start home on the first eastward bound trainwhich left San Francisco. 

'That rascally Tom is a liar, ' he said. 'It's not the old Harry to pay. It's Jerrie. Do you hear, it's Jerrie. Bring me some paper, quick, anddon't stand staring at me as if I were a lunatic. It's Jerrie who needsme. '

Charles brought the paper, on which his master wrote:

 'Coming on the wings of the wind, Yours respectfully, 'ARTHUR TRACY. '

In less than half an hour this singular message was flying along thewires across the continent, and within a few hours Arthur was followingit as fast as the steam horse could take him. 

CHAPTER XLVIII. 

WHAT THEY WERE DOING AND HAD DONE IN SHANNONDALE. 

If the earth had opened suddenly and swallowed up half the inhabitantsof Shannondale the other half could not have been more astonished thanthey were at the news which Peterkin was the first to tell them, andwhich he had risen very early to do, before some one else should bebefore him. Irascible and quick-tempered as he was, he was easilyappeased, and the fact that Jerrie was Arthur Tracy's daughter changedhis opinion of her at once. 

'The biggest heiress in the county except my Ann 'Liza, and, by gum, I'mglad on't for her and Arthur. I allus said she was hisen, and by George, to think that I helped her into her fortin, for if I hadn't of knockedthat rotten old table down she'd of never found them memoirs, ' he saidto the first person to whom he communicated the news, and then hurriedoff to buttonhole and enlighten others, until everybody knew and wasdiscussing the strange story. 

Before noon scores of people had found it in their way to walk past thecottage, hoping to catch sight of Jerrie, while several went in and toldher how glad they were for her and Mr. Arthur, and looked at her withwondering eyes as if she were not quite the same girl they had known asJerrie Crawford. 

When, the previous night, Mrs. Crawford had listened to the story Jerrietold her after her return from the Park House, she had been for a fewmoments stupefied with amazement, and had sat motionless on her chairuntil she felt Jerrie's soft hands upon her head smoothing her silveryhair, and Jerrie's voice said to her:

'Dear grandma, I told you your working days were over, and they are, forwhat is mine is yours and Harold's, and my home is your home always, solong as you live. '

The poor old lady put her head upon Jerrie's arm and cried hystericallyfor a moment; then she rallied, and brushing away her tears, kissed theyoung girl who had been so much to her, and whom for a brief moment shefeared she might have lost. Far into the night they sat, talking of thepast and the future, and of Harold, who was in Tacoma, where he mighthave to remain for three or four weeks longer. He had written severaltimes to his grandmother and once to Jerrie, but had made no mention ofthe diamonds, while in her letters to him Mrs. Crawford had refrainedfrom telling him what some of the people were saying, and theconstruction they were putting upon his absence. Jerrie had not yetwritten to him, but, 'I shall to-morrow, ' she said, 'and tell him tohurry home, for I need him now, if ever. '

Jerrie was very tired when she went at last to bed, but the dreamlesssleep which came upon her, and which lasted until a late hour in themorning, did her good, and probably saved her from a relapse, whichmight have proved fatal. Still she was very pale and weak when she wentdown stairs about nine o'clock and found Tom waiting for her. He hadbeen up since sunrise, strolling through the park, with a troubled, sorry look on his face for he was extremely sorry for himself, thoughvery glad for Jerrie, whose sworn ally he was and would be to the end. In a way he had tried to comfort his mother by telling her that neitherhis uncle nor Jerrie would be unjust to her, if she'd only behaveherself, and treat the latter as she ought, and not keep up such a highand mighty and injured air, as if Jerrie had done something wrong infinding out who she was. 

But Dolly would not be comforted, and her face wore a sullen, defiantexpression, as she moved about the handsome house where she had queenedit so long that she really looked upon it as her own, resenting bitterlythe thought that another was to be mistress there. She had talked withher husband, and made him tell her exactly how much he was worth in hisown right, and when he told her how little it was, she had exclaimed, angrily:

'We are beggars, and may as well go back to Langley and sell codfishagain. '

She had seen Tom that morning, and when to her question, 'Why are you upso early?' he replied, 'To attend to Jerrie's affairs, ' she tossed herhead scornfully, and said: 'Before I'd crawl after any girl, much lessJerrie Crawford! You'd better be attending to your own sister. She'sworse this morning, and looks as if she might die any minute. '

Then Tom went to Maude, who, since the shock of the night before, hadlain as if she were dead, except for her eyes, in which there was a newand wondrous light, and which looked up lovingly at Tom as he came inand kissed her, a most unusual thing for him to do. 

'Dear Tom, ' she whispered, 'come closer to me, ' and as he bent down toher, she continued, 'is every thing Jerrie's?'

'Yes, or will be. She is Uncle Arthur's daughter. '

'Shall we be very poor?'

'Yes, poor as a church mouse. '

Then there was a pause, and when Maude spoke again she said slowly:

'For me, no matter--sorry for you, and father and mother; but glad forJerrie. Stand by her, Tom; tell mother not to be so bitter--it hurts me. Tell Harold, when he comes, I meant to do so much for him, but Jerriewill do it instead. Tell her I must see her, and send for Uncle Arthur. '

There was a lump in Tom's throat as he left his sister's room, and goingto the village, telegraphed to his uncle's head-quarters at the PalaceHotel, San Francisco, that he was to come at once. 

At least a hundred people stopped him on his way to the office, askingif what they had heard was true, and to all he replied:

'True as the gospel; we are floored, as Peterkin would say. '

And then he hurried to the cottage to see Jerrie, and tell her of themessage sent to Arthur, though not how it was worded After a moment hecontinued, hesitatingly, as if half ashamed of it:

'I called at _Lubbertoo_ last night to enquire after Ann Eliza's foot, and you ought to have seen Peterkin when I told him the news. At firsthe could not find any word in his vocabulary big enough to swear by, butafter a little one came to him, and what do you think it was?'

Jerrie could not guess, and Tom continued. 

He said, "by the great Peterkin!" and then he swowed, and vowed, andsnummed, and vummed, and dummed, and finally said he was glad of it, and had always known you were a Tracy. Ann Eliza was so glad she cried, and I think Billy cried, too, for he left the room suddenly, with verysuspicious-looking eyes. Why, everybody is glad for you, Jerrie, andnobody seems to think how mean it is for us; but I'm not going to whine. I'm glad it's you, and so is Maude, and she wants to see you. I believeshe's going to die, and--and--Jerrie--'

Something choked Tom for a moment, then he went on:

'If Uncle Arthur should get high, and order us out at once, as fatherseems to think he will, you'll--you'll--let us stay while Maude lives, won't you?'

'Tom, ' Jerrie said, reproachfully, 'What do you take me for, and whydoes your father think his brother will order him out?'

'I don't know, ' Tom replied, 'but he seems awfully afraid to meet him. Mother says he was up all night walking the floor and talking tohimself, and yet he says he is glad, and he is coming this morning tosee you and talk it over. I believe I hear him now speaking to Mrs. Crawford. Yes, 'tis he; so I guess I'll go; and when I hear from mytelegram I'll let you know. Good-bye. '

A moment after Tom left the room his father entered it, looking haggardand old, and frightened, too, it seemed to Jerrie, as she went forwardto meet him with a cheery 'good-morning, Uncle Frank. '

It was the first time she had addressed him by that name, and her smilewas so bright and her manner so cordial that for an instant the cloudlifted from his face, but soon came back darker than ever as he declinedthe seat she offered him and stood tremblingly before her. 

Frank had not slept a wink the previous night, nor had he been in bed, but had walked his room until his wife said to him angrily:

'I thought you were glad; seems to me you don't act like it; but forpity's sake stop walking, or go somewhere else do it and not keep meawake. '

Then he went into the hall outside, and there he walked the livelongnight, trying to think what he should say to Jerrie, and wondering whatshe would say to him, for he meant to tell her everything. Nothing couldprevent his doing that; and as soon as he thought she would see him hestarted for the cottage, taking with him the Bible, the photograph andthe letter he had secreted so long. All the way there, he was repeatingto himself the form of speech with which he should commence, but whenJerrie said to him, so graciously, 'Good morning, Uncle Frank, ' thewords left him, and he began, impetuously;

'Don't call me uncle. Don't speak to me, Jerrie, until you have heardwhat I have come to confess on my knees, with my white head upon thefloor, if you will it so, and that would not half express the shame andremorse with which I stand before you and tell you I am a cheat, a liar, a villain, and have been since that day when I first saw you and thatdead woman we thought your mother. '

Jerrie was dumb with surprise, and did not speak or move as he went onrapidly, telling her the whole, with no attempt at an excuse forhimself, except so far as to report what he had done in a business pointof view, making provision for her in case of his death and enjoining itupon his children to see that his wishes were carried out. 

'Here is the Bible, ' he said, laying the book in her lap. 'Here is thephotograph, and here the letter which you gave me to post, and which, had it been sent, might have cleared the mystery sooner. '

He had made his confession, and he stood before her with clasped handsand an expression upon his face such as a criminal might wear whenawaiting the jury's decision. But Jerrie neither looked at him norspoke, for through a rain of tears she was gazing upon the sweet face, sadder and thinner than the face of Gretchen in the window, but so likeit that there could be no mistaking it, and so like to the face whichhad haunted her so often, and seemed so near to her. 

'Mother, mother! I remember you as you are here, sick and sorry, but oh, so lovely!' she said, as she pressed her lips again and again to thepicture, with no thought or care for the wretched man who had come astep nearer to her, and who said at last:

'Will you never speak to me, Jerrie? Never tell me how much you despiseme?'

'Then she looked up at the face quivering with anguish and entreaty, andthe sight melted her at once. Indeed, as he had talked she had scarcelyfelt any resentment toward him, for she was sure that though his errorhad been great, his contrition and remorse had been greater, and shethought of him only as Maude's father and the man who had always beenkind to her. And she made him believe at last that she forgave him forMaude's sake, if not for his own. 

'Had my life been a wretched one because of your conduct, ' she said, 'Imight have found it harder to forgive you, but it has not. I have notbeen the daughter of Tracy Park, it is true, but I have been the pettedchild of the cottage, and I would rather have lived with Harold inpoverty all these years than to have been rich without him. And do youknow, I think it was noble in you to tell me, when you might have keptit to yourself. '

'No, no. I couldn't have done that much longer, ' he exclaimed, energetically, as he began to walk up and down the room. 'I could notbear it. And the shadow which for years has been with me night and day, counselling me for bad, was growing so black, and huge, and unendurablethat I must have confessed or died. But it is gone now, or will be whenI have told my brother. '

'Told your brother! Mr. Tracy--Uncle Frank--you cannot mean to do that?'Jerrie exclaimed. 

'But I do mean to do it, ' Frank replied, 'as a part of my punishment, and he will not forgive as you have done. He will turn me out at once, as he ought to do. '

Jerrie thought this very likely, and with all her powers she strove todissuade Frank from making a confession which could do no possible good, and might result in untold harm. 

'Remember Maude, ' she said, 'and the effect this thing would have uponher if your brother should resort to immediate and violent means, as hemight in his first frenzy. '

'But, I mean to tell Maude, too, ' Frank replied. 

Then Jerrie looked upon him as madder than Arthur himself, and talked sorapidly and argued so well that he consented at last to keep his owncounsel, for the present at least, unless the shadow still haunted him, in which case he must tell as an act of contrition or penance. 

'He will think the photograph came with the other papers in the bag, 'Jerrie said, as she kissed the sweet face, which looked so much likelife that it was hard to think there was not real love and tenderness inthe eyes which looked into hers so steadfastly. 

It was the hardest to forgive the letter hidden so long, and Jerrie didfeel a pang of resentment, or something like it, as she took it in herhand and thought of the day when Arthur had confided it to her, sayinghe could trust her when he could not another. And she had trusted Frank, who had not been true to the trust, and here, after the lapse of years, was the letter, in her hands, with its singular superscription, coveringits whole side, and its seal unbroken. But she would break it now. Surely she might do that, if Arthur was never to see it; and after amoment's hesitancy, she opened it, and read, first, wild, crazysentences, full of love and tenderness for the little Gretchen to whomthey were addressed, and whom the writer sometimes spoke to as living, and again as dead. There was the expression of a strong desire to seeher, a wish for her to come where her husband was waiting for her, andher diamonds too. Here Jerrie started with an exclamation of surprise, and involuntarily read aloud:

'The most exquisite diamonds you ever saw, and I long to see them onyou. They are safe, too--safe from her--Mrs. Frank Tracy--who had theboldness to flaunt them in my face at a party the other night. How shecame by them I can't guess; but I know how she lost them, I found themon her dressing-table, where she left them when she went to breakfast, and took possession at once. That was no theft, for they are mine, orrather yours, and are waiting for you in my private drawer, where no onehas ever looked, except a young girl called Jerrie, who interests megreatly, she is so much like what you must have been when a child. Therehas been some trouble about the diamonds--I hardly know what, my head isin such a buzzing most of the time that everything goes from me but you. Oh, if I had remembered you years ago as I do now--'

Jerrie could read no further, for the letter dropped from her hands, asshe cried joyfully:

'I knew he had them. I was sure of it, though I did not know where theywere. '

Then very briefly she explained to Frank that on the morning when thediamonds were missed, Arthur was so excited because Harold had been in away accused, and had rambled off into German, and said many things whichmade her know that he had taken them himself and secreted them. 

'You remember my sickness, ' she said, and how strangely I talked ofgoing to prison as an accessory or a substitute? Well, it was for yourbrother I was ready to go; and when he told me, as he did one day, thathe knew nothing of the diamonds, I was never more astonished in my life;but afterward, as I grew older, I came to believe that he had forgottenthem, as he did other things, and that some time he would remember andmake restitution, I am glad we know where they are, but we cannot getthem until he returns. When do you think that will be?'

Frank did not know. It would depend, he said, upon whether he was in SanFrancisco when Tom's telegram was received. If he were and started atonce, travelling day and night, he would be home in a week. 

It seemed a long time to wait in Jerrie's state of mind, and very, veryshort to the repentant man, who shrank from his brother's return as froman impending evil, although it was a relief to think that he need nottell him what a hypocrite he had been. 

'Thank you, Jerrie, ' he said at last, as he rose to go, 'Thank you forbeing so kind to me. I did not deserve it. I did not expect it. Heavenbless you. I am glad for you, and so is Maude. Oh, Jerrie, heaven isdealing hard with me to take her from me, and yet it is just. I sinnedfor her; sinned to see her in the place I was sure was yours, althoughthe shadow was always telling me that I did not and never could know forsure that you were Arthur's child; but I did, and I meant to go toGermany some day, when I had the language a little better, and clear itup, and then I had promised myself to tell you. Will you lay again thatyou forgive me before I go back to Maude?'

He was standing before her with his white head dropped upon his hat, thevery picture of misery and remorse, and Jerrie laid her hand upon hishead, and said:

'I do forgive you, Uncle Frank, fully and freely, for Maude's sake if noother; and if she lives what is mine shall be hers. Tell her so, andtell her I am coming to see her as soon as I am able, I am so tiredto-day, and everything is so strange. Oh, if Harold were here. '

Jerrie was indeed so tired and exhausted that for the remainder of theday she lay upon the couch in her room, seeing no one but Judge St. Claire and Tom, both of whom came up together, the latter bringing theanswer to his telegram, and asking what to do next. 

'Why, Tom, ' Jerrie said, as she read Arthur's reply, 'pay him then, forI shan't come, ' what does he mean? What did you say to him, and whom areyou to pay?'

With a half comical smile Tom replied, 'I told him the Old Nick was topay, though I am afraid I used a stronger name for his Satanic majestythan that. I guess you'll have to try what you can do. '

And so Jerrie's message, 'I need you, ' went across the continent, andbrought the ready response, 'coming on the wings of the wind. ' It wasJudge St. Claire who wrote to Harold, for Jerrie's nerveless fingerscould not grasp the pen, and she could only dictate what she wished thejudge to say. 

'Tell him everything, ' she said, 'and how much I want him here; and tellhim, too, of Maude, whose life hangs on a thread. That may bring himsooner. '

It was three days before Jerrie went again to the Park House, and thenTom came for her, saying Maude was failing very fast. The shock whichhad come upon her so suddenly with regard to Jerrie's birth and thesuspicions resting upon Harold had shortened the life nearing its close, and the moment Jerrie entered the room she knew the worst, and with astorm of sobs and tears knelt by the sick girl's couch and cried:

'Oh, Maude, Maude, I can't bear it. I'd give up everything to save you. Oh, Maude, Maude, you don't know how much I love you!'

Maude was very calm, though her lips quivered a little and the tearsfilled her eyes as she put her hand caressingly upon Jerrie's goldenhair. A great change had come over Maude since the night when she heardJerrie's strange story--a change for the better some might have thought, although the physician who attended her gave no hope. She neithercoughed nor suffered pain, and could talk all she liked, although oftenin a whisper, she was so very weak. 'Yes, Jerrie, ' she said, 'I knowyou love me, and it makes me very glad, and dying seems easier for it;for, Jerrie, oh, Jerrie! once before I knew about you, and when I fearedI might die, I wrote something on paper for father to see when I wasdead, and it was that he should take you in my place, you and Harold. '

Maude's voice shook a little here, but she soon steadied it and went on:

'I wanted him to give you what I thought would be mine had I lived, andwhat all the time was yours. Oh, Jerrie, how can you help hating me, whohave stood so long where you ought to have stood, and enjoyed what youought to have enjoyed?'

'Maude, ' Jerrie cried, as she kissed the little wan face, 'don't talklike that; as if I, or any one, could ever have hated you. Why, Iworshiped you as some little empress when I used to see you in yourbright sashes and yellow kid boots, with the amber beads around yourneck; and if the contrast between your finery and my high-necked ginghamapron and white sun-bonnet sometimes struck me painfully, I had no wishto take the boots and sashes from you, whom they fitted so admirably;and as we grew older and you did not shrink from or slight JerrieCrawford, I cannot tell you how great was the love which grew in myheart for you, the dearest girl friend I ever had, and a thousand timesdearer now that I know you are my cousin. '

Maude was silent for a moment, and then she asked abruptly:

'Jerrie, why did you never fall in love with Harold?'

'Oh, Maude!' and Jerrie started as if Maude had struck her, while thetell-tale blood rushed to her face, and into her eyes there came a lookwhich even Maude could not understand. 

'Jerrie, ' she exclaimed, 'forgive me. I didn't know, I never guessed, Iwas go stupid; but I have been thinking so much since Harold went away. Does he know about you? who you are? and how long before he will comehome?'

'Judge St. Claire wrote him everything three days ago, ' Jerrie replied, 'and told him how sick you were. That will surely bring him at once, ifit is possible for him to leave; but it will he three or four days nowbefore the letter will reach him, and take a week for him to come. Wouldyou like to see him very much?'

'Yes, ' Maude answered with a sob, 'very much, but I never shall. Jerrie, did Harold ever--did he--does he--love you?'

'He never told me so, ' Jerrie answered, frankly; 'but I have thoughtthat he loved you'

'N--no, ' Maude answered, piteously, with the great tears in her eyes. 'It is all a mistake, and when I am dead and Harold comes, promise totell him something from me, will you?'

'Yes, ' Jerrie answered, and Maude continued:

'Tell him the very first time you and he are alone together, and speakof me, that I have been thinking and thinking until it came to me clearas day that it was all a mistake, a stupid blunder on my part. I wasalways stupid, you know; but I believe my brain is a little clearer now. Will you tell him, Jerrie?'

'Mistake about what?' Jerrie asked with a vague apprehension that thetask imposed upon her might not be a pleasant one if she know all itinvolved. 

'Harold will tell you what, ' Maude answered 'He will understand what Imean, and you must tell him, for I shall not be here when he comes, I amsure of it. I hope to live till Uncle Arthur comes, for I must see himand ask him not to be hard on poor father, and tell him that I am sorrythat I have been so long in your place where you should have been. Youwill stay here when he comes, and be with me to the last. I want youwith me--want you to hold my hand when I say good-bye for ever. You areso strong that I shall not be afraid with you to see and hear as long asI hear and see anything. '

'And are you afraid?' Jerrie asked, and Maude replied:

'Of the death struggle, yes; but not what lies beyond where He is, theSaviour, for I know I am going to Heaven; and when you think me asleep Iam often praying silently for more faith and love, and for you all, thatyou may one day come where I soon shall be. Heaven is very, verybeautiful, for I have seen it in my dreams--a material heaven some wouldsay, for there are trees and flowers, and grass; and on a golden bench, beneath a tree whose leaves are like emeralds, and whose blossoms arelike pearls, I am sitting, on the bank of a shining river, resting, resting, and waiting, as little Pilgrim waited for the coming of theMaster, and for you all. '

Maude was very tired now, and her voice was so low that Jerrie couldscarcely hear it, while the eyelids drooped heavily, and in a fewmoments she fell asleep, with a rapt look on her as if she were alreadyresting on the golden seat beneath the tree whose leaves were emeraldsand whose blossoms were like pearls. 

That night Jerrie wrote as follows:

 'Dear Harold, come home as soon as you can, for Maude is very low, and, unless you come soon, you will never see her again. The judge has written you of me, but I must tell you myself that nothing can ever change me from the Jerrie of old; and the fact which makes me the happiest is that now I can help you who have been so kind to me. How I long to see you and talk it all over. We expect Mr. Arthur in a few days. I cannot call him father yet, until he has given me the right to do so by calling me daughter first; but to myself I am calling Gretchen mother all the time--dear, sweet, darling little mother! Oh, Harold, you must come home and share my happiness. Truly Harold, you ought to see how stiffly Mrs. Tracy carries herself toward me--stiffer, if possible, than she did when I came up the front steps in my muddy shoes and she bade me go round to the back door. Poor Mrs. Tracy!'

During the next few days Jerrie stayed with Maude, who constantly grewweaker and weaker, and who asked about every hour if anything had beenheard from her uncle since his message that he was coming. 

'I shall never see Harold, ' she said to Jerrie; but I must live tilluncle Arthur comes, and you are put in your right place. '

And at last, one lovely September morning, a telegram was brought toFrank from Charles, which said the travellers would be home thatafternoon, and that the carriage must be sent to meet them. 

CHAPTER XLIX. 

TELLING ARTHUR. 

Who should do the telling was the question which for some time wasdiscussed by Frank and Judge St. Claire and Jerrie. Naturally the taskfell upon the latter, who for three or four days prior to Arthur'sarrival remained altogether at the Park House, watching by Maude, andgoing over and over again in her mind what she should say and how sheshould commence. 

At last the announcement came that Arthur was in Albany, and then itseemed to Jerrie that she had suddenly turned into stone, for everythought and feeling had left her, and she had no plan or action orspeech as she moved mechanically about Arthur's rooms, making thembright with flowers, especially the Gretchen room, which seemed a bowerof beauty when her skilful hands had finished it. Once, as she waspassing through the hall with her arms full of flowers she met Mrs. Tracy, whose face wore a most forbidding expression as she said:

'I hope you will leave a few flowers for Maude. You know she likes themso much. '

Jerrie made no reply, but by the pang of resentment which shot throughher heart at the smallness of the woman, she knew she was not past allfeeling, and that there was still something human in the stone, as shehad styled herself. 

Slowly the day wore on, every minute seeming an hour, and every hour aday, until at last Jerrie heard the carriage driving down the avenue, and not long after the whistle of the engine in the distance. Then, bending over Maude and kissing her fondly, she said:

'Pray for me, darling, I am going to meet my father. '

Arthur had been very quiet during the first part of the journey from SanFrancisco, and it was with difficulty that Charles could get a word fromhim. 

'Let me alone, ' he said once, when spoken to. 'I am with Gretchen. Sheis on the train with me, and I'm trying to make out what it is she istelling me. '

But after Chicago was left behind his mood changed, and he became aswild and excitable as he had before been abstracted and silent. Sometimes he was on the top of old Capitan, looking down into the valleybelow, and singing 'glory, hallelujah, ' at the top of his voice, whilethe startled passengers kept aloof from him as from a lunatic. Again hewas out upon the platform urging the conductor to greater speed; andwhen at last Shannondale was reached, he bounded from the car upon theplatform before the train stopped, and was collaring Rob, the coachman, and demanding of him to know what was the matter with Jerrie, and why hehad been sent for. Rob, who had received his instructions to be whollynon-committal answered stolidly that nothing was the matter with Jerrie, but that Miss Maude was very sick and probably would not live many days. 

'Is that all?' Arthur said, gloomily, as he entered the carriage. 'I donot see what the old Harry has to do with Maude's dying, and certainlyTom's telegram said something about that chap. I have it in my pocket. Yes, here it is. "Come immediately. The devil is to pay. " That doesn'tmean Maude. There is something else Rob has not told me. 'Here, yourascal, you are keeping something from me! What is it? Out with it!' heshouted to the driver, as he thrust his head from the carriage window, where he kept it, and in this way was driven to the door of the ParkHouse, where Frank was waiting for him outside, and where, inside, Jerrie stood, holding fast to the banisters of the stairs, her heartthrobbing wildly one moment, and the next seeming to lie pulseless as apiece of lead. 

She heard Arthur's voice as he came up the steps, speaking to Frank, andasking why he had been sent for; and the next moment she saw himentering the hall, tall and erect, but with the wild look in his eyeswhich she knew so well, but which changed at once to a softer expressionas they fell upon her. 

'Cherry, you here!' he cried, with a joyful ring in his voice as hesprang to her side and kissed her forehead and lips. 

Then Jerrie grew calm instantly, although she could scarcely restrainherself from falling on his neck and sobbing out, 'Oh, my father! I amyour daughter Jerrie!' But the time for this had not come, and when hequestioned her eagerly as to why she had sent for him, she onlyreplied:

'Maude is very sick. But come with me to your rooms, and I will tell youeverything. '

'Then there is the deuce to pay; I thought so, ' he said, as he followedher upstairs into the Gretchen room, where he stood for a moment, amazedat the effect produced by the flowers and vines which Jerrie hadarranged so skilfully, 'It is like Eden, ' he said, 'and Gretchen is herewith me. Darling Gretchen!' he continued, as he walked up to the pictureand kissed the lovely face which, it seemed to Jerrie, smiled inbenediction upon them both, the husband and the daughter, as they stoodthere side by side, Jerrie's hands resting on his shoulder, which shepressed hard, as if to steady herself, while he talked to the inanimateface before him. 

'Have you been lonesome, Gretchen, and are you glad to have me backagain! Poor little Gretchen!' And now he turned to Jerrie, who was paleto the lips, and said: 'It all came to me on the top of those mountainsabout Gretchen--who she was, and how I forgot her so long--that is thestrangest of all; and, Cherry, ' here his voice dropped to a whisper, 'Iknow for sure that Gretchen is dead--that came to me, too. '

'Yes, Gretchen is dead, ' Jerrie answered him, with the sound of a sob inher own voice, while her hands tightened their grasp on his shoulder, asshe went on; 'I have had a message from Gretchen, and that is why wesent for you. '

Jerrie's hands were not strong enough to hold him then, and, wrenchinghimself from her, he stood confronting her with a look more like that ofa maniac than any she had ever seen in him before, and which might havefrightened one with nerves less strong than Jerrie's. But she was notafraid, and a strange calmness fell upon her, now that she had actuallyreached a point where she must act, and her eyes, which looked sosteadily into Arthur's, held them fast, even while he interrogated herrapidly. 

'A message from Gretchen! How, when, and where is it? Give it to mequick, or tell me about it? Where is she, and when is she coming?'

'Never!' answered Jerrie sadly. 'I told you she was dead. But sit here, 'and she motioned him to a large cushioned chair. 'Sit here and let metell you what I know of Gretchen. '

Something in the girl's manner mastered him and made him a child in herhands. 

Sinking into the chair, pale and panting with excitement, he leaned hishead back wearily, and closing his eyes, said to her:

'Begin. What did Gretchen write?'

Jerrie felt that she could not stand all through the interview, andbringing a low ottoman to Arthur's side, seated herself upon it justwhere she could look into his face and detect every change in it. 

'Let me tell you of Gretchen as she was when you first knew her, ' shesaid, 'and then you will be better able to judge of the truth of all Iknow. '

He did not reply, and she went on:

'Gretchen was very young--sixteen or seventeen--when you first saw herknitting in the sunshine under the trees in Wiesbaden, and verybeautiful, too--so beautiful that you went again and again to look ather and talk to her, until you came to love her very much, and told herso at last; but you seemed so much above her that she could not believeyou at first. At last, however, you made her understand, and when hermother died suddenly--'

'Her mother was Mrs. Heinrich, and kept a kind of fancy store, ' Arthurinterposed, as if anxious that nothing should be omitted. 

'Yes, she kept a fancy store, ' Jerrie rejoined; 'and when she diedsuddenly and left Gretchen alone, you said to her, "We must be marriedat once, " and you were, in the little English chapel, by the Rev. Mr. Eaton, who was then rector. ' Here Arthur's eyes opened wide and fixedthemselves wonderingly upon Jerrie, as he said:

'Are you the old Harry that you know all this? But go on; don't stop; itall comes back to me so plain when I hear you tell it. She wore a strawbonnet trimmed with blue, and a white dress, but took it off directlyfor a black one because her mother was dead. Did she tell you that?'

'No, ' Jerrie replied. 'She told me nothing of the dress, only how happyshe was with you, whom she loved so much, and who loved her and made herso happy for a time that earth seemed like heaven to her, and then--'

Here Jerrie faltered a little, but Arthur's sharp 'What then?' kept herup, and she continued:

'Then something came to you, and you began to forget everything, evenpoor little Gretchen, and went away for weeks and left her very sad andlonely, not knowing where you were; and then, after some months, youwent away and never came back again to the little wife who waited, andwatched, and prayed, and wanted you so badly. '

'Oh, Cherry! oh, Gretchen! I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to do it; Isurely didn't. May God forgive me for forgetting the little wife! Was itlong? Was it months, or was it years? I can't remember, only that therewas a Gretchen, and I left her, ' Arthur said. 

'It was years, four or five, and--and'--Jerrie's breath came heavily nowand her words slowly, for she was nearing the point relating to herselfand wondering what the effect would be upon him. 'After a while therecame into Gretchen's life the dawning of a great hope, a great joy, which she felt would make you glad, and wishing to keep it a secret tillyou came home, she only gave you a hint of it. She wrote: "I havesomething to tell you which will make you as happy as it does me--"'

'Stop!' and Arthur put out both his hands as if groping for somethingwhich he could not find; then he said, 'Go on, ' and Jerrie went on, slowly now, for every word was an effort, and spoken so low that Arthurbent forward to listen to her. 

'I don't know just where Gretchen's home was when she lived alonewaiting for you. I only know that after a while there came to it alittle baby--a girl baby--Gretchen's and yours--'

She did not get any further, for with a bound Arthur was on his feet, every faculty alert, every nerve strung to its utmost pitch, and everymuscle of his face quivering with wild excitement, as he exclaimed:

'A baby! Gretchen's baby and mine! A little girl! Oh, Cherry, if you aredeceiving me now!'

Jerrie, too, had risen, and was standing before him with her hands uponhis arm and her eyes, so like Gretchen's, looking into his, as she said:

'I am not deceiving you. There was a baby born to you and Gretchensometime in January, 18--, and it was christened in the little churchwhere you were married by the Rev. Mr. Eaton. Oh, Mr. Arthur, how can Itell you; she, the baby, is living yet--grown to womanhood now, for thishappened about twenty years ago, and the girl is almost twenty--and iswaiting and longing so much for her father to recognize and claim her. Oh, don't you understand me? Look at _me_ and then at Gretchen'spicture!'

For an instant Arthur stood like one stricken with catalepsy, his eyesleaping from Jerry's face to Gretchen's, and from Gretchen's back toJerrie's, and then, with a motion of his hands as if fanning the airfuriously, he gasped:

'Twenty years ago--twenty years ago? How old are you, Cherry?'

'About twenty, ' she answered, but her voice was a whisper, and her headfell forward a little, though she kept her eyes upon Arthur, who wenton:

'And they christened my baby and Gretchen's you say? What name did theygive her? Speak quick, for I believe I am dying. '

'They called her Jerrine, but you know her as Jerrie, for--for I amGretchen's daughter, ' fell from Jerrie's lips. 

With a wild, glad cry, 'My daughter! oh, my daughter! Thank God! thankGod!' Arthur sank back into the chair, from which he had risen, faintingand insensible. 

For hours he lay in a state so nearly resembling death that but for thephysician's reassurance that there was no danger, Jerrie would havebelieved the great joy given her was to be taken from her at once. Butjust as the twilight shadows began to gather in the room he came tohimself, waking as from some quiet dream, and looking around him untilhis eyes fell upon Jerrie sitting by his side; then into his white facethere flashed a look of ineffable joy and tenderness and love, as hesaid, with a smile the most willing and sweet Jerrie had ever seen. 

'My daughter, my little Cherry, who came to me up the ladder, withGretchen's eyes and Gretchen's voice, and I did not know her--have notknown her all these years, although she has so puzzled and bewildered meat times. My daughter! oh, my daughter!'

He accepted her unquestioningly, and with a glad cry Jerrie threwherself into the arms he stretched toward her, and on her father'sbosom gave free vent to the feelings she had restrained so long, sobbingpassionately as she felt Arthur's kisses upon her face, and hiscaressing hands upon her hair, as he kept repeating:

'My daughter! Gretchen's baby and mine!'

'There is more to tell. I have not heard it all, or how you came by theinformation, ' he said, when Jerrie was little composed and could look atand speak to him without a burst of tears. 

'Yes, there is much more. There is a letter for you, with those youwrote to her, ' Jerrie said, 'but you must not have them to-night. To-morrow you will be stronger, now you must rest. '

She spoke like one with authority, and he did just what she bade himdo--took the food she brought him, went to bed when she said he must, and, with her hand locked in his, fell into a heavy slumber, whichlasted all through the night, and late into the next morning. It almostseemed as if he would never waken, the sleep was so like death; but thedoctor who watched him carefully quieted Jerrie's fears and told her itwould do her father good, and that in all probability he would awakewith a clearer mind than he had had in years, for as a great and suddenshock sometimes produces insanity, so, contrarywise, it sometimesrestored a shattered mind to its equilibrium. 

And the doctor was partially correct, for when at last Arthur awoke heseemed natural and bright, with a recollection of all which had happenedthe day before, and an earnest desire for the letters and the rest ofthe story which Jerrie told him, with her arm across his neck, and hercheek laid occasionally against his, as she read him the letter directedto his friends, and then showed him the certificate of her birth and hermother's death. 

'Born January 1st, 18--, to Arthur Tracy and Marguerite, his wife, adaughter, ' Arthur repeated, again and again, and as often as he did sohe kissed the bright face which smiled at him through tears, for therewas almost as much sadness as joy mingled with the reading of thosemessages from the dead. 

Just what Gretchen's letter to Arthur contained, Jerrie never knew, except that it was full of love and tenderness, with no word ofcomplaint for the neglect and forgetfulness which must have hastened herdeath. 

'Oh, Gretchen, I can't bear it, I can't, ' Arthur moaned, as he laid hishand upon Jerrie's shoulder and sobbed like a child. 'To think I couldforget her, and she so sweet and good. '

Everything came back to him for a time, and he repeated to Jerrie muchwhich was of interest to her concerning her mother, but with which thereader has nothing to do; while Jerrie, in turn, told him all she couldremember of her life in the old house where Gretchen had died. Idlefancies she had sometimes thought these memories of the past, but nowshe knew they were real. And Arthur hung upon her words with breathlessinterest, moaning occasionally when she told of the sweet-faced womanwho cried so much and prayed so much, and whose death scene she had onceenacted for him when a little child. At his own letters addressed toGretchen he barely glanced, muttering, as he did so, 'how could I havewritten such crazy bosh as that?' and then suddenly recollectinghimself, he asked for the photograph mentioned in Gretchen's letter tohis friends, and which he seemed to think had come with the otherpapers, just as Jerrie meant he should. Taking it from the bag shehanded it to him, while his tears fell like rain as he gazed upon theface which was far too young to wear the sad, wan look it did. 

'That is as I remember her, ' Jerrie said, referring again to the strangeideas which had filled her brain and made her sure that not the darkwoman found dead at her side was her mother, but another and fardifferent person, whose face haunted her so continually and whose voiceshe sometimes seemed to hear speaking to her from the dim shadows of thefar-off past when they lived in the little house in Wiesbaden, where thepicture hung on the wall. 

Arthur remembered the picture well and when it was taken, though that, too, had faded from his mind, until Jerrie told him of it. 

'We will go there together, Cherry, ' he said, 'you and I, and find thehouse and the picture, and Gretchen's grave, and bring them home withus. There is room for them at Tracy Park. 

He was beginning to talk wildly now, but Jerrie quieted him, and takingup the box of diamonds opened it suddenly and held it before his eyes. In reading the letters he had not seemed to pay any attention to thediamonds, but when Jerrie said to him; 'These were mother's. You sentthem to her from England, ' he replied, 'Yes, I remember. I bought themin Paris with other things--dresses, I think--for her, ' while into hisface there came a troubled look as if he were trying to think ofsomething. 

Jerrie, who could read him so well, saw the look, and, guessing at onceits cause, hastened to say:

'Father, do you remember that you gave Mrs. Tracy some diamonds likethese, and that some one took them from her? Try and think, ' shecontinued, as she saw the troubled look deepen on his face, and the firebeginning to kindle in his eyes. 'It was years ago, just after a partyMrs. Tracy gave, and at which she wore them. You were there and thoughtthey were Gretchen's, did you not?'

'Ye-es, ' he answered slowly. 'I believe I did. What did I do with them?Do you know?'

'I think you put them in your private drawer. Suppose you look and see. '

Obedient to her as a child, Arthur opened his private drawer, bringingout one thing after another, all mementoes of the old Gretchen days, andfinally the diamonds, at which be looked with wonder and fear, as hesaid to Jerrie:

'Did I take them? Will they call it a steal? I thought they wereGretchen's. I remember now. '

Jerrie did not tell him then of the trouble the secreting of thediamonds had brought to her and Harold, but she said:

'No one will think it a steal, and Mrs. Tracy will be glad to get herjewels back. May I take them to her now?'

'Take them to her?--no, ' Arthur said, decidedly. 'She has another set--Ibought them for her, and she wears them all day long. Ha, ha! diamondsin the morning, with a cotton gown;' and he laughed immoderately at whatbe thought Dolly's bad taste. 'Take them to her? No! They are yours. '

'But I have mother's, ' Jerrie pleaded; 'and I cannot wear two sets. '

'Yes, you can--one to-day, one to-morrow. I mean you shall haveseven--one for everyday in the week. What has Dolly to do withdiamonds. They are for ladies, and she is only a whitewashed one. '

He was very much excited, and it took all Jerrie's tact to soothe andquiet him. 

'Father, ' she began and then he stopped short, for the sound of thatname spoken by Jerrie had a mighty power over him--'Father, listen to mea moment. '

And then she told him of the suspicions cast upon Harold, and said:

'You do not wish him to suffer any more?'

'Harold? The boy who found you in the carpet-bag--Amy's boy! No, never!Where is he that I have not seen him yet? Does he know you are mydaughter?'

Jerrie had not mentioned Harold before, but she told her father nowwhere he was, and why he had gone, and that she had written him to comehome, on Maude's account, if on no other. 

'Yes--Maude--I remember; but Harold did not care for Maude. Still, hehad better come. I want him here with you and me; and you must stay herenow, day and night. Select any room or rooms you please; all is yours, my daughter. '

'But I cannot leave grandma, ' Jerrie said. 

'Let her come, too, ' Arthur replied. 'There is room for her. '

'No, ' Jerrie persisted; 'that would not be best. Grandma could not livewith Mrs. Tracy. '

'Then let Dolly go at once, I'll give the order now;' and Arthur put outhis hand to the bell-cord. 

But Jerrie stopped him instantly, saying to him:

'Remember Maude. While she lives she must stay here. '

'Yes, I forgot Maude. Poor little Maude, I have not seen her yet, 'Arthur replied, subdued at once, and willing now that Jerrie should takethe jewels to Dolly, who deserved but little forbearance from Jerrie'shand. 

Up to the very last Mrs. Tracy had, unconsciously perhaps, clung to ashadowy hope that Arthur might repudiate his daughter and call it atrumped-up affair; but when she heard how joyfully he had acknowledgedand claimed her, she lost all hope, and her face wore a sullen, defiantexpression as she walked about the house and through the handsome rooms, the very furniture of which had nearly all been bought with Arthur'smoney, and consequently was not her own. Since the coming of Jerrie, when the dark shadow settled upon Frank, and remorse was alwaystorturing him, he had had no heart for business, and had, to all intentsand purposes, lived upon his brother's generosity, which had neverfailed. 

'Get what you like; there is money enough, ' was always Arthur's reply, when a request for anything was made to him, and thus they had literallybeen sponges, taking everything and giving nothing, until now, when allwas lost--the luxury, the elegance, the ease, and the prestige of TracyPark, which they had enjoyed so much. It was hard, and Dolly felt thatshe could not bear it, and that she hated the girl through whom thischange had come, and in every possible way she meant to wound and annoyher; so when the cook came to her that day for orders for dinner, sheanswered, curtly:

'Go to the heiress. She is mistress now. '

In the hall, coming to seek her, Jerrie met the cook, who, with acomical look on her face, asked what she would have for dinner. 

'I don't know what you mean, ' Jerrie said, and when the cook explained, her cheeks flushed for an instant and her eyes blazed with resentmentBut she controlled herself quickly and said, 'Tell Mrs. Tracy--but, no, I am going to her room and will tell her myself. '

Knocking at Mrs. Tracy's door, she was admitted to the presence of thelady, who simply stared at her as if asking why she were there. Jerrietold her in a few words that her own diamonds had been found, and wherethey had been secreted, and that she had come to return them. 

'Then your father was the thief, ' Dolly said, with that rasping, aggravating tone so hard to hear unmoved. 

'Call him what you please. A crazy man is not responsible for his acts, 'Jerrie answered, calmly; then, more proudly and decidedly, went on, 'Bythe way, Mrs. Tracy, I was met by the cook with a singular request, andI wish to say that as there can be but one mistress in a house, it is mywish that so long as you remain here you are that mistress in your owndepartment; of course I shall take charge of my father's, and see thathis wishes are carried out. Good afternoon, ' and with a proud, loftybearing, Jerrie walked from the room, leaving Dolly to her own morbidand angry thoughts. 

Not even the restored diamonds had power to conciliate her, and theywere so beautiful as she held them up, admiring their brilliancy andtheir size. 

'I'll never wear them, never, because she has some like them, ' she saidto herself; and then the thought flashed upon her that she could sellthem, and thus add to the sum which her husband had invested in his ownname. 

Ten thousand dollars, that was all, he had told her, and she hadcalculated the income, only six hundred dollars a year to live on--lessthan she now wasted yearly upon bric-a-brac and things of which shetired so soon. 

It was a sombre outlook, and it is not strange that her tears fell fastupon the costly stones, whose value she could not guess, although sheknew it must be great, they were so superior in size and quality to anyshe had ever seen. 

'Yes, I will sell them, ' she said, 'and invest the proceeds in my ownname; but even that will hardly keep the wolf from the door, for Frankis growing more and more imbecile every day, and Tom is good fornothing. He'll have to scratch for himself, though, I can tell him. '

Here her ladylike, but very characteristic, soliloquy was brought to anend by a faint call, which had the power to drive every other thoughtfrom her heart, for the mother-love was strong even with her, and goingto Maude, she asked what she wanted. 

'Uncle Arthur, ' Maude replied; 'I have not seen him yet. And Jerrie, too, she has scarcely been here to-day. '

Maude's request was made known to Arthur, who, two or three hours later, went to her room, and kissing her lips, told her how sorry he was to seeher so sick, and that he hoped she would soon be better. 

Frank had been alone with Maude for a long time that day, and he waswith her now, sitting upon the side of her bed, near the head, with hisarm across her pillow, and his eyes fixed anxiously upon her as she heldher conference with his brother. 

'No, uncle, ' she said; 'I shall never be any better in this world; butby-and-by, pretty soon, I shall be well in the other And I want to tellyou how glad I am for you and Jerrie, and to thank you for your kindnessto us all these years, when Jerrie should have been here in our place. '

'Yes, yes, ' Arthur said, with a wave of his hand. 'Only I didn't know. If I had--'

'It would have been so different, ' Maude interrupted him. 'I know that, but I want you to be kind to poor father still, and forgive him, he issorry, and--'

'Oh, Maude, Maude, ' came like a groan from Frank, as he laid his hand onMaude's lips, while Arthur replied:

'Forgive him! For what? He couldn't help being here. I sent for him. Hedid not keep Jerrie from her rightful position as my daughter. If he hadI could never forgive him. Why, I believe I'd kill him, or any other onewho, knowing that Jerrie was my daughter, kept it from me. '

He was gesticulating now with both hands, and Jerrie, who had listenedwonderingly to the conversation, took hold of them as they were swayingin the air, and said to him softly:

'Father!'

The word quieted him, and with a gasp his mind seemed to change at once. 

'Maude is very tired, ' Jerrie went on; 'perhaps we'd better go now andcome again to-morrow. '

'Yes, yes, that's best, child. I'm not fond of sick rooms, though I mustsay this is very free from smells, ' Arthur replied; then stooping downhe kissed Maude again, saying to her as he rose to go:

'Don't worry about your father; he is my brother, and he was kind toJerry. I shan't forget that. Come, my daughter. '

And putting his arm fondly around Jerrie he left the room. 

CHAPTER L. 

THE FLOWER FADETH. 

It took some days after Arthur's return for the household to settle downinto anything like order and quiet, Arthur was so restless and so happy, and so anxious for everyone to recognise Jerrie as his daughter--MissTracy, as he called her when presenting her to the people who had knownher all her life--the St. Claires, and Athertons, and Crosbys, andWarners--who came to call upon and congratulate him. Even Peterkin camein his coat-of-arms carriage, with a card as big as the back ofWebster's spelling book, and himself gotten up in a dress coat, withlavender kids on his burly hands, which nearly crushed Arthur's in theirgrasp as he expressed himself 'tickleder than he ever was before in hislife. '

'And to think I was the means on't, ' he said, 'for if I hadn't of kickedthat darned old table into slivers when I was givin' on't to Jerrie, she'd never of know'd what was in that dumbed rat-hole. I was a leetletoo upstrupulous, I s'spose, but I'll be darned if she didn't square upto me like a catamount, till my hair riz right up, and I concluded theTramp House was no place for me. But I respect her for it; yes, I do, and by George, old chap, I congratulate you with my whole soul, and sodoes May Jane, and so does Ann 'Lizy, and so does Bill, and so does thewhole caboodle on us. '

This was Peterkin's speech, which Arthur received more graciously thanJerrie, who, remembering Harold, could not be very polite to the man whohad injured him so deeply. As if divining her thoughts, Peterkin turnedto her and said:

'Now, one word, Miss Tracy, about Hal. I hain't one to go halves in anything, and I was meaner to him than pussly; but you'll see what I'll do. I've met with a change, I swow, I have, ' and he laid his lavender kid onhis stomach. 'He never took them diamonds, nor May Jane's pin, nornothin', and I've blasted it all over town that he didn't, and I've gota kerridge hired, and some chaps, and a brass band, and a percession, and when Hal comes, there's to be an oblation to the depot, with thebugle a playin' "Hail to the Chief, " and them hired chips a histen' himinter the kerridge, with the star-spangled banner a floatin' over it, and a drawin' him home without horses! What do you think of that forhigh?' and he chuckled merrily as he represented the programme he hadprepared for Harold's reception. 

Jerrie shuddered, mentally hoping that Harold's coming might be atnight, and unheralded, so as to save him from what she knew would fillhim with disgust. 

That call of Peterkin's was the last of a congratulatory nature made atTracy Park for weeks, for the shadow of death had entered the grand oldhouse, the doors and windows of which stood wide open, one lovelySeptember morning, about a week after Arthur's return. But there was nostir or sign of life, except in the upper hall, near the door, and inthe room where Maude Tracy was dying. Jerrie had been with herconstantly for two or three days, and the converse the two had heldtogether would never be forgotten, Maude was so peaceful and happy, sosure of the home beyond, where she was going, and so lovely and sweet tothose around her, thinking of everything and planning everything, evenwhose hands were to lower her into the grave. 

'Dick, and Fred, and Billy, and Harold, ' she said to Jerrie, one day, 'Something tells me Harold will be here in time for that; and if he is, I want those four to put me in the grave. They can lift me, for I shallnot be very heavy, ' and, with a smile, she held up her wasted arms andhands, not as large now as a child's. 'And, Jerrie, ' she went on, 'Iwant the grave lined with boughs from our old playing place--the fourpines, you know--and many, many flowers, for I shudder at the thought ofthe cold earth which would chill me in my coffin. So, heap the gravewith flowers, and come often to it, and think lovingly of me, lyingthere alone. I am thinking so much of that poem Harold read me long agoof poor little Alice, the May queen, who said she should hear them asthey passed, with their feet above her in the long and silent grass. Maybe the dead can't do that. I don't know, but if they can, I shalllisten for you, and be glad when you are near me, and I know I shallwait on the golden seat by the river. Remember your promise to tellHarold that it was all a mistake. My mind gets clearer toward the end, and I see things differently from what I did once, and I know how Iblundered. You will tell him?'

Again Jerrie made the promise, with a sinking heart, not knowing to whatit bound her; and as Maude was becoming tired, she bade her try to restwhile she sat by and watched her. 

The next day, at the same hour, when the balmy September air waseverywhere, and the mid-afternoon sun was filling the house with goldenlight, and the crickets' chirp was heard in the long grass, and therobins were singing in the tree-tops, another scene was presented in thesick room, where Frank Tracy knelt at his dying daughter's side, withhis face bowed on his hands, while her fingers played feebly with hiswhite hair as she spoke to Arthur, who had just come in. They had toldhim she was dying and had asked for him, and with his nervous horror ofeverything painful and exciting, he had shrunk from the ordeal; butJerrie's will prevailed, and he went with her to the room, where Frank, and his wife, and Tom were waiting--Tom standing, with folded arms, atthe foot of the bed, and looking, with hot, dry eyes, into the face onthe pillow, where death was setting his seal; the mother, half-faintingupon the lounge, with the nurse beside her; and Frank, oblivious ofeverything except the fact that Maude was dying. 

'Kiss me good-bye, Uncle Arthur, ' she said, when he came in, 'and comethis side where father is. ' Then, as he went round and stood by Frank, she reached her hand for his, and, putting it on her father's head, saidto him: 'Forgive him, Uncle Arthur; he is so sorry, poor father--thedearest, the best man in the world. It was for me; say that you forgivehim. '

Only Frank and one other knew just what she meant, although a suddensuspicion darted through Jerrie's mind, and, when Arthur lookedhelplessly at her, she whispered to him:

'Never mind what she means--her mind may be wandering; but say that youforgive him, no matter what it is. '

Thus adjured, Arthur said to the grief-stricken man, who shook like anaspen:

'I know of nothing to forgive except your old disbelief in Gretchen, anddeceiving me about sending the carriage the night Jerrie came; but ifthere is anything else, no matter what it is, I do forgive you freely. '

'Thanks, ' came faintly from Maude, who whispered:

'It is a vow, remember, made at my death-bed. '

She had done all she could, this little girl, whose life had been soshort, and who, as she once said, had been capable of nothing but lovingand being loved; and now, turning her dim eyes upon Jerrie, who wasparting the damp hair upon her brow, she went on:

'Remember the promise, and the flowers, and the golden seat where youwill find me resting by the flowing river whose shores I am now lookingupon, for I am almost there, almost to the golden seat, and the treewhose leaves are like emeralds, and where the grass and flowers are likethe flowers and grass of summer just after a rain. I am glad for you, Jerrie. Good-bye; and you, father dear, good-bye. '

That was the last, for Maude was dead; and the servants, who had beenstanding about the door, stole noiselessly back to their work, with weteyes and a sense of pain and loss in their hearts, for not one of thembut had loved the gentle girl now gone forever from their midst. 

If was Jerrie who led Frank from the room to his own, where she left himby himself, knowing it would be better so, and it was Arthur who tookDolly out, for Tom had disappeared, and no one saw him again until thenext day, when he came down to breakfast, with a worn, haggard look uponhis face, which told that he did care, though his mother thought he didnot, and taunted him with his indifference. Poor Tom! He had gonedirectly to his room and locked the door, and smoked and smoked, andthought and thought, and then, when it was dark, he had stolen out intothe park as far as the four pines, and smoked, and looked up at thestars and wondered if Maude were there with Jack, sitting on the goldenseat by the river. Then going back to the house where no one saw him, hewent into the silent room where Maude was lying, and looked long andearnestly upon her white, still face, and wondered in a vague kind ofway if she knew he was there, and why he had never thought before what anice kind of girl she was, and why he had not made more of her as herbrother. 

'Maude, ' he whispered, with a lump in his throat, 'if you can hear me, I'd like to tell you I am sorry that I was ever mean to you, and I guessI did like you more than I supposed. '

Then he kissed her pale forehead and went to his room, where he smokedthe night through, and in the morning felt as if he had lived a hundredyears since the previous night, and wondered how he should get throughthe day. It occurred to him that it might be the proper thing to seehis mother; and after his breakfast he went to her room, and wasreceived by her with a burst of tears and reproaches for hisindifference and lack of feeling in keeping himself away from everybody, as if it were nothing to him that Maude was dead, or that there wasnothing for him to do. 

'Thunderation, mother!' Tom exclaimed, 'would you have me yell andscream, and make a fool of myself? I sat up all night long, which wasmore than you did, and I've been meditating in the woods, and have seenMaude and made it square with her. What more can I do?'

'You can see to things, ' Mrs. Tracy replied. 'Your father is all brokenup and has gone to bed, and it is not becoming in me to be around. Somebody must take the helm. '

'And somebody has, ' Tom answered her. 'Uncle Arthur is master of theceremonies now. He is running the ranch, and running it well, to. '

And Tom was right, for Arthur had taken the helm, and aided and abettedby Jerrie, was quietly attending to matters and arranging for thefuneral, which Dolly said must be in the house, as she would not go tothe church, with a gaping crowd to stare at her. So it was to take placeat the house on Friday afternoon, and Arthur ordered a costly coffinfrom New York, with silver mountings and panels, and almost a car-loadof flowers and floral designs, for Jerrie had explained to him Maude'swishes with regard to her grave, which they lined first with thefreshest of the boughs from the four pines, filling these again withflowers up to the very top, so that the grave when finished seemed likeone mass of flowers, in which it would not be hard to lie. 

Dolly had objected to Billy as one of the pall-bearers. He was too shortand inferior looking, she said, and not at all in harmony with Dick, andFred, and Paul Crosby, the young man who, in Harold's absence, had beenasked to take his place. But Arthur overruled her with the words 'It wasMaude's wish, ' and Billy kept his post. 

The day arrived, and the hour, and the people came in greater crowdsthan they had done when poor Jack was buried, or the dark woman, Nannine, with only Jerrie as chief mourner, and the procession was thelongest ever seen in Shannondale; and Dolly, even while her heart wasaching with bitter pain, felt a thrill of pride that so many werefollowing her daughter to the grave. 

Arrived at the cemetery, there was a halt for the mourners to alight andthe bearers to take the coffins from the hearse and carry it to thegrave--a halt longer than necessary, it seemed to Jerrie, who under thefolds of her veil did not see the tall young man making his way throughthe ranks of the people crowding the road, straining every nerve toreach the hearse, which he did just as the four young men were takingthe coffin from it. 

With a quick movement he put Paul Crosby aside, saying, apologetically:

'Excuse me, Paul. I must carry Maude to her grave. She wished it so. '

Then, taking the young man's place, he went slowly on to the open gravenear which piles and piles of flowers were lying ready to cover theyoung girl who it was hard for him to believe was there beneath hishand, cold and dead, with no word of welcome for him who had tried sohard to see her, and was only in time for this, to help lay her in thegrave and to listen to the solemn words 'ashes to ashes, ' and hear thedreadful sound of earth to earth falling upon the box which held thebeautiful coffin and the lovely girl within it. 

Even then Jerrie did not see him, but when she took a step or twoforward to look into the grave before it was filled up, and someone puta hand upon her shoulder and said, 'Not too near, Jerrie, ' she startedsuddenly, with a suppressed cry, and turning, saw Harold standing byher, tall, and erect, and self-possessed, as he faced the multitude, some of whom had suspected him of a crime, but all of whom were readynow to do him justice and bid him welcome home. 

'Oh, Harold, ' Jerrie said, as she grasped his arm, 'I am so glad you arehere. I wish you had come before. '

Harold could not reply, for they were now leaving the spot, and manygathered around him; first and foremost, Peterkin, who came trampingthrough the grass, puffing like an engine, and, unmindful of the time orplace, slapping him upon the shoulder, as he said: 'Well, my boy, gladto see you back, 'pon my soul, I be; but you flustrated all my plans. Iwas meanin' to give you an oblation; got it, all arranged, and youspiled it by takin' us onawares, like a thief in the night. I beg yourpardon, ' he continued, as he met a curious look in Harold's eyes, 'I'm ablunderin' cuss, I be. I didn't mean nothin', I've ever meant nothin', and if I hev' I'm sorry for it. '

Harold did not hear the last, for he was handing Jerrie into thecarriage with her father, who bade him enter, too; saying they wouldleave him at the cottage where he wished to go as soon as possible. There was no time for much conversation before the cottage was reached, and Harold alighted at the gate, and no allusion whatever had been madeto Jerrie's changed relations until Harold stood looking at her as shekept her seat by her father and made no sign of an intention to stop. Then he said, as calmly as he could:

'Do you stay at the Park House altogether now?'

'Oh, no, ' she answered quickly. 'I have been there a great deal withMaude, but am coming home to-night. I could not leave grandma alone, youknow. '

She acknowledged the home and the relationship still, and Harold's faceflushed with a look of pleasure, which deepened in intensity whenArthur, with a wave of the hand habitual to him, said:

'I must keep her now that you are here to see to the grandmother, butwill let you have her to-night. Come up later, if you like, and walkhome with her. '

'I shall be most happy to do so, ' Harold said, and then the carriagedrove away, while he went in to his grandmother, who had not attendedthe funeral, but who knew that he had returned and was waiting for him. 

CHAPTER LI. 

UNDER THE PINES WITH HAROLD. 

It seemed to Harold that it had been a thousand years since he had leftShannondale, so much had come into and so much had gone out of his lifesince he said good-bye to the girl he loved and to the girl who lovedhim. One was dead, and he had only come in time to help lay her in hergrave; while the other, the girl he loved, was, some might think, farther removed from him than death itself could have removed her. 

But Harold did not feel so. He had faith in Jerrie--that she would notchange, though there had been a time during the first homesick weeks inTacoma, when, knowing from his grandmother of her convalescence, andstill hearing from her no explanation with regard to the diamonds, whichhe knew a few still suspected him of having taken, in his impatience andhumiliation he had cried out, 'Jerrie has forgotten. She is not standingby me, forever and ever, amen, as she once promised to do. ' But thisfeeling quickly passed, and there came a day when he read the judge'sletter in the privacy of his room at the Tacoma, and rejoiced with anexceeding great joy for Jerrie, whose house and birthright had been sostrangely restored. He never doubted the story for a moment, but feltrather as if he had known it always, and wondered how any one could haveimagined for a moment that blue-eyed, golden-haired Jerrie was the childof the dark, coarse looking woman found dead beside her. 'I am so gladfor Jerrie, ' he said, without a thought that her relations to himselfwould in any way be changed. 

Once, when she had told him of the fancies which haunted her so often, he had put them from him with a fear that, were they true, Jerrie wouldbe lost to him forever. But he had no such misgivings now; and whenJerrie's letter came, urging his return, both for her own sake andMaude's, he wrote a few hurried lines to her, telling her how glad hewas for her, and of his intention to start for the East as soon aspossible. 'To-morrow, perhaps, ' he wrote, 'in which case I may be therebefore this letter reaches you, for the mails are sometimes slow, andthe judge's communication was overdue three or four days. '

Starting the second day after his letter, Harold travelled day andnight, while something seemed beckoning him on--Maude's thin, whiteface, and Jerrie's, too; and when, between St. Paul and Chicago, therecame a detention from a freight car off the track, he felt that he mustfly, so sure was he that he was wanted and anxiously looked for at TracyPark, where at that very time Maude was dying. The next afternoon heleft Chicago, and with no further accident reached Shannondale just asthe long procession was winding its way to the cemetery. 

He had heard from an acquaintance in Springfield that Maude was dead, and of her request that he should be one of the pall-bearers, togetherwith Dick, and Fred, and Billy. 'And I will do it yet, ' he said, with athrob of pain, as he thought of the little girl who had died believingthat he loved her. Once or twice he had resolved to write and tell heras carefully as possible of her mistake, but as often had changed hismind, thinking to wait until she was better; and now she was dead, andthe chance for explanation gone forever; but he would, if possible, carry out the wish she had expressed with regard to himself. 

Striking into the fields from the station, he reached the cemetery intime to take his place by Billy and carry poor little Maude to her lastresting place; and then he looked for Jerrie, and felt an indefinablethrill when he saw her on her father's arm, and began to realize thatshe was Jerrie Tracy. But all that was over now; he had talked with herface to face, and had found her the Jerrie he had always known, and hewas going to see her in her own home, at Tracy Park--the daughter of thehouse, the heiress of Arthur Tracy, and of more than two millions, itwas said--for, despite Frank's extravagance, all of which Arthur had metwithout a protest, his money had accumulated rapidly, so that he was amuch richer man now, than when he first came home from Europe. 

Harold found the family at dinner, Mr. And Mrs. Tracy and Tom in thedining-room, and Arthur and Jerrie in the Gretchen room, to which he wastaken at once. 

'Come in--come in, my boy. You are just in time for dessert, ' Arthursaid, rising with alacrity and going forward to meet him; while Jerrie, too, arose and took his hand, and made him sit by her, and questionedhim on his journey, and helped him to the fairest peach and the finestbunch of grapes, and, without seeming to do so, examined him from headto foot, and thought how handsome and grand he was, and felt sure thather father thought so too. 

With a part of the first money Billy had paid him, or rather had toldhim to draw in Tacoma, Harold had bought himself the clothes which heneeded sadly; and though it was only a business suit, and had travelledthousands of miles, it fitted him well, and it was not at all a shabbyHarold sitting at Arthur's table, but a young man of whom anyone mighthave been proud. And Jerrie was proud of him and of her father, too, asthey talked together; and Harold showed no sign of any inequality, evenif he felt it, which he did not. 

'A fine young man, with the best of manners, and carries himself as hewere the lord high chancellor, ' Arthur said, when, after dinner, Haroldleft there to pay his respects to the other inmates of the family, whomhe found just leaving the dining-room. 

Dolly bowed to him coldly at first, and was about to pass on, when, witha burst of tears, she offered him her hand, and sobbed:

'Oh, Harold, why didn't you come before? Maude wanted to see you sobadly. '

This was a great deal for Dolly, and Tom stared at her in amazement, while Harold explained that he had come as soon as he possibly could, and tried to say something of Maude, but could not, for the tears whichchoked him. Frank was unfeignedly glad to see him, and told him so. 

'Our dear little girl was fond of you, Hal. I am sure she was, and Ishall always like you for that. Heaven bless you, my boy, ' he said, ashe wrung Harold's hand and then hurried away after his wife, leavingHarold alone with Tom, who, awfully afraid he should break down, said, indifferently:

'Glad to see you, Hal. Wish you had come before Maude died. She was ina tearin' way to see you. Have a cigar? Got a prime lot in my room. Willyou go there?

Harold was in no mood for cigars, and, declining Tom's offer, saunteredawhile around the grounds, where he found himself constantly expectingto find the dead girl sitting under a tree wailing for him with thelight whose meaning he now knew kindling in her beautiful eyes as shebade him welcome and told him how glad she was to see him. He was gladnow that he had not written and told her of her mistake, and he felt inhis heart a greater tenderness for the Maude dead than he ever couldhave felt for the Maude living. 

It was beginning to grow dark when he returned to the house where hefound Jerrie in the hall ready to go home. Arthur was at her side, withhis arm thrown lovingly around her, and as he passed her over to Harold, he said:

'Make the most of her to-night, my boy, for to-morrow she comes home tostay. Heaven bless you, my daughter!'

His words sent a thrill through both Harold and Jerrie, who walked on insilence until they reached the four pines, where Jerrie halted suddenlyand said:

'Let us sit down, Harold. I have a message from Maude, which I promisedto deliver the first time we were alone together after you came home. '

Jerrie's voice trembled a little, and after they were seated she wassilent until Harold said to her:

'You were going to tell me of Maude;' then she started and replied:

'Yes; she wanted so much to see you and tell you herself. I don't knowwhat she meant, but she said she had made a mistake, and I must tell youso, and that you would understand it. She had been thinking andthinking, she said, and knew it was a stupid blunder of hers; that waswhat she called it--a stupid blunder; and she was sorry for you that shehad made it, and bade me say so, and tell you no one knew but herselfand you. Dear little Maude! I wish she had not died. '

Jerrie was crying now, and perhaps that was the reason she did not mindwhen Harold put his arm around her and drew her closer to him, so closethat his brown hair touched her golden curls, for the night was warm andshe had brought her bonnet in her hand all the way, while he had takenoff his hat when they sat down under the pines, which moaned and sighedabove them for a moment, and then grew still, as if listening for whatHarold would say. 

'Yea, ' he began slowly, 'I think I know what Maude meant by the mistake. Did she say I must tell you what it was?'

'She said you would tell me, but perhaps you'd better not, ' Jerriereplied, 'Yes, I must tell you, ' he continued, 'as a preliminary to what I haveto say to you afterward, and what I did not mean to say quite so soon;but this decides me, ' and Harold drew Jerrie a little closer to him ashe went on: 'Did you ever think that I loved poor little Maude?'

'Yes, I have thought so, ' was Jerrie's answer. 

'She thought so, too, ' Harold continued, 'and it was all my fault; myblunder, not hers. I loved her as I would a sister; as I did you in theolden days, Jerrie. She was so sweet and good, and so interested in youand all I wanted to do for you, that I regarded her as a very dearfriend, nothing more. And because I looked upon her this way, Ifoolishly went to her once to confess my love for another; her dearestand most intimate friend, and ask if she thought I had a chance forsuccess. I must have bungled strangely, for she mistook my meaning andthought I was speaking of herself and in a way she accepted me; andbefore I had time to explain, her mother came in and I have never seenher since; but I shall never forget the eyes which looked at me sogladly, smiting me so cruelly for the delusion in which I had to leaveher. That is what Maude meant. She saw the mistake, and wished torectify it by giving me the chance to tell you myself what I wanted totell you then and dared not. '

Jerrie trembled violently, but made no answer, and Harold went on:

'It may seem strange that I, who used to be so much afraid of JerrieCrawford that I dared not tell her of my love, have the courage to do itnow that she is Jerrie Tracy, and I do not understand it myself. Oncewhen you told me your fancies concerning your birth, a great fear tookpossession of me, lest I should lose you, if they were true; but when Iheard that they were true, I felt so sure of you that I could scarcelywait for the time when I could ask you, as I now do, to be my wife, pooras I am, with nothing but love to give you. Will you, Jerrie?'

His face was so close to hers now that her hot cheeks touched his as shebent her head lower and lower, but she made no reply for a moment, andthen she cried:

'Oh, Harold, it seems so soon, with Maude only buried to-day. What shallI say? What ought I to say?'

'Shall I tell you?' he answered, taking her hand in his. 'Say the firstEnglish word you ever spoke, and which I taught you. Do you rememberit?'

'_Iss_' came involuntarily from Jerrie, in the quick, lisping accent ofher babyhood, when that was all the English she could master; and almostbefore it had escaped her, Harold smothered it with the kisses hepressed upon her lips as he claimed her for his own. 

'But, Harold, ' she tried to explain between his kisses, 'I meant that I_did_ remember. You must not--you must not kiss me so fast. You take mybreath away. There! I won't stand it any longer. I'm going straight hometo tell grandma how you act!'

'And so am I, ' Harold said, rising as she did, but keeping his armaround her as they went slowly along in the soft September night, withthe stars, which were shining for the first time on Maude's grave, looking down upon then, and a thought of Maude in their hearts, and herdear name often upon their lips, as they talked of the past as loverswill, trying to recall just when it was that friendship ceased and lovebegan, and deciding finally that neither knew nor cared when it was, sogreat was their present joy and anticipation of the future. 

CHAPTER LII. 

'FOR BETTER, FOR WORSE. '

'Grandma, Jerrie has promised to be my wife!' Harold said to hisgrandmother that night when he took Jerrie in to her about ten o'clock, during which time they had walked to the Tramp House, and sitting downupon the chair which would hold but one, had talked the whole matterover, from the morning Harold first saw the sweet little face in thecarpet-bag to the present moment when the same sweet face was pressedlovingly against his, and the same arms which had clung to him in thesnow were around his neck in the darkness, as they went over with theold, old story, newest always and best to the last one who listens to itand believes that it is true. 

'Father, I have promised to marry Harold, ' Jerrie said to Arthur thenext morning as she stood before him in the Gretchen room, with Harold'shand in hers, and a look in her face something like what Gretchen's hadworn when Arthur first called her his wife. 

'Lord bless you, I knew it was coming, but did not think it would bequite so soon. You shock my nerves dreadfully, ' Arthur exclaimed, springing up and walking two or three times across the room. Then, confronting the young couple, he said, 'Going to marry Harold? I knewyou would all this time. Well, he will do as well as any one to lookafter the business. Frank is no good, and Colvin is too old. So, getmarried at once, within a week if you like. I'm off for Germany nextmonth, to find Gretchen's grave, and the house, and the picture, andeverything, and as I shall take you with me I shall need some one withbrains to look after things while I am gone. '

'But father, ' Jerrie began, 'if I go to Germany, Harold will go, too, and if he stops here, I shall stay. '

Arthur looked at her inquiringly a moment, and then, as he begun tounderstand, replied: 'Ah, yes, I see; "where thou goest, I go, andwhere thou--" and so forth, and so forth. Well, all right; only you mustcome here directly; it will never do to stay there, now you are engaged;and you must be married in this room, with Gretchen looking on, andsoon, too. No wedding, of course, Maude's death is too recent for that;but soon, very soon, so we can get off. I'll engage passage at once inthe Germanic, which sails the 15th of October, and you shall be marriedthe 10th. That's three weeks from to-day, and will give you a few daysin New York. I'll leave Frank here till we return, and then he must go, of course, and the new mistress step in with Mrs. Crawford tosuperintend. We will get some nice man and woman to stay with her whilewe are gone. '

He had settled everything rapidly, but Jerrie had something to say uponthe subject. She did not wish to come to Tracy Park altogether whileMrs. Tracy was there; she would rather enjoy the lovely room whichHarold had built for her, she said, and preferred to be married in thecottage, the only home she had ever known. 

'I shall stay with you all day, ' she continued, 'but go home at night. '

'And so have a long walk with Harold. Yes, I see, ' Arthur said, laughingly, but assenting finally to her proposal. 

It was Jerrie now who planned everything, with Harold's assistance, andwho broached the subject of Frank's future to her father, asking whatprovision he intended to make for him when he left Tracy Park. 

'What provision?' Arthur said. 'I guess he has made provision forhimself all these years, when my purse has been as free to him asmyself. Colvin tells me there has been an awful lot of money spentsomewhere. '

'Yes, ' Jerrie replied, 'but you gave him permission to spend it, and itwould hardly be fair now to leave him with little or nothing, and he sobroken down. When Maude feared she was going to die, and before she knewwho I was, she wrote a letter for her father and you, asking him to giveme what he would have given her, and you to do the same. So now, I wantyou to give Maude's father what you would have given me for Maude'ssake. '

'Bless my soul, Jerrie!' Arthur said. 'What a beggar you are! I don'tknow what I should have given you; all I am worth, perhaps. How muchwill satisfy you for Frank? Tell me, and it is done. '

Jerrie thought one hundred thousand dollars would not be any too much, nor did it seem so to Arthur, who placed but little value upon hismoney, and Jerrie was deputed to tell her uncle what provision was to bemade for him, and that, if he wished, he was to remain at the park untilhis brother's return from Europe. 

Frank was not in his own room, but Mrs. Tracy was, and to her Jerriefirst communicated the intelligence that she was to be married and gowith her father to Germany. The look which the highly scandalized ladygave her was wonderful, as she said:

'Married! almost before the crape is off the door, or the flowers wiltedon Maude's grave! Well, that shows how little we are missed; and I amnot surprised, though I think Maude would be, at Harold, certainly. Isuppose you know there was something between them; but a man will do anything for money. I wish you joy of your husband. '

Jerrie was too indignant to explain any thing, and hurried off in questof her uncle, whom she found in Maude's room, where he spent the most ofhis time, walking up and down and examining the different articles whichhad belonged to his daughter, and which, at his request, remaineduntouched as she had left them. Her brushes, her comb, her bottledperfumery, her work-box, her Bible, a little half-finished sketch, andher soft bed-slippers she had worn when she died, and one of which heheld in his hand when Jerrie went in to him. 

'It is so like Maude, ' he said, with quivering lips, as she went to hisside, 'and when I hold it in my hand I can almost hear the dear littlefeet, which I know are cold and dead, coming along the hall as she usedto come, and will never come again. I think I should like to die here inthis room and go where Maude has gone, and I believe I should go there. I am sure God has forgiven me, and Maude forgave me, too, for I toldher. '

'You did! I thought so, ' Jerrie said. 

'Yes, I had to tell her, ' he continued, 'and I am glad I did, and sheloved me just the same. You saw her die. You heard what she said to me. She must have believed in me, and that keeps me from going mad. I toldDolly, too; the shadow was so black I had to; and she said she'd neverspeak to me again as long as she lived, and she didn't either until lastnight, when I was alone in here, crying on Maude's bed; then she came tome and called me Frank, and said she was sorry she had been so hard, andasked me what we were going to do, and where we were going. I'm sure Idon't know; do you?'

He was so broken, so like a child in his appeal to her, that Jerrie'stears came fast as she told him of her approaching marriage and what herfather intended doing for him. Then Frank broke down entirely, and criedlike a child. 

'I don't deserve it, and I know I owe it to you, whom I have injured somuch, ' he said, while Jerrie tried to comfort him. 

'I must go back now to father, ' she said at last; and, with a kiss uponhis worn face, she went out into the hall, where she encountered Tomjust coming from his mother's room. 

'Hallo!' Tom cried, with an attempt at a smile, 'and so you are going tomarry Harold?'

'Yes, Tom; I'm going to marry Harold, ' Jerrie replied, unhesitatingly, as she laid her hand on Tom's arm and walked with him down the stairs. 

It seemed to her the most natural thing in the world that she shouldmarry Harold, and she was not at all abashed in speaking of it to Tom;but when outside they saw Harold coming up the walk, the color rushed toher cheeks, and her eyes grew wondrously bright with the love-lightwhich shown in them, as she dropped Tom's arm and hurried to Harold'sside. 

'By George, I b'lieve I'll go and hang myself!' Tom said, under hisbreath, as he stalked moodily away; but instead of that he went acrossthe fields to Le Bateau, where he sat for an hour, talking with oldPeterkin and waiting for Ann Eliza, who had gone to Springfield, herfather said, after a new gown, for which he was to pay two hundreddollars. 

'Think on't!' he continued. 'When we was fust married and run the 'LizaAnn, the best gown May Jane had to her back was a mereener orbalzarine--dummed if I know what you call it--at one and ninepence ayard; but now, lord land, what's two hundred dollar gownd to me! AnnEliza can have forty on 'em, if she wants to. There she is; there's thekerridge! By gosh, though, ain't she a neat little filly!' and thefather's face glowed with pride as he watched his daughter alightingfrom the carriage, to which Tom had hastened in order to assist her, forshe was still a little lame and limped as she walked. 

He saw the two hundred dollar gown, for Peterkin would have itdisplayed, and admired it, of course, and wished thut he had half thesum it cost in his own right, and wondered if he could stand it, as hewalked slowly home, where he heard from his mother that they were stillto remain at Tracy Park for a while, and that his father was to have onehundred thousand dollars settled upon him. 

'I guess now I'll wait a spell, and let old Peterkin go to thunder, ' hedecided, and for two weeks and more Ann Eliza watched in vain for hiscoming, while Peterkin remarked to his wife that if Tom Tracy was goin'to play fast and loose with his gal, he'd find himself brought upstandin' mighty lively. 

The news that Harold and Jerrie were soon to be married, and go withArthur to Germany, created some surprise, and some talk, too, in town, where many of the people had believed that there had been anunderstanding, if not an engagement, between Harold and Maude. But Tomput that right with a few decided words. There had never been anengagement, he said. Maude had liked Harold very much, and he had likedher, but had always preferred Jerrie; in short, matters had been as goodas settled between them, long ago. 

This last was a little fiction of Tom's brain, but the people acceptedit as true, and began to look eagerly forward to the approachingmarriage, wondering, as people will, who would be invited, and who wouldnot. It took place the 10th of October, in Mrs. Crawford's littleparlor, with only a few intimate friends present--Grace Atherton, theSt. Claires, Ann Eliza Peterkin, and the Tracys, with the exception ofDolly, who could not do so great violence to her feeling, as to attend awedding. Billy was not there, but he sent a magnificent emerald ring toJerrie, with the following note:

 DEAR JERRIE, --I can't see you married, although I am glad for you, and glad for Hal. God bless you both. I shall never forget you as long as I live; and when you come back, maybe I can bear to see you as Hal's wife, but now it would kill me. Good-bye. 

Jerrie read this note with wet eyes up in her room, and then passed itto Harold, to whom she told of that episode under the butternut tree, when Billy asked her to be his wife. 

'Poor Billy! I am awful sorry for him, but I can't let him have you, Jerrie, ' Harold said, passing the note back to her, and kissing hertenderly, as he added: 'That is my last kiss for Jerrie Tracy, my littlegirl of the carpet-bag. When I kiss you again, you will be my wife. '

'Come, children, we are waiting, ' came with startling distinctness fromArthur at the foot of the stairs, and then Harold and Jerrie went downto the parlor, where they were soon made one, Arthur giving the brideaway, and behaving pretty well under the circumstances. 

He had been very flighty the day before, insisting that Jerrie should bemarried in white, with a blue ribbon on her bonnet, just as Gretchen hadbeen, and when she reminded him of Maude's recent death, he replied:

'Well, Gretchen will wear colors if you do not. '

And again he brought out and laid upon his bed the dress bought in Parisyears before, and which had been waiting for Gretchen on that stormynight when he heard the wild cry of the dying woman above the winterygale. She was with him again in fancy, and when he went out to thecarriage which was to carry him to the cottage, he stepped back andstood a moment by the door as if to let some one enter before him, andall during the ceremony those nearest to him heard him whispering tohimself, 'I, Arthur, take thee, Gretchen, ' and so forth; but when it wasover he came to himself and seemed perfectly rational, as he kissed hisdaughter and shook hands with his son-in-law, to whom he gave a checkfor ten thousand dollars, saying as he did so, that young men must havea little spending money. 

It was a very pleasant wedding, and every one seemed happy, even toDick, whose spirits, however, were rather too gay to be quite natural, and whose voice shook just a little as he called Jerrie Mrs. Hasting, and told her he hoped to see her in Paris in the spring as he thought ofgoing over there with Nina to join the Raymonds. 

'Oh, I hope you will! Nothing could make me so happy as to meet youthere, ' Jerrie said, looking at him with an expression which told himshe was thinking of the pines and was sorry for him. 

The newly married pair were going directly to New York, where Arthur wasto join them on the 4th, as the _Germanic_ sailed the 15th. 

All the wedding guests accompanied them to the station, Tom accepting aseat in the coupé with Ann Eliza, who wore her two hundred dollar gown, and was, of course, overdressed. But Tom did not think much about that. He was ill at ease that morning, though trying to seem natural; and whenthe train which took Jerrie away disappeared from view, he felt as ifeverything which had made life desirable had left him forever, and hecared but little now what he did, or with whom his lot was cast. 

So when Ann Eliza, who had cried at parting with Jerrie, dried her eyesand said to him, 'It is such a fine day; suppose we drive along theriver; it may dispel the blues, ' he assented, and soon found himselfbowling along the smooth turnpike with Ann Eliza, whom he thought ratherinteresting, with the tears shed for Jerrie on her long, lighteyelashes. 

'I shall miss her so much, and be so lonely without her. I hope you'llcall often, ' she said to him, when at last the drive was over, and Tompromised that he would, and kept his promise, too; for after Arthurleft, he found Tracy Park so insupportably dull, with his father alwaysin Maude's room and his mother always in tears, that it was a relief togo to Le Bateau and be made much of as if he were a prince and treatedto nice little lunches and suppers, even if old Peterkin did make one ofthe party and disgust him so at times that he felt as if he must snatchup his hat and fly. 

And one night, when the old man had been more than usually disagreeableand pompous, he did start up abruptly and leave the house, mentallyvowing never to enter it again. 

'I'd rather saw wood and gather swill, as Hal used to, than listen tothat infernal old brag, ' he was saying to himself, when he heard awheezy sound behind him, and looking round saw the old brag in fullpursuit and beckoning him to stop. 

'I'm goin' to walk a spell with you, ' he said, locking his arm in Tom'sas he came up. 'I want to have a little talk. '

'Yes, ' Tom faltered, with a dreadful sinking of the heart, whilePeterkin went on:

'You see you've been a comin' to Lubbertoo off and on for mighty nigh amonth, and as the parents of a family it's time I as't your intentions. '

'Intentions!' Tom stammered, trying to draw his arm from Peterkin's. 

But he might as well have tried to wrench it from a vise, for Peterkinheld it fast and went on:

'Yes, intentions! Thunderation, hain't a chap 'sposed to have intentionswhen he hangs round a gal who has money like my Ann 'Liza! I tell youwhat, Thomas, ' and his manner became very insinuating and frank, 'asnigh as I can kalkerlate I'm worth three millions, fair and square, andthere's three on 'em to divide it amongst--May Jane, Bill, and Ann'Liza. Now, s'posin' we say three into three million, don't it leave amillion?'

Tom acknowledged that it did, and Peterkin continued:

'Jess so. Now I ain't one of them mean skunks that wants his folks towait till he's dead afore they enjoys themselves; and the day my Ann'Liza is married, I plank down a million in hard cash for her and herhusband to do what they darned please with; cut a dash in Europe as Halis doin', if they like, or cut a splurge to hum, it's all one to me. Icall that square, don't you?'

Tom admitted that he did, and Peterkin went on:

'Now, then, I ain't goin't to have Ann 'Liza's affections trifled with, and if I catch a feller a doin' on't, d'ye know what I'll do?'

Tom could not guess, and Peterkin continued:

'I'll lick him within an inch of his life, and then set the dogs on him, and heave him inter the river! See?'

It was not a warm day, but Tom was perspiring at every pore as he sawpresented to him the choice between a million or to be 'licked within aninch of his life and then dogged into the river. ' Naturally he chose thefirst as the lesser evil of the two, and began to lie as he had neverlied in his life before. He was very glad, he said, that Peterkin hadbroached the subject, as it made matters easier for him by showing himthat his suit might not be rejected, as he had feared it might be. 

'You know, of course, Mr. Peterkin, ' he said, 'that I am a poor youngman, with no expectations whatever, for though Uncle Arthur has settledsomething upon father, I cannot depend upon that, and how could I dareto look as high as your daughter without some encouragement?'

'Encouragement, boy? Great Scott!' and releasing Tom's arm, Peterkin hithim a friendly slap, which nearly knocked him down. 'Great Scott! Whatdo you call encouragement? When a gal is so flustified at seeing you, and so tickled that she tetters right up and down, while her motherhunts heaven and earth for tit-bits to tickle your palate with--quail ontoast, mushrooms, sweet-breads, and the Lord knows what--ain't that asign they are willin'? Thunder and guns! what would you have? Ann 'Lizacan't up and say "Marry me, Tom;" nor I can't up and say, "Thomas, marrymy daughter, " can I? But if you want to marry her, say so like a man, and I swan I'll meet you like a man, and a father!'

Alas for Tom! he had nothing left him to do except to say that he wishedto marry Ann Eliza, and that he would come the next evening and tell herso. 

It was Peterkin who answered his ring when he presented himself at thedoor of Le Bateau, Peterkin more inflated and pompous than ever as heshook the young man's hand, calling him Thomas--a name which aggravatedhim beyond all description--and telling him to go right into the parlor, where he would find Ann 'Liza waitin' for him, and where they could billand coo as much as they liked, for he and May Jane would keep out of theway and give 'em a chance. 

Even then Tom cast one despairing glance toward the door, with a halfresolve to bolt; but Peterkin was behind him, pushing him on to hisfate, which, after all, was not so very bad when he came to face it. There was nothing low, or mean, or coarse about Ann Eliza, who, but forher very bright red hair, would have been called pretty by some, and whowas by no means ill-looking, even with her red hair, as she stood up toreceive her lover, with a droop in her eyes, and a flush on her cheeks;for she knew the object of his visit, into which he plunged at once. Hedid not say that he loved her, but he asked her in a straightforwardway to be his wife, and then waited for her answer, which was not longin coming, for Ann Eliza was no dissembler. She loved Tom Tracy with herwhole soul, and felt herself honored in being sought by him. 

'Oh, Tom!' she said, while the tears shone in her eyes, which Tomnoticed for the first time were large and clear and very blue. 'It doesnot seem possible for you to love me, but, if you really do, I will beyour wife and try to make you happy, and--and--'

She hesitated a moment and then went on:

'Save you as much as possible from father. We cannot live here; you andhe would not get on; he means well and is the kindest of fathers to me, but he is not like you, and we must go away. '

She was really a very sensible girl, Tom thought, and in his joy atfinding her so sensible he stooped and kissed her forehead as the properthing for him to do, while she, the poor little mistaken girl, threwherself into his arms and began to cry, she was so glad and happy. 

Tom did not know exactly what he ought to do. It was a novel situationfor him to be in, with a girl sobbing on his bosom, and his firstimpulse was to push her off; but when he remembered that she representeda million of dollars, he did what half the men in the world would havedone in his place: he held her close and tried to quiet her, and toldher he was not half good enough for her, and knew in his heart he wastelling the truth, and felt within him that stirring of a resolve thatshe should never know he did not love her, and that he would make herhappy, if he could. 

And so they were betrothed without much billing and cooing, and Peterkincame in with Mary Jane and made a speech half-an-hour long to his futureson-in-law, and settled just when they were to be married and what theywere to do. 

Christmas week was the time, and he vowed he'd give 'em a wedding whichshould take the starch entirely out of Gusty Browne, whose mother, Mrs. Rossiter Browne, would think Gusty was never married at all when she sawwhat he could do. Greatly he lamented that Harold and Jerry could not bepresent. 'But they'll see it in the papers, ' he said, 'for I'll have afour column notice, if I write it myself, and pay for it too! And whenyou meet 'em in Europe you can tell 'em what they missed. '

To all this Tom listened, with great drops of cold sweat running downhis back as he thought of the ridicule he should incur if Peterkinshould carry out his intentions to 'take the rag off the bush, ' as heexpressed it. The trip to Europe pleased him, but the party filled himwith a horror from which he saw no escape, until he consulted hismother, to whom he at once announced his engagement, but did not tellher of the check on a Springfield bank for $2, 000 which Peterkin hadslipped into his hand at parting with him, saying, when he protestedagainst taking it:

'Don't be a fool, Thomas. I'm to be your dad, so take it; you'll needit. I know your circumstances; they ain't what they was, and I don'ts'pose you've got enough to buy the engagement ring, I want a big one. Asolitary--no cluster for me. I know what 'tis to be poor. Take it, Thomas. '

So Tom took it with a sense of shame which prompted him several times totear it in shreds and throw them to the winds. But this he did not do, for he knew he should need money, as he had none of his own; and when, afew days before, he had asked Colvin for some, that worthy man, who hadnever taken kindly to him, had bidden him go to a very warm place formoney, as he had no orders to give him any. 

'Your uncle, ' he said, 'settled one hundred thousand dollars on yourfather--the more fool he--and expects him to live on it. So my advice toyou is that you go to work. '

Now, Tom couldn't work, and after a little Peterkin's gift did not seemso very humiliating to him, although he could not bring himself to tellhis mother of it when he announced his engagement to her, which he didbluntly and with nothing apologetic in his manner or speech. 

'I am going to marry Ann Eliza Peterkin some time during the holidays, and start at once for Europe, ' he said, and then brought some water anddashed it in her face, for she immediately went into hysterics anddeclared herself dying. 

When she grew calm, Tom swore a little, and talked a good deal, and toldher about the million, which he said was not to be sneezed at, and toldher what Colvin had said to him, and asked what the old Harry he was todo if he didn't marry Ann Eliza, and told her of the proposed party, asking her to save him from it if she could. 

When she found she could not help herself, Dolly rose to the situation, and said she would see her daughter-in-law elect, whom Tom was to bringto her, as she could not think of calling at Le Bateau in her presentstate of affliction. So Ann Eliza came over in the coat-of-armscarriage, and her mother came with her. But her Dolly declined to see. She could not endure everything, she said to Tom, and was only equal toAnn Eliza, whom she met with a bow and the tips of her fingers, withoutrising from her chair. Still, as the representative of a million, AnnEliza was entitled to some consideration, and Dolly motioned her to aseat beside her, and, with her black-bordered handkerchief to her eyes, said to her:

'Tom tells me you are going to marry him, and I trust you will try tomake him happy. He is a most estimable young man now, and if he shoulddevelop any bad habits, I shall think it owing to some new and badinfluence brought to bear upon him. '

'Yes'm, ' Ann Eliza answered, timidly; and the great lady went on to talkof family, and blood, and position, as something for which money couldnot make amends, and to impress upon her a sense of the great honor itwas to be a member of the Tracy family. 

Then she spoke of the wedding party, which she trusted Ann Eliza wouldprevent, as nothing could be in worse taste when they were in suchaffliction, adding that neither herself nor Mr. Tracy could think ofbeing present. 

'Be married quietly, without any display, if you wish to please me, ' shesaid; and with a wave of her cobweb handkerchief she signified that theconference was ended. 

'Well, Annie, how did you and my lady hit it?' Tom asked, meeting AnnEliza in the hall as she came out, flushed and hot from the interview. 

'We didn't hit it at all, ' Ann Eliza replied, with a sound of tears inher voice, and a gleam in her eye which Tom had never seen before. 'Shejust talked as if I were dirt, and that you were only marrying me formoney. She don't like me and I don't like her, there!' and the indignantlittle girl began to cry. 

Tom laughed immoderately, and, passing his arm around her as they wentdown the stairs, he said:

'Of course you don't like her. Who ever did like her mother-in-law? Butyou are marrying me, not my mother, so don't cry, _petite_. '

Tom was making an effort to be very kind, and even lover-like to his_fiancée_, who was easily comforted, and who, on her return to Le Bateautold her father plainly that the party must be given up, as it would besadly out of place and deeply offend the Tracys. Very unwillinglyPeterkin gave it up, and sent word to that effect to Mrs. Rossiter-Browne, who had already been apprised of the coming event andwas having a wonderful gown made for the occasion. 

'I find, ' he wrote, 'that it wouldn't be at all _rachelshay_ to have ablow out whilst the family is in deep black; but when they git intolavender, and the young folks is home from their tower, I'll have atearer. '

Peterkin tried two or three times to see Mrs. Tracy, but she put him offwith one excuse after another, until Tom took the matter in hand andtold her she was acting like a fool and putting on quite too many airs. Then she appointed an interview, and, bracing herself with a tonic, wentdown to the darkened, cheerless room, and by her manner so managed toimpress him with her superiority over him and his that he forgotentirely the speech he had prepared with infinite pains, and which hadin it a good deal about family _bonds_, and family _units_, and _Aaron'sbeard_, and brotherly love. This he had rehearsed many times to MayJane, with wonderful gestures and flourishes; 'but, I'll be bumped' hesaid to her on his return from the Park House, 'if I didn't forget everyblessed word, she was so high and mighty. Lord! as if I didn't know whatshe sprung from; but that's the way with them as was born to nothin'. May Jane, if I ever catch you puttin' on airs 'cause you're a Peterkin, I b'lieve I'll kill you!'

After this, anything like familiar intercourse ceased between the headsof the two families until the morning after Christmas day, when Frankand Dolly drove over to Le Bateau, where were assembled the same peoplewho had been present at Jerrie's wedding, and where Peterkin insistedupon darkening the rooms and lighting the gas, as something a little outof the usual order of things in Shannondale. Peterkin was very happy, and very proud of this alliance with the Tracy, and his pride andhappiness shone in his face all through the ceremony; and when theclergyman asked, 'Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?' hismanner was something grand to see as he stepped forward and responded, 'I do, sir, ' in a voice so loud and full of importance that Dollyinvoluntarily groaned, while Tom found it hard to refrain from laughing. 

Tom behaved very well, and kissed his bride before any one else had achance to do so, and called May Jane mother and Peterkin father, afterhe saw the papers which made Ann Eliza own in her own right a milliondollars; and when, an hour later, she handed over to him as his own, adeed of property valued at one hundred thousand dollars, he took her inhis arms and kissed her again, telling her what was very true, that shewas worth her weight in gold. Tom had felt his poverty keenly, and allthe more so that Ann Eliza's engagement-ring, a superb solitaire, hadactually been bought with her father's gift, as had their passagetickets to Europe. But now he was a rich man, made so by his wife'sthoughtful generosity, and he was conscious of a new set of feelings andemotions with regard to her, and inwardly vowed that, so far as in himlay, he would make her happy. 

They took the train for New York that afternoon, accompanied byPeterkin, who, when the ship sailed away next day, stood upon the wharfwaving his hands and calling out as long as they could hear him, 'Godbless you, my children! God bless you, my children!' Then he went backto Shannondale and called at Tracy Park, and reported to Frank, the onlyone he saw, that the youngsters had gone, and that Mrs. Thomas Tracylooked as well as the best on 'em in the ship, and a darned sight betterthan some!

After this the great houses of Le Bateau and Tracy Park settled downinto perfect quiet, especially that of Tracy Park, where Dolly shutherself up in her mourning and crape, and Frank spent most of his timein Maude's room, with her photograph in his hand, and his thoughts busywith memories of the dear little girl lying in her grave of flowersunder the winter snow. 

CHAPTER LIII. 

AFTER TWO YEARS. 

Two years since Harold and Jerrie went away, and it was October again, and the doors and windows of the Park House were all open to the warmsunshine which filled the rooms, where the servants were flitting in andout with an air of importance and pleased expectancy, for that afternoonthe master was coming home, with Harold and Jerrie; and what was morewonderful and exciting still, there was in the party a little boy, bornin Wiesbaden six months before, and christened Frank Tracy. They hadgone directly to Germany--Arthur, Harold, and Jerrie--for the formerwould not stop a day until Wiesbaden was reached; and there, overcomewith fatigue and the recollections of the past which crowded upon him sofast, Arthur fell sick and was confined to his room in the hotel for aweek, during which time Jerrie explored the city with Harold and aguide, finding every spot connected with Gretchen and her life, even tothe shop were Frau Heinrich had sold her small wares. 

As soon as her father was able, she took him to them one by one. Hand inhand, for he seemed weak as a little child, they went to the bench underthe trees where he had first seen Gretchen knitting in the sunshine, with the halo on her hair, and here Arthur took off his hat as if onconsecrated ground, and whispered, 'May God forgive me!' then to thelittle shop once kept by Frau Heinrich, where Arthur astonished thewoman by buying out half her stock, which he ordered sent to his hotel, and afterward gave away; then to the English church, where he kneltbefore the altar and seemed to be praying, though the words he said werespoken more to Gretchen than to God; then to the house where he hadlived with his bride, when heaven came down so close that she couldtouch it, or rather, to the site of the house, for fire had done itswork there and they could only stand before the ruins, while Arthur saidagain and again, 'May God forgive me!' then to the house where Jerriehad lived and Gretchen had died, and where the picture still hung uponthe wall, a wonder and delight to all who had rented the place sinceMarian's parents parents lived there. Jerrie recognized it in a moment, and so did Arthur, but he could only wring his hands before it and sob, 'Oh, Gretchen, my darling, my darling!' Changed as the house was, Jerriefound the room she remembered so well, where she had played and hermother had died. 

'The big stove stood here, ' she said, indicating the spot, 'and mothersat there writing to you, when Nannine opened the door and let thefirelight shine upon the paper. I can see it all so distinctly, and overthere in the corner was the bed where she died. '

Then Arthur knelt down upon the spot, and as if the oft-repeatedejaculation, 'May God forgive me!' were wholly inadequate now, he saidthe Lord's Prayer, with folded hands and streaming eyes, while Jerriestood over him, with her arm around his neck. 

'Oh, Gretchen, ' he cried; 'do you know I am here after so manyyears?--Arthur, your husband, who loved you through all? Come back tome, Gretchen, and I'll be so tender and true--tender and true! My heartis breaking, Gretchen, and only for Cherry, our dear little girl baby, Ishould wish I were dead, like you. Oh, Gretchen! Gretchen! sweetest wifea man ever called his! and yet I forgot you, darling--forgot that youhad ever lived! May heaven forgive me for I could not help it; I forgoteverything. Where are you, Cherry? It's getting so dark and cold, andGretchen is not here--I think you must take me home. 

Jerrie took him back to the hotel, where he kept his room for threedays, and then they went to Gretchen's grave beside her mother, whichJerrie had found after some little search and enquiry. Here Arthur stoodlike a statue, holding fast to Jerrie, and gazing down upon theneglected grave, on which clumps of withered grass were growing andblowing in the November wind. 

'Gretchen is not here in this place, ' he said mournfully, with a shakeof his head. 'She couldn't rest there a moment, for she liked everythingbeautiful and bright, and this is like the Potter's field. But we'll putup a monument for her, and make the place attractive; and by and by, when she is tired of wandering about, she may come back and rest whenshe sees what we have done, and knows that we have been here. We willbuy that house too, he said, as he walked away from the lonely grave;and the next day Harold found the owner of the place and commencednegotiations for the house, which soon changed hands and became theproperty of Arthur. 

Just what he meant to do with it he did not know, until Jerrie suggestedthat he should make it an asylum for homeless children, who shouldreceive the kindest and tenderest care from competent and trustworthynurses, hired for the purpose. 

'Yes, I'll do it, ' Arthur said, 'and will call it "The Gretchen Home. "Maybe she will come there some time, and know what I have done. '

This idea once in his mind, Arthur never let go of it until the housewas fitted up with school-rooms and dormitories, with the little whitebeds and chairs suggestive of the little ones rescued from want andmisery and placed in the Gretchen home until it would hold no more. Thegeneral supervision of this home was placed in the hands of the Englishrector, the Rev. James Dennis, whose many acts of kindness and humanityamong the poor had won for him the sobriquet of St. James, and with whomthe interests of the children were safe as with a loving father. 

'There is money enough--money enough, ' said Arthur, when giving hisinstructions to the matron, a good-natured woman, who, he knew, wouldnever abuse a child. 'Money enough; to give them something besides breadand water for breakfast, and mush and molasses for supper. Children likecookies and custard pie, and if there comes a circus to town let them goonce in a while; it won't hurt them to see a little of the world. '

Frau Hirch looked at him in some surprise, but promised compliance withhis wishes; and when in the middle of December he left Wiesbaden forItaly he had the satisfaction of knowing that the inmates of theGretchen home were enjoying a bill of fare not common in institutions ofthe kind. 

Another odd fancy had entered his brain, upon which he acted with hisusual promptness. Every child not known to have been baptized, was to bechristened with a new name, either Gretchen, or Jerrie, or Maude orArthur, or Harold, or Frank. 

'Suppose you have Tom, and Ann Eliza, and Hilly, ' Jerrie suggested, andafter a little demur Arthur consented, and the names of Tom, and AnnEliza, and Billy were added to the list, which, in the course of time, created some little confusion in the Gretchen home, where Jerries, andMaudes, and Harolds, and Arthurs abounded in great profusion, thesebeing the favorites of the children, who in most instances were allowedto choose for themselves. 

It was not difficult to find in Wiesbaden people who had rememberedGretchen and the grand marriage she had made with the rich American, whoafterward abandoned her. That was the way they worded it, and theyremembered too, the little girl, Jerrine, whom, after her mother'sdeath, the nurse, Nannine, took to her father's friends, since whichnothing had been heard from her. Thus, had there been in Arthur's mindany doubt as to Jerrie's identity, it would have been swept away; butthere was none. He had accepted her from the first as his daughter, andhe always looked up to her as a child to its mother whom it fears tolose sight of. 

The winter was mostly spent in Rome, where Harold and Jerrie exploredevery part of the city, while Arthur staid in his room talking to anunseen Gretchen, who afforded him almost as much satisfaction as thereal one might have done. In May they visited the lakes and in Junedrifted to Paris, where Jerrie was overjoyed to meet Nina and Dick, whowere staying with the Raymonds at a charming chateau just outside thecity. Here she and Harold passed a most enjoyable week, and before sheleft she was made happy by something which she saw and which told herthat Dick was forgetting that night under the pines, and that some daynot far in the future he would find in Marian all he had once hoped tofind in her. In Paris, too, she came one day upon Ann Eliza at the BonMarché, with silks and satins piled high around her, and two or threeobsequious clerks in attendance, for La Petite Américaine, who bought solavishly everything she saw and fancied, was well known to thetradespeople, who eagerly sought her patronage and that of my lordmonsieur, who inspired them greatly with his air of importance anddignity. Tom was enjoying himself immensely, and was really a good dealimproved and a good deal in love with his little wife, whom he alwaysaddressed as Petite or Madame, and who was quite a belle and a generalfavorite in the American colony. Following a fashion, which Tom was surehad been made for his benefit, she had cut off her obnoxious red hairand substituted in its place a wig of reddish brown, which fornaturalness and beauty was a marvel of art and skill, and became her sowell that Tom really thought her handsome, or at least very stylish andstunning, which was better than mere beauty. They had a suite of roomsat the Continental, and there Harold and Jerrie dined with them in theirprivate parlor, for Tom was quite too fine a gentleman to go to _tabled'hôte_ with the common herd. Ann Eliza's grand maid, Doris, was withher still, and had come to look upon her young mistress as quite asgreat a personage as the Lady Augusta Hardy, whom she had ceased toquote, and who, with her mother, Mrs. Rossiter-Browne, was now in thecity, attended, it was said, by a Polish count, who had an eye upon hermoney. Once, when they were alone, Jerrie asked Tom when he was goinghome, and, with a comical twinkle in his eye, he replied, 'When I hearthat my respected father-in-law has gone off with apoplexy, and notbefore. ' Jerrie thought this a shocking speech, but she was glad to seehim so happy, and, as she told Harold, 'so much more of a man than shehad ever supposed he could be. '

That summer Harold and Jerrie spent in Switzerland, with the Raymondsand St. Claires and Tracys, while Arthur went to Wiesbaden to see to theGretchen Home, which he found so much to his taste that he remainedthere until Harold and Jerrie, after a trip through Austria and Germany, joined him in November, when they went again for the winter to Italy, coming back in the spring to Wiesbaden, and because Arthur would have itso, taking up their abode for a while in the Gretchen Home, which hadbeen greatly enlarged and improved, and now held thirty deserted andhomeless children. Here, in April, Jerrie's little boy was born, in thesame room and corner where Gretchen had died, and where Arthur againwent down upon his knees and said the Lord's Prayer, to which he added afervent thanksgiving for Jerrie spared and a baby given to him. 

'I hoped it would be a girl, ' he said, 'for then we should have calledit Gretchen; but as it is a boy, suppose we name it Heinrich?'

'No, father, ' Jerrie said decidedly, 'Baby is not to be Heinrich, orArthur, or Harold, although I think the last the dearest name in theworld, ' and she put up her hand caressingly to the brown beard of thetall young man bending over to kiss her pale face and look at his son. 'We will call the baby Frank Tracy. '

And so Frank Tracy was the name given to the child, who was more likeits father than its mother, and whom Arthur called Tracy, which he likedbetter, he said, than he did Frank. 

They remained in Wiesbaden until June, then went to Switzerland andParis, and in October sailed for home, where the Park House was readyfor them, with no mistress to dispute Jerrie's rights and no masterexcept the lawful one. Just out of town on a grassy ridge overlookingthe river, a gentleman from New York had built a pretty little cottage, which, as his wife died suddenly, he never occupied, but offered forsale, with all its furniture and appointments. 

'Let's buy it, ' Dolly said to her husband. 'We must go somewhere beforeArthur comes home, and we can live there very respectably andeconomically, too. '

She was beginning to count the cost of everything now, and was almostpenurious in her efforts to make their income go as far as possible. Sothey bought the pretty place, which she called Ridge Cottage, but Frankdid not live to occupy it. After Tom went away and left him alone withhis wife, who was not the most agreeable of companions, he failedrapidly, both in body and mind, and those who saw him walking about thehouse, with his white hair and bent form, would have said he was seventyrather than fifty years old. Every day, when the weather permitted, hevisited Maude's grave, where he sometime stayed for hours looking downupon the mound talking to the insensible clay beneath. 

'I am coming soon, Maude, very soon, to be here beside you, ' he wouldsay. 'Everybody has gone, even to Tom, and your mother is sometimes hardupon me because of what I did. And I am tired, and cold, and old, andthe world is dark and dreary, and I am coming very soon. '

Then he would walk slowly back, taking the post office on his way, toinquire for letters from the folks, as he designated the absent ones. These letters were a great comfort to him, especially those from Jerrie, who wrote him very often and told him all they were doing and seeing, and tried to make him understand how much she loved and sympathised withhim. Not a hint had been given him of the baby; and when, in June, hereceived a letter from her containing a photograph of the little boynamed for him, he seemed childish in his joy, and started with thepicture at once for Maude's grave. Kneeling down, with his face in thelong grass, he whispered:

'Look, Maude!--Jerrie's baby boy, named for me--Frank Tracy! Do you hearme, Maude? Frank Tracy, for me--who wronged her so. God bless Jerrie, and give her many years of happiness when I am dead and gone, which willnot now be long. I am coming very soon, Maude; sooner than you think, and shall never see Jerrie's little boy, God bless him!'

That night Frank seemed brighter than usual, and talked a great dealwith his wife, who, to the last day of her life, was glad that she waskind to him and humored all his fancies; and once, when he lay upon thecouch, with the baby's picture in his hand, she went and sat by him andran her fingers caressingly through his white hair, and asked if he werenot better. 

'Yes, Dolly, ' he said, taking her fingers in his hand and holding themfast. 'A great deal better. Jerrie's baby has done me good, and you, too, Dolly. You don't knew how nice it seems to have you smooth my hair;it is like the old days at Langley, when we sang in the choir together, and you were fond of me. '

'I am fond of you now, Frank, ' Dolly replied, as she stooped to kiss theface in which there was a look she had never seen before, and whichhaunted her long after he had said good-night and gone to Maude's room, where he said he would sleep, as he was likely to be restless and mightkeep her awake. 

The next morning Dolly took her breakfast alone, for Frank did not joinher. 

'Let him sleep, ' she said to the servant, who suggested calling him; butwhen some time later, he did not appear, she went herself to Maude'sroom, into which the noonday sun was shining, for every blind and windowwas open and the light was so dazzling that for a moment she did not seethe still figure stretched upon the bed, where with Maude's picture inone hand and Jerrie's baby's in the other, her husband lay, calmlysleeping the sleep which knows no waking. 

On his face there was a look of rapturous joy, and on his lips a smileas if they were framing the loved name of Maude when death came andsealed them forever. Around him was no sign of struggle or pain, for thecovering was not disturbed; and the physician when he came said he musthave died quietly and possibly instantly without a note of warning. Theyburied him beside his daughter and then Dolly was alone in the greathouse, which became so intolerable to her that she left it early inAugust and took possession of the cottage on the Ridge, which, thoughscarcely less lovely, was not as large as the Park House and did notseem haunted with the ghosts of the dead. 

And so it happened that Mrs. Crawford alone stood in the door-way towelcome the travellers when, late in the bright October afternoon theycame, tired and dusty, but oh, so glad to be home once more and to feelthat now it really was home to all intents and purposes. 

'I never was so glad in my life, and if Uncle Frank were here I shouldbe perfectly happy, ' Jerrie cried, as she threw herself upon Mrs. Crawford's neck, hugging and kissing her awhile, and then taking herbaby from the nurse she put it into the old lady's arms, saying as shedid so:

'Another grandson for you--Harold's baby. Isn't he a beauty?'

And little Tracy was a most beautiful child, with his father's featuresand complexion, but Jerrie's expression and ways, and Mrs. Crawfordfelt, as she folded him to her bosom and cried over him, that he wouldbe the crowning joy of her old age. At first Harold puzzled andperplexed her, he was so changed from the Harold who had shingled roofsand painted barns and worked in Peterkin's furnace. Foreign travel andprosperity set well upon him, and one could scarcely have found a morerefined or polished young man than Harold as he moved about thepremises, every inch a gentleman and every inch the master, with abright smile and pleasant word for everyone, whether of high or lowdegree. He had known what poverty meant, with slights on account of it, and had risen above it all, and remembering the days when he worked inthe Tracy fields and envied his companions their leisure and freedomfrom toil, he had resolved that, if possible, some portion of mankindshould be happier because of him. He knew he was very fine-looking, forhis tailor told him so, and his mirror told him so, and Jerrie told himso twenty times a day as she kissed his handsome face, and hisgrandmother frequently took off her spectacles to wipe away her gladtears as she looked at her boy and felt so proud of him. 

All Shannondale hastened to call upon the travellers, and no one waslouder or more demonstrative in his welcome than Peterkin, who calledhimself their _kin_, and was very proud of the connection and of his son_Thomas_, for whom he made many inquiries. It did not take long for thefamily to settle down into every-day quiet, Jerrie proving herself acompetent and thorough housekeeper, while Harold was to all intents andpurposes the head to whom everyone deferred and went for directions. Arthur, who had half died from seasickness, had at once taken to hisrooms and his old mode of life, telling Harold and Jerrie to do whatthey liked and not bother him. One change, however, he made; he putHarold into the office in the place of Colvin, who had done his businessfor so many years, and who was glad to give it up, while Harold was gladto take it, as it gave him something to do and did not greatly interferewith his law studies, which he immediately resumed, applying himself soclosely that he was admitted to practice within the year, and in timebecame one of the ablest lawyers in the State. 

And now there remains but little to do except to gather up the fewtangled threads of our story and bring it to a close. For another yearthe Raymonds and St. Claires remained abroad, and then, just before theysailed for home, there was a double wedding one morning in London, whenFred and Dick were the bridegrooms, and Marian and Nina were the brides. Dick had not forgotten the night under the pines, but he had ceased toremember it with pain; and when he asked Marian to be his wife he toldher of it, and of his old love for Jerrie, while she in turn told him ofa grave among the Alps by which she had stood with an aching heart, while strangers buried from her sight forever a young artist fromBoston, who, had he lived, would have made it impossible for her to bethe wife of Dick St. Claire. But Allan was dead, and Jerrie was a wifeand mother, and so across the graves of a living and a dead love the twograsped hands, and, forgetting the past as far as possible, were contentwith the new happiness offered to them. 

 * * * * *

It is five years now since Harold and Jerrie came home, and toddlingabout the house is a little girl two years old, whom they call Gretchen, and who has all the soft beauty of the Gretchen in the picture, togetherwith Jerrie's stronger and more marked features. This little girl isArthur's idol, and has succeeded in luring him from his den, in which, until she came, he was staying closer than ever. Now, however, he iswith her constantly, either in the house or in the grounds, or sittingunder a tree holding her in his lap, while he talks his strange talk tothe other Gretchen, and the child listens wonderingly, with her greatblue eyes fixed upon him. 

'This is our grandchild, ' he will say, nodding to the space beside him, while little Gretchen nods too, as if she also saw a figure sittingthere. 'Our grandchild and Jerrie's baby, and you are its grandmother. Grandma Gretchen! That's funny;' and then he laughs, and baby laughs, and says after him, lispingly, 'Danma Detchen, that's funny. '

Then Tracy comes up with his whip and his cart, and his straw hathanging down his back, and Arthur points him out to the spirit Gretchenas her grandson, who, he says, is all Hastings, with a very little Tracyand not a grain of German in him, 'but very nice, very nice; and you arehis grandmother, too, and I am his grandfather, whom he once called anold crazy man because I wouldn't let him play in my room with a littlealligator which his Aunt Dolly sent him from Florida. '

'Well, you be crazy, ain't you?' the boy says, seating himself upon thebench and nestling his brown head against the arm of the man, whoreplies:

'I don't know whether I am or not, but if to be very happy in thecompanionship of the living and of the dead, and to have one as real asthe other is craziness, then I am crazy. '

And then, for the hundredth time, he tells to the boy, and to the baby, too, who seems to understand the story of the carpet-bag and the littlegirl, their mother, whom the boy, their father, found in the Tramp Houseone wintry morning years ago, and carried through the snow. And Tracystarts to his feet with dilating eyes, and says:

'I just wish I'd been there. I'd carried mamma, and wouldn't let herdrop in the snow as papa did. Where was I then, grandpa?'

But grandpa does not answer, and begins the story of the cherries andthe ladder, which Tracy likes even better than that of the carpet bag, particularly the part where the white sun-bonnet appears in the window, and the shrill voice calls out: 'Mr. Crazyman, Mr. Crazyman, don't youwant some cherries?'

This Arthur makes very dramatic and real, and Tracy holds his breath;and sometimes when the question is more real than usual, little Gretchenputs out her hand, and says:

'_Iss_, div me some. '

Then the boy and the old man laugh, and Tracy runs off after a passingbutterfly, and Arthur goes on with talk to the baby and the otherGretchen beside him, until the former falls asleep, and he takes her tothe crib he has had put in the bay window under the picture which smilesdown upon the sleeping infant, whose guardian angel it seems to be. 

The Tramp House has been repaired and renovated, the table mended, andthe rat hole stopped up; and the trio frequently go there together, forit is the children's play-house, where Arthur is sometimes a horse, sometimes a bear, and sometimes a whole menagerie of animals. Once ortwice he has been the dead woman on the table, with little Gretchenbeside him in the carpet-bag, and Tracy tugging with all his might tolift her out; but after the day when he let her fall, and gave her a bigbump upon the forehead, that kind of play ceased, and the boy wascompelled to try some other make believe than that of the tragedy on thewintry night many years before. 

Billy Peterkin has never married, and never will. His heart-wound wastoo deep to heal without a scar to tell where it had been; but he andJerrie are the best of friends, and he is very fond of her children. 

Tom is still abroad, waiting for that fit of apoplexy which is to be thesignal for his return; but the probabilities are that he will wait along time, for Peterkin, who is himself afraid of apoplexy, has gonethrough the Banting process, which has reduced his weight from fifty toseventy-five pounds, and as he is very careful in his diet Tom may stayabroad longer than he cares to do, unless Ann Eliza's persuasions bringhim home to his dreaded father-in-law. There was a little girl born tothem in Rome, whom they called Maude, but she only lived a few weeks, and then they buried her under the daisies in the Protestant buryingground, where so many English and Americans are lying. Ann Eliza sent alock of the little one's hair to her father, who had it framed and hungin his bedroom, and wore on his hat a band of crape which nearly coveredit. 

Dolly still calls the Ridge Cottage her home, but she is not oftenthere, for a mania for travelling has seized her, and she is always uponthe move, searching for some new place, where she hopes to find rest andquiet. She still dresses in black, relieved at times with somethingwhite, but she has laid aside crape and sports her diamonds, which shedid not find it necessary to sell, and which attract a great deal ofattention, they are so clear and large. One year she spent in Europewith Tom and Ann Eliza, the latter of whom she made so uncomfortablewith her constant dictation and assumption of superiority that Tom atlast came to the rescue, and told her either to mind her business andlet his wife alone or go home. As she could not do the former she camehome, and joined a Raymond party to California, but soon separatedherself from it, as the members were not to her taste. Every summer shegoes either to Saratoga or the sea-side or the mountains, and everywinter she drifts southward to Florida, where, at certain hotels, she isas well known as the oldest _habituée_. We saw her recently at WinterPark, where, at the Seminole, she has a maid and a suit of rooms, and asfar as possible keeps herself aloof from the common herd, consortingonly with the noted ones of the place, those she knows who have moneyand position at home. Poor foolish Dolly, who has forgotten Langley andits humble surroundings. There are many like her in real life, but onlyone in our story, to which we now write

THE END.