'I have the strength of twenty horses,' Jerrie said, 'and if they have company, 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 leafy woods until the house was reached, and then she stopped a moment to take breath and look about her. How very fair and beautiful it was, that home of the Tracys, and Jerrie's heart beat so hard that she felt for a moment as if she were choking to death as she sat under a maple tree and tried to think it all over, to make sure there was no mistake. Opening the box she took out two documents, and read them again as she had the night she was taken sick. One was a certificate of marriage, the other of a birth and baptism; there was no mistake.

Holding the papers in one hand and the bag in the other, she went on to the house, from which shouts of laughter were issuing, Nina's voice, and Marian's, and Tom's, and Dick's, and Mrs. Tracy's. Jerrie shuddered a little when she heard that, for it brought back to her mind all the slights she had received from that woman who was so cruel to Harold, and the pity which had been springing up in her heart ever since she looked up at the windows of Maude's room and thought of the white-faced girl lying there, died out, and it was more a Nemesis than a gentle, forgiving woman who walked boldly into the hall and entered unbidden at the drawing-room door.

Mrs. Tracy was having a progressive euchre party that afternoon. A friend in Boston had written her about it, and, proud to be the first to introduce it in Shannondale, she stood, flushed and triumphant, with the restored diamonds in her ears and at her throat, laughing merrily with the others at Judge St. Claire, who had won the booby prize—a little drum, as something he could beat—and who, with a perplexed look in his face, 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 apparent interest in the matter. He had joined in the game because his wife told him he must, and had borne meekly her sarcastic remarks when he trumped her 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 whom there 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 such thought in his mind when he saw Jerrie in the door—tall, thin, and white from her recent sickness, with eyes which rolled, and shone, and flashed as Arthur's did sometimes, and falling at last upon Mrs. Tracy, where they rested with an intensity which must have drawn that lady's notice 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 with exclamations of surprise and inquiries as to how she got there.

For a moment Jerrie stood like one in a catalepsy, with no power to move or speak, but when Mrs. Tracy came forward, and in her iciest tones said to her: 'Good-afternoon, Miss Crawford. To what am I indebted for this unexpected pleasure?' her faculties came back, her tongue was loosened, and she replied in a clear voice, which rang through the room like a bell, 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 suspicion heaped upon him—by whom, at first, I do not know, but it was helped on by you. I have seen the paper, have heard the whole from grandma, and am here to defend him. It was I who gave him the diamonds! It was for me he kept silent, and let you think what you would.'

'You gave him the diamonds?' Mrs. Tracy repeated, as one by one all the members of the party, even the judge and Tom, gathered close to her in their astonishment. 'You gave him the diamonds! You! and have come to confess yourself a—'

She never finished the sentence, for something in Jerrie's face frightened her, while her husband, who had come forward, laid his hand warningly 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 the sound of Jerrie's voice had, in her eagerness to see her, crept down the stairs, and now stood in the door-way opposite to Jerrie, her large, bright eyes looking in wonder upon the scene, and her ears listening intently 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,' Jerrie said, 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 horrid presentiment of the truth, and who had clutched hard his wife's arm as she said questioningly, in a mocking, aggravating tone:

'And your mother was—?'

Then Jerrie stepped into the room, and stood in their midst like a queen among her subjects as she answered:

'My mother was Marguerite Heinrich, of Wiesbaden, better known to you as Gretchen; and my father is Arthur Tracy, and I am their lawful child. It is so written here,' and she held up the papers and the bag; 'I am Jerrie Tracy!'



CHAPTER XLV.

WHAT FOLLOWED.

'Thank God that it is out! I couldn't have borne it much longer,' leaped involuntarily from Frank's lips.

No one heard it save Jerrie, and she scarcely heeded it then; for with one bound, as it seemed to the petrified spectators, who divided right and left to let her pass, she reached the opposite door-way, and stooping over the little figure lying there so still, lifted it tenderly, and carrying it up stairs, laid it down in the room it would never leave again until other hands than hers carried it out and laid it away in the Tracy lot, where only Jack and the dark woman were lying now.

Maude had heard all Jerrie was saying, and understood it, too; and at the words, 'I am Jerrie Tracy,' she felt an electric thrill pass over her, like what she had experienced when watching the acting in some great tragedy; then all was darkness, and she knew no more until Jerrie was 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. She must not go, I want her; for if what she said is true, she is my own cousin. Oh, Jerrie, I am so glad!' and throwing her arms around Jerrie's neck, Maude sobbed convulsively.

As yet Maude saw only the good which had come to her, if the news were true; the evil had not yet been presented to her, and she clung tightly to Jerrie, who, nearly distraught herself, did not know what to do. She knew that Mrs. Tracy looked upon her as an intruder, and possibly a liar; but she cared little for that lady's opinion. She only thought of Frank and what he would say.

Lifting up her head at last from the pillow where she had lain it for a moment, while Maude's thin little hands caressed the golden hair, she saw him standing at the foot of the bed, taller, straighter than she had seen him in years, with a look on his face which she knew was not adverse 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, but gladder for myself.'

What did he mean? Jerrie wondered; while Maude's eyes sought his questioningly, and his wife said, sharply:

'You are talking like a lunatic! Do you propose to give up so easily to a 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 she whispered:

'Yes, Jerrie, prove it. There were papers in your hand, and a bag, and you said, "It is so written here." Bring the papers and read them to us—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 knocked him 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 have to know,' Maude persisted.

After a moment, during which a powerful tonic had been given to his daughter, Frank went down to his guests, who were eagerly discussing the strange story, which not one of them doubted in the least.

In her haste to reach Maude, Jerrie had dropped the bag and the two papers, which Judge St. Claire picked up and held for a moment in his hand; then passing the papers to Marian, he said:

'It can be no secret now, and Jerrie will not care. What do the papers contain?'

Running her eyes rapidly over them, Marian said:

'The first is a certificate of marriage between Arthur Tracy and Marguerite Heinrich, who were married October 20th, 18—, in the English church at Wiesbaden, by the Rev. Mr. Eaton, then the officiating clergyman. The second is a certificate of the birth and baptism of Jerrine, daughter of Arthur and Marguerite Tracy, who was born at Wiesbaden, January 1st, 18—, and christened January 8th, 18—, by the Rev. Mr. Eaton.'

Then a deep silence fell upon the group, while Tom stood like one paralyzed. He understood the situation perfectly, and knew that if Jerrie was mistress there, he could never hope to be master.

'May as well evacuate at once,' he said at last, with an attempt to smile as he walked slowly out of the house, which he felt was his inheritance no longer.

Just then Frank came down, saying that Maude insisted upon knowing what was in the papers which Marian was to read, while the others were to come up and listen. He did not seem at all like a man who had lost anything, but bustled about cheerily; and when the judge said to him apologetically, 'We know the contents of two of the papers. They are certificates of the marriage of Arthur with Gretchen, and of Jerrie's birth. 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. Where is Tom? He must hear the papers.'

He found his son under the true where he had been sitting the morning when Jerrie came near fainting there, and in his hand was a curious bit of pine finished like a grave-stone—the same he had whittled under the pines, and on which he was now carving, 'Euchred, August —, 18—.'

'This is the monument to our downfall,' he said, as his father came up to him with something so pitiful in his face and voice that Frank gave way suddenly, and, sitting down beside him, laid his hand upon his tall son's head and cried for a moment like a child, while Tom's chin quivered, and he was mortally afraid there was something like tears in his 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 for Jerrie—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 money is a good thing to have.'

And then, without in the least knowing why, he thought of Ann Eliza, and wondered how her ankle was getting along, and if he ought not to have called upon her again.

'Marian is going to read the papers in Maude's room, and I have come for you,' Frank said.

'I don't care to hear them,' Tom replied. 'I am satisfied that we are beggars, and Jerrie the heiress.'

But Frank insisted, and Tom went with him to his sister's room, followed by their friends, for whom the dinner was waiting and spoiling in the kitchen, where as yet no hint of what was transpiring had reached, save the fact that Maude had been down stairs and fainted. She was propped upon pillows scarcely whiter than her face save where two crimson spots burned brightly, and her eyes were fixed constantly upon Jerrie, who sat beside her, holding her cold, clammy hands, which she occasionally patted, and kissed and caressed.

'Where did you find the bag?' the judge asked; and then Jerrie narrated the particulars of her interview with Peterkin, whose destruction of the table 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 she turned her eyes upon Mrs. Tracy, who stood like a block of stone, with no sympathy or credulity upon her face. 'Father bought them for her at the same time with Mrs. Tracy's, which they are exactly like. It is so written in her letter. And she sent them for me. They are mine and I gave them to Harold to keep untill I could think what to do. The diamonds are mine.'

She was still looking at Mrs. Tracy, on whom all eyes were now resting as the precious stones flashed, and glittered, and shone in the sunlight in the hall in all the colors of the rainbow.

For an instant the proud woman hesitated, then, quickly unclasping the ear-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 us all.'

As he had closed the door and stood against it she had no alternative except to stay, but she walked to the window and stood with her back to them all, while Marian put into English and read, in a clear, distinct voice, 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 to Mrs. Arthur Tracy, Wiesbaden, postmarked Liverpool; one to Margaret Heinrich, Wiesbaden, postmarked Shannondale; one in a strange handwriting to Arthur Tracy, if living; and one to Arthur Tracy's friends if he were dead, or incapable of understanding it. And it was this last which Marian read; for as Arthur was living, she felt that with his letters strangers had nothing to do. The letter to the friends, which had evidently been written at intervals, as the writer's strength would 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 Frank had walked to a window, and, like his wife, was looking out upon the lawn, 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 bete 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 her lovingly and said to her in German:

'That was your mother's picture in our old home in Wiesbaden. I am so glad 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, she drew out two small papers, one crumpled and worn, as if it had been often referred to, the other folded neatly and tied with a white ribbon.

This Marian opened first, and found it to be a certificate, written in English, to the effect that Mrs. Arthur Tracy, nee Marguerite Heinrich, 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's handwriting, and the directions he had written to his wife, as to what she was to do and how to find Tracy Park.

'Yes,' Judge St. Claire said, coming forward and taking the paper from her hand, 'this is what the station-master saw the poor woman examining that night in the storm. She probably dropped it into the bag without stopping 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 the window, 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 mistress here, and am ready to leave at once. Shall we pack up and quit to-night?'

'Dolly!' 'Mother!' came angrily and sternly from both Tom and Frank, and 'Oh, mamma, please,' came faintly from Maude, while Jerrie lifted up her head, and looking steadily at the cruel woman, said:

'Why are you so hard with me? I cannot help it. I am not to blame. I mean to do right; only wait—a little. I am so sick now—so dizzy and blind. 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, took her into the open air and to a seat under the tree where once before she had almost fainted, as she did now, with her head upon his shoulder, for he put it there, and then pushed her hair back from her face as he said lightly:

'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 any claimant to Tracy Park who might appear against you?'

'I remember it,' Tom said, 'but I didn't think then that the claimant would be Jerrie, my cousin,' and he put his arm around her as he continued: 'I can't say that I am not awfully cut up to be turned neck and heels out of what I believed would be my own, but if it must be, I am glad it is you who do it, for I know you'll not be hard upon us, or let Uncle Arthur be, even if mother is so mean. Remember, Jerrie, that I loved you and asked you to be my wife when I believed you poor and unknown.'

Tom was very politic and was speaking good words for himself, but all the good there was in him seemed now to be on the surface and while inwardly rebelling at his misfortune, he felt a thrill of joy in knowing that 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 moment while Jerrie's hands were shaken, and she was kissed and congratulated that 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 him to-morrow,'

Then they said good night, and without going in to see either Mr. or Mrs. Tracy again, Tom and Jerry walked slowly toward the cottage, through the leafy woods, where the trees met in graceful arches overhead, and the moonlight fell in silver flecks upon the grass, and the summer air was odorous and sweet with the smell of the pines and the balm 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 Jerrie at 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 since Uncle Arthur came home he has done very little business, and has spent what really was his own recklessly and without a thought of saving, he was so sure to have enough at last, and Uncle Arthur was so free to give us 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, or starve, 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, nor anyone else who is anybody. By George, I ought to have called on Ann Eliza before this time. I wonder if it's too late to go there now. I believe 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'll tell him the news, and that I know now he did not strike Jerrie with the table-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 Ann Eliza 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 able to come down stairs.



CHAPTER XLVII.

ARTHUR.

He had enjoyed himself immensely, from the moment he first caught sight of grand old Pike's Peak on the distant plains until he entered the city of the Golden Gate, and, standing on the terrace of the Cliff House, looked out upon the blue Pacific, with the sea lions disporting on the rocks below. For he went there first, and then to China-town, and explored every nook and corner, and opium den in it, and drank tea at twenty dollars a pound in a high-toned restaurant, and visited the theatre and the Joss House, and patronized the push-cars, as he called them, every day, and experienced a wonderful exhilaration of spirits, as he sat upon the front seat, with the fresh air blowing in his face, and only the broad, steep street, lined with palaces, before him.

'This is heaven! this clears the cobwebs!' he would say to Charles, who sat beside him with chattering teeth and his coat-collar pulled high about his ears, for the winds of San Francisco are cold even in the summer.

Arthur's first trip was to the Yosemite, taking the Milton route, and meeting with the adventure he so much desired; for in the early morning, between Chinese Camp and Priest's, the stage was suddenly stopped by two masked marauders, one of whom stood at the horses' heads, while the other 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-dick came in rapid succession from the driver's box, where Arthur sat, and shot after shot followed each other, one bullet grazing the ear of the highwayman at the horses' head, and another cutting through the slouched hat of his comrade near the stage.

'Leave, or I'll shoot you dead! I've five more shots in this one, and two 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 so startling the robbers that they fled precipitately, followed for a little distance by Arthur, who leaped from the stage and started in pursuit, with a revolver in each hand, and ball after ball flying ahead of him as he ran.

When at last he came back, the passengers flocked around him, grasping his hands and blessing him as the preserver of their money, if not of their lives. After that Arthur was a lion, whom all people in the valley wished to see and talk with, and with whom the landlord bore as he had never 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 from the river, and fault with the smoke in the parlour, but made ample amends by the money he spent so lavishly, the scores of photographs he bought, and the puffs he wrote for the San Francisco papers, extolling the valley as the very gate of heaven, and the hotel as second only to the Palace, and signing himself "Bumble Bees."

He went on every trail, and started for the highest possible peak, and when he stood on the top of old Capitan and looked down upon the world below, he capered and shouted like a madman, singing at the top of his voice, "Mine eye have seen the coming of the glory of the Lord, glory, glory, hallelujah!" until the rocky gorges rang with the wild echoes which went floating down the valley below, where the sun was shining so brightly and the grass was growing so green.

On his return to San Francisco after an absence of several weeks, he took up his abode at the Palace Hotel, which he turned topsy-turvy with his vagaries; but as in the valley, so here in the city, the landlord could afford to bear much from one who spent his money so freely and paid so lavishly; and so he was allowed to change rooms every day if he liked, and half the plumbers in the city were called in to see what caused the smells which he declared worse than anything he had ever met in his life, and which were caused in part by the disinfectants which he bought by the wholesale and kept in his bath room, his wash-room, and under his bed, until the chambermaid tied her nose in camphor when she went 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, Charles brought 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 with his breakfast until it was finished, when he took a card from his pocket and 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 Tracy Park. This done, he gave no further thought to the message so full of such import to himself, but began to talk of and plan his contemplated trip to Tacoma by the next steamer which sailed. It was six o'clock when he had his dinner in his own private parlour, where he was served by both 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 torment me with telegrams? Didn't I tell them to pay the old Harry and have done with it? What do they mean?' and putting the envelope down by his plate he went quietly on with his dinner until he was through, when he took it up, 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 get everything in readiness to start home on the first eastward bound train which 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, and don't stand staring at me as if I were a lunatic. It's Jerrie who needs me.'

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 the wires across the continent, and within a few hours Arthur was following it 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 inhabitants of Shannondale the other half could not have been more astonished than they were at the news which Peterkin was the first to tell them, and which he had risen very early to do, before some one else should be before him. Irascible and quick-tempered as he was, he was easily appeased, and the fact that Jerrie was Arthur Tracy's daughter changed his opinion of her at once.

'The biggest heiress in the county except my Ann 'Liza, and, by gum, I'm glad 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 knocked that rotten old table down she'd of never found them memoirs,' he said to the first person to whom he communicated the news, and then hurried off to buttonhole and enlighten others, until everybody knew and was discussing the strange story.

Before noon scores of people had found it in their way to walk past the cottage, hoping to catch sight of Jerrie, while several went in and told her how glad they were for her and Mr. Arthur, and looked at her with wondering eyes as if she were not quite the same girl they had known as Jerrie Crawford.

When, the previous night, Mrs. Crawford had listened to the story Jerrie told her after her return from the Park House, she had been for a few moments stupefied with amazement, and had sat motionless on her chair until she felt Jerrie's soft hands upon her head smoothing her silvery hair, and Jerrie's voice said to her:

'Dear grandma, I told you your working days were over, and they are, for what is mine is yours and Harold's, and my home is your home always, so long as you live.'

The poor old lady put her head upon Jerrie's arm and cried hysterically for a moment; then she rallied, and brushing away her tears, kissed the young girl who had been so much to her, and whom for a brief moment she feared she might have lost. Far into the night they sat, talking of the past and the future, and of Harold, who was in Tacoma, where he might have to remain for three or four weeks longer. He had written several times to his grandmother and once to Jerrie, but had made no mention of the diamonds, while in her letters to him Mrs. Crawford had refrained from telling him what some of the people were saying, and the construction they were putting upon his absence. Jerrie had not yet written to him, but, 'I shall to-morrow,' she said, 'and tell him to hurry home, for I need him now, if ever.'

Jerrie was very tired when she went at last to bed, but the dreamless sleep which came upon her, and which lasted until a late hour in the morning, did her good, and probably saved her from a relapse, which might have proved fatal. Still she was very pale and weak when she went down stairs about nine o'clock and found Tom waiting for her. He had been up since sunrise, strolling through the park, with a troubled, sorry look on his face for he was extremely sorry for himself, though very 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 neither his uncle nor Jerrie would be unjust to her, if she'd only behave herself, and treat the latter as she ought, and not keep up such a high and mighty and injured air, as if Jerrie had done something wrong in finding out who she was.

But Dolly would not be comforted, and her face wore a sullen, defiant expression, as she moved about the handsome house where she had queened it so long that she really looked upon it as her own, resenting bitterly the thought that another was to be mistress there. She had talked with her husband, and made him tell her exactly how much he was worth in his own 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 codfish again.'

She had seen Tom that morning, and when to her question, 'Why are you up so early?' he replied, 'To attend to Jerrie's affairs,' she tossed her head scornfully, and said: 'Before I'd crawl after any girl, much less Jerrie Crawford! You'd better be attending to your own sister. She's worse this morning, and looks as if she might die any minute.'

Then Tom went to Maude, who, since the shock of the night before, had lain as if she were dead, except for her eyes, in which there was a new and wondrous light, and which looked up lovingly at Tom as he came in and kissed her, a most unusual thing for him to do.

'Dear Tom,' she whispered, 'come closer to me,' and as he bent down to her, 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 for Jerrie. 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 Jerrie will 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 going to the village, telegraphed to his uncle's head-quarters at the Palace Hotel, San Francisco, that he was to come at once.

At least a hundred people stopped him on his way to the office, asking if 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 the message sent to Arthur, though not how it was worded After a moment he continued, 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 first he could not find any word in his vocabulary big enough to swear by, but after 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, and snummed, 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 very suspicious-looking eyes. Why, everybody is glad for you, Jerrie, and nobody 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 believe she'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 father seems 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 why does 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 to himself, and yet he says he is glad, and he is coming this morning to see 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 my telegram I'll let you know. Good-bye.'

A moment after Tom left the room his father entered it, looking haggard and old, and frightened, too, it seemed to Jerrie, as she went forward to meet him with a cheery 'good-morning, Uncle Frank.'

It was the first time she had addressed him by that name, and her smile was so bright and her manner so cordial that for an instant the cloud lifted from his face, but soon came back darker than ever as he declined the 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 for pity's sake stop walking, or go somewhere else do it and not keep me awake.'

Then he went into the hall outside, and there he walked the livelong night, trying to think what he should say to Jerrie, and wondering what she would say to him, for he meant to tell her everything. Nothing could prevent his doing that; and as soon as he thought she would see him he started for the cottage, taking with him the Bible, the photograph and the letter he had secreted so long. All the way there, he was repeating to himself the form of speech with which he should commence, but when Jerrie said to him, so graciously, 'Good morning, Uncle Frank,' the words left him, and he began, impetuously;

'Don't call me uncle. Don't speak to me, Jerrie, until you have heard what I have come to confess on my knees, with my white head upon the floor, if you will it so, and that would not half express the shame and remorse 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 that dead woman we thought your mother.'

Jerrie was dumb with surprise, and did not speak or move as he went on rapidly, telling her the whole, with no attempt at an excuse for himself, except so far as to report what he had done in a business point of view, making provision for her in case of his death and enjoining it upon his children to see that his wishes were carried out.

'Here is the Bible,' he said, laying the book in her lap. 'Here is the photograph, 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 hands and an expression upon his face such as a criminal might wear when awaiting the jury's decision. But Jerrie neither looked at him nor spoke, 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 like it that there could be no mistaking it, and so like to the face which had 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 the picture, with no thought or care for the wretched man who had come a step nearer to her, and who said at last:

'Will you never speak to me, Jerrie? Never tell me how much you despise me?'

'Then she looked up at the face quivering with anguish and entreaty, and the sight melted her at once. Indeed, as he had talked she had scarcely felt any resentment toward him, for she was sure that though his error had been great, his contrition and remorse had been greater, and she thought of him only as Maude's father and the man who had always been kind to her. And she made him believe at last that she forgave him for Maude's sake, if not for his own.

'Had my life been a wretched one because of your conduct,' she said, 'I might have found it harder to forgive you, but it has not. I have not been the daughter of Tracy Park, it is true, but I have been the petted child of the cottage, and I would rather have lived with Harold in poverty all these years than to have been rich without him. And do you know, I think it was noble in you to tell me, when you might have kept it 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 not bear 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 unendurable that I must have confessed or died. But it is gone now, or will be when I 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 to dissuade 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 upon her if your brother should resort to immediate and violent means, as he might 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 so rapidly and argued so well that he consented at last to keep his own counsel, 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 like life that it was hard to think there was not real love and tenderness in the eyes which looked into hers so steadfastly.

It was the hardest to forgive the letter hidden so long, and Jerrie did feel a pang of resentment, or something like it, as she took it in her hand and thought of the day when Arthur had confided it to her, saying he 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, covering its 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 a moment's hesitancy, she opened it, and read, first, wild, crazy sentences, full of love and tenderness for the little Gretchen to whom they were addressed, and whom the writer sometimes spoke to as living, and again as dead. There was the expression of a strong desire to see her, a wish for her to come where her husband was waiting for her, and her 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 on you. They are safe, too—safe from her—Mrs. Frank Tracy—who had the boldness to flaunt them in my face at a party the other night. How she came by them I can't guess; but I know how she lost them, I found them on 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, or rather yours, and are waiting for you in my private drawer, where no one has ever looked, except a young girl called Jerrie, who interests me greatly, she is so much like what you must have been when a child. There has been some trouble about the diamonds—I hardly know what, my head is in 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, as she cried joyfully:

'I knew he had them. I was sure of it, though I did not know where they were.'

Then very briefly she explained to Frank that on the morning when the diamonds were missed, Arthur was so excited because Harold had been in a way accused, and had rambled off into German, and said many things which made her know that he had taken them himself and secreted them.

'You remember my sickness,' she said, and how strangely I talked of going to prison as an accessory or a substitute? Well, it was for your brother I was ready to go; and when he told me, as he did one day, that he 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 forgotten them, as he did other things, and that some time he would remember and make restitution, I am glad we know where they are, but we cannot get them until he returns. When do you think that will be?'

Frank did not know. It would depend, he said, upon whether he was in San Francisco when Tom's telegram was received. If he were and started at once, 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, very short to the repentant man, who shrank from his brother's return as from an impending evil, although it was a relief to think that he need not tell him what a hypocrite he had been.

'Thank you, Jerrie,' he said at last, as he rose to go, 'Thank you for being so kind to me. I did not deserve it. I did not expect it. Heaven bless you. I am glad for you, and so is Maude. Oh, Jerrie, heaven is dealing hard with me to take her from me, and yet it is just. I sinned for her; sinned to see her in the place I was sure was yours, although the shadow was always telling me that I did not and never could know for sure that you were Arthur's child; but I did, and I meant to go to Germany some day, when I had the language a little better, and clear it up, and then I had promised myself to tell you. Will you lay again that you forgive me before I go back to Maude?'

He was standing before her with his white head dropped upon his hat, the very picture of misery and remorse, and Jerrie laid her hand upon his head, and said:

'I do forgive you, Uncle Frank, fully and freely, for Maude's sake if no other; and if she lives what is mine shall be hers. Tell her so, and tell her I am coming to see her as soon as I am able, I am so tired to-day, and everything is so strange. Oh, if Harold were here.'

Jerrie was indeed so tired and exhausted that for the remainder of the day 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 the answer to his telegram, and asking what to do next.

'Why, Tom,' Jerrie said, as she read Arthur's reply, 'pay him then, for I shan't come,' what does he mean? What did you say to him, and whom are you to pay?'

With a half comical smile Tom replied, 'I told him the Old Nick was to pay, though I am afraid I used a stronger name for his Satanic majesty than that. I guess you'll have to try what you can do.'

And so Jerrie's message, 'I need you,' went across the continent, and brought the ready response, 'coming on the wings of the wind.' It was Judge St. Claire who wrote to Harold, for Jerrie's nerveless fingers could not grasp the pen, and she could only dictate what she wished the judge to say.

'Tell him everything,' she said, 'and how much I want him here; and tell him, too, of Maude, whose life hangs on a thread. That may bring him sooner.'

It was three days before Jerrie went again to the Park House, and then Tom came for her, saying Maude was failing very fast. The shock which had come upon her so suddenly with regard to Jerrie's birth and the suspicions resting upon Harold had shortened the life nearing its close, and the moment Jerrie entered the room she knew the worst, and with a storm 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 tears filled her eyes as she put her hand caressingly upon Jerrie's golden hair. A great change had come over Maude since the night when she heard Jerrie's strange story—a change for the better some might have thought, although the physician who attended her gave no hope. She neither coughed nor suffered pain, and could talk all she liked, although often in a whisper, she was so very weak. 'Yes, Jerrie,' she said, 'I know you 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 feared I might die, I wrote something on paper for father to see when I was dead, 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, and what all the time was yours. Oh, Jerrie, how can you help hating me, who have stood so long where you ought to have stood, and enjoyed what you ought to have enjoyed?'

'Maude,' Jerrie cried, as she kissed the little wan face, 'don't talk like that; as if I, or any one, could ever have hated you. Why, I worshiped you as some little empress when I used to see you in your bright sashes and yellow kid boots, with the amber beads around your neck; and if the contrast between your finery and my high-necked gingham apron and white sun-bonnet sometimes struck me painfully, I had no wish to 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 Jerrie Crawford, I cannot tell you how great was the love which grew in my heart for you, the dearest girl friend I ever had, and a thousand times dearer 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 the tell-tale blood rushed to her face, and into her eyes there came a look which even Maude could not understand.

'Jerrie,' she exclaimed, 'forgive me. I didn't know, I never guessed, I was 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 come home?'

'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, if it is possible for him to leave; but it will he three or four days now before the letter will reach him, and take a week for him to come. Would you 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 thought that 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 to tell 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 speak of me, that I have been thinking and thinking until it came to me clear as day that it was all a mistake, a stupid blunder on my part. I was always 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 the task imposed upon her might not be a pleasant one if she know all it involved.

'Harold will tell you what,' Maude answered 'He will understand what I mean, and you must tell him, for I shall not be here when he comes, I am sure of it. I hope to live till Uncle Arthur comes, for I must see him and ask him not to be hard on poor father, and tell him that I am sorry that I have been so long in your place where you should have been. You will stay here when he comes, and be with me to the last. I want you with me—want you to hold my hand when I say good-bye for ever. You are so strong that I shall not be afraid with you to see and hear as long as I 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, the Saviour, for I know I am going to Heaven; and when you think me asleep I am often praying silently for more faith and love, and for you all, that you may one day come where I soon shall be. Heaven is very, very beautiful, for I have seen it in my dreams—a material heaven some would say, for there are trees and flowers, and grass; and on a golden bench, beneath a tree whose leaves are like emeralds, and whose blossoms are like pearls, I am sitting, on the bank of a shining river, resting, resting, and waiting, as little Pilgrim waited for the coming of the Master, and for you all.'

Maude was very tired now, and her voice was so low that Jerrie could scarcely hear it, while the eyelids drooped heavily, and in a few moments she fell asleep, with a rapt look on her as if she were already resting on the golden seat beneath the tree whose leaves were emeralds and 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 grew weaker and weaker, and who asked about every hour if anything had been heard from her uncle since his message that he was coming.

'I shall never see Harold,' she said to Jerrie; but I must live till uncle Arthur comes, and you are put in your right place.'

And at last, one lovely September morning, a telegram was brought to Frank from Charles, which said the travellers would be home that afternoon, 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 was discussed by Frank and Judge St. Claire and Jerrie. Naturally the task fell upon the latter, who for three or four days prior to Arthur's arrival remained altogether at the Park House, watching by Maude, and going over and over again in her mind what she should say and how she should commence.

At last the announcement came that Arthur was in Albany, and then it seemed to Jerrie that she had suddenly turned into stone, for every thought and feeling had left her, and she had no plan or action or speech as she moved mechanically about Arthur's rooms, making them bright with flowers, especially the Gretchen room, which seemed a bower of beauty when her skilful hands had finished it. Once, as she was passing 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 them so much.'

Jerrie made no reply, but by the pang of resentment which shot through her heart at the smallness of the woman, she knew she was not past all feeling, and that there was still something human in the stone, as she had styled herself.

Slowly the day wore on, every minute seeming an hour, and every hour a day, 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 San Francisco, and it was with difficulty that Charles could get a word from him.

'Let me alone,' he said once, when spoken to. 'I am with Gretchen. She is on the train with me, and I'm trying to make out what it is she is telling me.'

But after Chicago was left behind his mood changed, and he became as wild and excitable as he had before been abstracted and silent. Sometimes he was on the top of old Capitan, looking down into the valley below, and singing 'glory, hallelujah,' at the top of his voice, while the startled passengers kept aloof from him as from a lunatic. Again he was out upon the platform urging the conductor to greater speed; and when at last Shannondale was reached, he bounded from the car upon the platform before the train stopped, and was collaring Rob, the coachman, and demanding of him to know what was the matter with Jerrie, and why he had been sent for. Rob, who had received his instructions to be wholly non-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 do not see what the old Harry has to do with Maude's dying, and certainly Tom'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't mean Maude. There is something else Rob has not told me. 'Here, you rascal, you are keeping something from me! What is it? Out with it!' he shouted 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 Park House, where Frank was waiting for him outside, and where, inside, Jerrie stood, holding fast to the banisters of the stairs, her heart throbbing wildly one moment, and the next seeming to lie pulseless as a piece of lead.

She heard Arthur's voice as he came up the steps, speaking to Frank, and asking why he had been sent for; and the next moment she saw him entering the hall, tall and erect, but with the wild look in his eyes which she knew so well, but which changed at once to a softer expression as they fell upon her.

'Cherry, you here!' he cried, with a joyful ring in his voice as he sprang to her side and kissed her forehead and lips.

Then Jerrie grew calm instantly, although she could scarcely restrain herself from falling on his neck and sobbing out, 'Oh, my father! I am your daughter Jerrie!' But the time for this had not come, and when he questioned her eagerly as to why she had sent for him, she only replied:

'Maude is very sick. But come with me to your rooms, and I will tell you everything.'

'Then there is the deuce to pay; I thought so,' he said, as he followed her upstairs into the Gretchen room, where he stood for a moment, amazed at the effect produced by the flowers and vines which Jerrie had arranged so skilfully, 'It is like Eden,' he said, 'and Gretchen is here with me. Darling Gretchen!' he continued, as he walked up to the picture and kissed the lovely face which, it seemed to Jerrie, smiled in benediction upon them both, the husband and the daughter, as they stood there side by side, Jerrie's hands resting on his shoulder, which she pressed hard, as if to steady herself, while he talked to the inanimate face before him.

'Have you been lonesome, Gretchen, and are you glad to have me back again! Poor little Gretchen!' And now he turned to Jerrie, who was pale to the lips, and said: 'It all came to me on the top of those mountains about Gretchen—who she was, and how I forgot her so long—that is the strangest of all; and, Cherry,' here his voice dropped to a whisper, 'I know for sure that Gretchen is dead—that came to me, too.'

'Yes, Gretchen is dead,' Jerrie answered him, with the sound of a sob in her own voice, while her hands tightened their grasp on his shoulder, as she went on; 'I have had a message from Gretchen, and that is why we sent for you.'

Jerrie's hands were not strong enough to hold him then, and, wrenching himself from her, he stood confronting her with a look more like that of a maniac than any she had ever seen in him before, and which might have frightened one with nerves less strong than Jerrie's. But she was not afraid, and a strange calmness fell upon her, now that she had actually reached a point where she must act, and her eyes, which looked so steadily into Arthur's, held them fast, even while he interrogated her rapidly.

'A message from Gretchen! How, when, and where is it? Give it to me quick, 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 me tell you what I know of Gretchen.'

Something in the girl's manner mastered him and made him a child in her hands.

Sinking into the chair, pale and panting with excitement, he leaned his head 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, and bringing a low ottoman to Arthur's side, seated herself upon it just where 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,' she said, 'and then you will be better able to judge of the truth of all I know.'

He did not reply, and she went on:

'Gretchen was very young—sixteen or seventeen—when you first saw her knitting in the sunshine under the trees in Wiesbaden, and very beautiful, too—so beautiful that you went again and again to look at her and talk to her, until you came to love her very much, and told her so at last; but you seemed so much above her that she could not believe you at first. At last, however, you made her understand, and when her mother died suddenly—'

'Her mother was Mrs. Heinrich, and kept a kind of fancy store,' Arthur interposed, as if anxious that nothing should be omitted.

'Yes, she kept a fancy store,' Jerrie rejoined; 'and when she died suddenly and left Gretchen alone, you said to her, "We must be married at 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 fixed themselves wonderingly upon Jerrie, as he said:

'Are you the old Harry that you know all this? But go on; don't stop; it all comes back to me so plain when I hear you tell it. She wore a straw bonnet trimmed with blue, and a white dress, but took it off directly for 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 happy she was with you, whom she loved so much, and who loved her and made her so 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 her up, and she continued:

'Then something came to you, and you began to forget everything, even poor little Gretchen, and went away for weeks and left her very sad and lonely, not knowing where you were; and then, after some months, you went away and never came back again to the little wife who waited, and watched, and prayed, and wanted you so badly.'

'Oh, Cherry! oh, Gretchen! I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to do it; I surely didn't. May God forgive me for forgetting the little wife! Was it long? Was it months, or was it years? I can't remember, only that there was a Gretchen, and I left her,' Arthur said.

'It was years, four or five, and—and'—Jerrie's breath came heavily now and her words slowly, for she was nearing the point relating to herself and wondering what the effect would be upon him. 'After a while there came 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 till you came home, she only gave you a hint of it. She wrote: "I have something 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 something which 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 Arthur bent forward to listen to her.

'I don't know just where Gretchen's home was when she lived alone waiting for you. I only know that after a while there came to it a little 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 every muscle of his face quivering with wild excitement, as he exclaimed:

'A baby! Gretchen's baby and mine! A little girl! Oh, Cherry, if you are deceiving me now!'

Jerrie, too, had risen, and was standing before him with her hands upon his 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 Gretchen sometime in January, 18—, and it was christened in the little church where you were married by the Rev. Mr. Eaton. Oh, Mr. Arthur, how can I tell you; she, the baby, is living yet—grown to womanhood now, for this happened about twenty years ago, and the girl is almost twenty—and is waiting 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's picture!'

For an instant Arthur stood like one stricken with catalepsy, his eyes leaping from Jerry's face to Gretchen's, and from Gretchen's back to Jerrie's, and then, with a motion of his hands as if fanning the air furiously, 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 head fell forward a little, though she kept her eyes upon Arthur, who went on:

'And they christened my baby and Gretchen's you say? What name did they give her? Speak quick, for I believe I am dying.'

'They called her Jerrine, but you know her as Jerrie, for—for I am Gretchen's daughter,' fell from Jerrie's lips.

With a wild, glad cry, 'My daughter! oh, my daughter! Thank God! thank God!' Arthur sank back into the chair, from which he had risen, fainting and insensible.

For hours he lay in a state so nearly resembling death that but for the physician's reassurance that there was no danger, Jerrie would have believed the great joy given her was to be taken from her at once. But just as the twilight shadows began to gather in the room he came to himself, waking as from some quiet dream, and looking around him until his eyes fell upon Jerrie sitting by his side; then into his white face there flashed a look of ineffable joy and tenderness and love, as he said, with a smile the most willing and sweet Jerrie had ever seen.

'My daughter, my little Cherry, who came to me up the ladder, with Gretchen's eyes and Gretchen's voice, and I did not know her—have not known her all these years, although she has so puzzled and bewildered me at times. My daughter! oh, my daughter!'

He accepted her unquestioningly, and with a glad cry Jerrie threw herself into the arms he stretched toward her, and on her father's bosom gave free vent to the feelings she had restrained so long, sobbing passionately as she felt Arthur's kisses upon her face, and his caressing 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 the information,' he said, when Jerrie was little composed and could look at and speak to him without a burst of tears.

'Yes, there is much more. There is a letter for you, with those you wrote 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 him do—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, which lasted all through the night, and late into the next morning. It almost seemed as if he would never waken, the sleep was so like death; but the doctor who watched him carefully quieted Jerrie's fears and told her it would do her father good, and that in all probability he would awake with a clearer mind than he had had in years, for as a great and sudden shock sometimes produces insanity, so, contrarywise, it sometimes restored a shattered mind to its equilibrium.

And the doctor was partially correct, for when at last Arthur awoke he seemed natural and bright, with a recollection of all which had happened the day before, and an earnest desire for the letters and the rest of the story which Jerrie told him, with her arm across his neck, and her cheek laid occasionally against his, as she read him the letter directed to his friends, and then showed him the certificate of her birth and her mother's death.

'Born January 1st, 18—, to Arthur Tracy and Marguerite, his wife, a daughter,' Arthur repeated, again and again, and as often as he did so he kissed the bright face which smiled at him through tears, for there was almost as much sadness as joy mingled with the reading of those messages 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 of complaint for the neglect and forgetfulness which must have hastened her death.

'Oh, Gretchen, I can't bear it, I can't,' Arthur moaned, as he laid his hand upon Jerrie's shoulder and sobbed like a child. 'To think I could forget her, and she so sweet and good.'

Everything came back to him for a time, and he repeated to Jerrie much which was of interest to her concerning her mother, but with which the reader has nothing to do; while Jerrie, in turn, told him all she could remember of her life in the old house where Gretchen had died. Idle fancies she had sometimes thought these memories of the past, but now she knew they were real. And Arthur hung upon her words with breathless interest, moaning occasionally when she told of the sweet-faced woman who cried so much and prayed so much, and whose death scene she had once enacted for him when a little child. At his own letters addressed to Gretchen he barely glanced, muttering, as he did so, 'how could I have written such crazy bosh as that?' and then suddenly recollecting himself, he asked for the photograph mentioned in Gretchen's letter to his friends, and which he seemed to think had come with the other papers, just as Jerrie meant he should. Taking it from the bag she handed it to him, while his tears fell like rain as he gazed upon the face 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 strange ideas which had filled her brain and made her sure that not the dark woman found dead at her side was her mother, but another and far different person, whose face haunted her so continually and whose voice she sometimes seemed to hear speaking to her from the dim shadows of the far-off past when they lived in the little house in Wiesbaden, where the picture 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 the house and the picture, and Gretchen's grave, and bring them home with us. There is room for them at Tracy Park.

He was beginning to talk wildly now, but Jerrie quieted him, and taking up 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 the diamonds, but when Jerrie said to him; 'These were mother's. You sent them to her from England,' he replied, 'Yes, I remember. I bought them in Paris with other things—dresses, I think—for her,' while into his face there came a troubled look as if he were trying to think of something.

Jerrie, who could read him so well, saw the look, and, guessing at once its cause, hastened to say:

'Father, do you remember that you gave Mrs. Tracy some diamonds like these, and that some one took them from her? Try and think,' she continued, as she saw the troubled look deepen on his face, and the fire beginning to kindle in his eyes. 'It was years ago, just after a party Mrs. Tracy gave, and at which she wore them. You were there and thought they 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, bringing out one thing after another, all mementoes of the old Gretchen days, and finally the diamonds, at which be looked with wonder and fear, as he said to Jerrie:

'Did I take them? Will they call it a steal? I thought they were Gretchen's. I remember now.'

Jerrie did not tell him then of the trouble the secreting of the diamonds had brought to her and Harold, but she said:

'No one will think it a steal, and Mrs. Tracy will be glad to get her jewels back. May I take them to her now?'

'Take them to her?—no,' Arthur said, decidedly. 'She has another set—I bought them for her, and she wears them all day long. Ha, ha! diamonds in the morning, with a cotton gown;' and he laughed immoderately at what be 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 have seven—one for everyday in the week. What has Dolly to do with diamonds. 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 and quiet him.

'Father,' she began and then he stopped short, for the sound of that name spoken by Jerrie had a mighty power over him—'Father, listen to me a 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 my daughter?'

Jerrie had not mentioned Harold before, but she told her father now where he was, and why he had gone, and that she had written him to come home, on Maude's account, if on no other.

'Yes—Maude—I remember; but Harold did not care for Maude. Still, he had better come. I want him here with you and me; and you must stay here now, 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 live with Mrs. Tracy.'

'Then let Dolly go at once, I'll give the order now;' and Arthur put out his 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 take the jewels to Dolly, who deserved but little forbearance from Jerrie's hand.

Up to the very last Mrs. Tracy had, unconsciously perhaps, clung to a shadowy hope that Arthur might repudiate his daughter and call it a trumped-up affair; but when she heard how joyfully he had acknowledged and claimed her, she lost all hope, and her face wore a sullen, defiant expression as she walked about the house and through the handsome rooms, the very furniture of which had nearly all been bought with Arthur's money, and consequently was not her own. Since the coming of Jerrie, when the dark shadow settled upon Frank, and remorse was always torturing him, he had had no heart for business, and had, to all intents and purposes, lived upon his brother's generosity, which had never failed.

'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 literally been sponges, taking everything and giving nothing, until now, when all was lost—the luxury, the elegance, the ease, and the prestige of Tracy Park, which they had enjoyed so much. It was hard, and Dolly felt that she could not bear it, and that she hated the girl through whom this change had come, and in every possible way she meant to wound and annoy her; so when the cook came to her that day for orders for dinner, she answered, curtly:

'Go to the heiress. She is mistress now.'

In the hall, coming to seek her, Jerrie met the cook, who, with a comical 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 resentment But 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 the lady, who simply stared at her as if asking why she were there. Jerrie told her in a few words that her own diamonds had been found, and where they 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, 'By the way, Mrs. Tracy, I was met by the cook with a singular request, and I wish to say that as there can be but one mistress in a house, it is my wish that so long as you remain here you are that mistress in your own department; of course I shall take charge of my father's, and see that his wishes are carried out. Good afternoon,' and with a proud, lofty bearing, Jerrie walked from the room, leaving Dolly to her own morbid and angry thoughts.

Not even the restored diamonds had power to conciliate her, and they were so beautiful as she held them up, admiring their brilliancy and their size.

'I'll never wear them, never, because she has some like them,' she said to herself; and then the thought flashed upon her that she could sell them, and thus add to the sum which her husband had invested in his own name.

Ten thousand dollars, that was all, he had told her, and she had calculated the income, only six hundred dollars a year to live on—less than she now wasted yearly upon bric-a-brac and things of which she tired so soon.

It was a sombre outlook, and it is not strange that her tears fell fast upon the costly stones, whose value she could not guess, although she knew it must be great, they were so superior in size and quality to any she had ever seen.

'Yes, I will sell them,' she said, 'and invest the proceeds in my own name; but even that will hardly keep the wolf from the door, for Frank is growing more and more imbecile every day, and Tom is good for nothing. He'll have to scratch for himself, though, I can tell him.'

Here her ladylike, but very characteristic, soliloquy was brought to an end by a faint call, which had the power to drive every other thought from her heart, for the mother-love was strong even with her, and going to 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 see her 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 was with her now, sitting upon the side of her bed, near the head, with his arm across her pillow, and his eyes fixed anxiously upon her as she held her conference with his brother.

'No, uncle,' she said; 'I shall never be any better in this world; but by-and-by, pretty soon, I shall be well in the other And I want to tell you how glad I am for you and Jerrie, and to thank you for your kindness to 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 is sorry, and—'

'Oh, Maude, Maude,' came like a groan from Frank, as he laid his hand on Maude's lips, while Arthur replied:

'Forgive him! For what? He couldn't help being here. I sent for him. He did not keep Jerrie from her rightful position as my daughter. If he had I could never forgive him. Why, I believe I'd kill him, or any other one who, knowing that Jerrie was my daughter, kept it from me.'

He was gesticulating now with both hands, and Jerrie, who had listened wonderingly to the conversation, took hold of them as they were swaying in 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 and come again to-morrow.'

'Yes, yes, that's best, child. I'm not fond of sick rooms, though I must say this is very free from smells,' Arthur replied; then stooping down he 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 to Jerry. 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 down into anything like order and quiet, Arthur was so restless and so happy, and so anxious for everyone to recognise Jerrie as his daughter—Miss Tracy, as he called her when presenting her to the people who had known her all her life—the St. Claires, and Athertons, and Crosbys, and Warners—who came to call upon and congratulate him. Even Peterkin came in his coat-of-arms carriage, with a card as big as the back of Webster's spelling book, and himself gotten up in a dress coat, with lavender kids on his burly hands, which nearly crushed Arthur's in their grasp as he expressed himself 'tickleder than he ever was before in his life.'

'And to think I was the means on't,' he said, 'for if I hadn't of kicked that 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 leetle too upstrupulous, I s'spose, but I'll be darned if she didn't square up to me like a catamount, till my hair riz right up, and I concluded the Tramp 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 so does May Jane, and so does Ann 'Lizy, and so does Bill, and so does the whole caboodle on us.'

This was Peterkin's speech, which Arthur received more graciously than Jerrie, who, remembering Harold, could not be very polite to the man who had injured him so deeply. As if divining her thoughts, Peterkin turned to her and said:

'Now, one word, Miss Tracy, about Hal. I hain't one to go halves in any thing, 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 on his stomach. 'He never took them diamonds, nor May Jane's pin, nor nothin', and I've blasted it all over town that he didn't, and I've got a 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 the bugle a playin' "Hail to the Chief," and them hired chips a histen' him inter the kerridge, with the star-spangled banner a floatin' over it, and a drawin' him home without horses! What do you think of that for high?' and he chuckled merrily as he represented the programme he had prepared for Harold's reception.

Jerrie shuddered, mentally hoping that Harold's coming might be at night, and unheralded, so as to save him from what she knew would fill him with disgust.

That call of Peterkin's was the last of a congratulatory nature made at Tracy Park for weeks, for the shadow of death had entered the grand old house, the doors and windows of which stood wide open, one lovely September morning, about a week after Arthur's return. But there was no stir or sign of life, except in the upper hall, near the door, and in the room where Maude Tracy was dying. Jerrie had been with her constantly for two or three days, and the converse the two had held together would never be forgotten, Maude was so peaceful and happy, so sure of the home beyond, where she was going, and so lovely and sweet to those around her, thinking of everything and planning everything, even whose 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 shall not be very heavy,' and, with a smile, she held up her wasted arms and hands, not as large now as a child's. 'And, Jerrie,' she went on, 'I want the grave lined with boughs from our old playing place—the four pines, you know—and many, many flowers, for I shudder at the thought of the cold earth which would chill me in my coffin. So, heap the grave with flowers, and come often to it, and think lovingly of me, lying there alone. I am thinking so much of that poem Harold read me long ago of poor little Alice, the May queen, who said she should hear them as they 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 shall listen for you, and be glad when you are near me, and I know I shall wait on the golden seat by the river. Remember your promise to tell Harold 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 I blundered. You will tell him?'

Again Jerrie made the promise, with a sinking heart, not knowing to what it bound her; and as Maude was becoming tired, she bade her try to rest while she sat by and watched her.

The next day, at the same hour, when the balmy September air was everywhere, and the mid-afternoon sun was filling the house with golden light, and the crickets' chirp was heard in the long grass, and the robins were singing in the tree-tops, another scene was presented in the sick room, where Frank Tracy knelt at his dying daughter's side, with his face bowed on his hands, while her fingers played feebly with his white hair as she spoke to Arthur, who had just come in. They had told him she was dying and had asked for him, and with his nervous horror of everything painful and exciting, he had shrunk from the ordeal; but Jerrie'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, at the foot of the bed, and looking, with hot, dry eyes, into the face on the pillow, where death was setting his seal; the mother, half-fainting upon the lounge, with the nurse beside her; and Frank, oblivious of everything except the fact that Maude was dying.

'Kiss me good-bye, Uncle Arthur,' she said, when he came in, 'and come this 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, said to him: 'Forgive him, Uncle Arthur; he is so sorry, poor father—the dearest, the best man in the world. It was for me; say that you forgive him.'

Only Frank and one other knew just what she meant, although a sudden suspicion darted through Jerrie's mind, and, when Arthur looked helplessly at her, she whispered to him:

'Never mind what she means—her mind may be wandering; but say that you forgive him, no matter what it is.'

Thus adjured, Arthur said to the grief-stricken man, who shook like an aspen:

'I know of nothing to forgive except your old disbelief in Gretchen, and deceiving me about sending the carriage the night Jerrie came; but if there 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 so short, and who, as she once said, had been capable of nothing but loving and being loved; and now, turning her dim eyes upon Jerrie, who was parting the damp hair upon her brow, she went on:

'Remember the promise, and the flowers, and the golden seat where you will find me resting by the flowing river whose shores I am now looking upon, for I am almost there, almost to the golden seat, and the tree whose leaves are like emeralds, and where the grass and flowers are like the 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 been standing about the door, stole noiselessly back to their work, with wet eyes and a sense of pain and loss in their hearts, for not one of them but 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 him by himself, knowing it would be better so, and it was Arthur who took Dolly out, for Tom had disappeared, and no one saw him again until the next day, when he came down to breakfast, with a worn, haggard look upon his face, which told that he did care, though his mother thought he did not, and taunted him with his indifference. Poor Tom! He had gone directly to his room and locked the door, and smoked and smoked, and thought and thought, and then, when it was dark, he had stolen out into the park as far as the four pines, and smoked, and looked up at the stars and wondered if Maude were there with Jack, sitting on the golden seat by the river. Then going back to the house where no one saw him, he went into the silent room where Maude was lying, and looked long and earnestly upon her white, still face, and wondered in a vague kind of way if she knew he was there, and why he had never thought before what a nice kind of girl she was, and why he had not made more of her as her brother.

'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 guess I did like you more than I supposed.'

Then he kissed her pale forehead and went to his room, where he smoked the night through, and in the morning felt as if he had lived a hundred years since the previous night, and wondered how he should get through the day. It occurred to him that it might be the proper thing to see his mother; and after his breakfast he went to her room, and was received by her with a burst of tears and reproaches for his indifference and lack of feeling in keeping himself away from everybody, as if it were nothing to him that Maude was dead, or that there was nothing for him to do.