ed plate, or the glass mug at its side, with its twisted handle
and the letter 'G.' on the silver cover. Just what this mug was for none
of the household knew until Grace Atherton, who had travelled in Europe,
and to whom Mrs. Tracy showed it one day when Arthur was out, said:

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

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

Arthur did not stay long after Harold came in, but said good-morning to
Mrs. Crawford and walked slowly away, going again to Amy's grave, and
taking from it a few leaves of the ivy which was growing around the
monument. And this was all the intercourse he held with Mrs. Crawford,