ich seemed to have in them a healing power, for the pain and
heat grew less under their touch, and, after a while Arthur fell into a
quiet sleep.

When he awoke, after half an hour or so, it was with a delicious sense
of rest and freedom from pain. Jerry had dropped the shades to shut out
the sunlight, and was walking on tiptoe round the room, arranging the
furniture and talking to herself in whispers, as she usually did when
playing alone.

'Jerry,' Arthur said to her, and she was at his side in a moment, 'you
are an enchantress. The ache is all gone from my head, charmed away by
your hands. Now, come and sit by me again, and tell me all you know of
yourself before Harold found you. Where did you live? What was your
mother's name? Try and recall all you can.'

Jerry, however, could tell him very little besides the Tramp House, and
the carpet-bag, and Harold letting her fall in the snow. Of the cold and
the suffering she could recall nothing, or of the journey from New York
in the cars. She did remember something about the ship, and her mother's
seasickness, but where she lived before she went to the ship she could
not tell. It was a big town, she thought, and there was music there, and
a garden, and somebody sick. That was all. Everything else was gone
entirely, except now and then when vague glimpses of something in the
past bewildered and perplexed her. Her pantomime of the dying woman and
the child had not been repeated for more than a year, for now her acting
always took the form of the tragedy in the Tramp House, with herself in
the carpet-bag and a lay figure dead beside her. But gradually, as
Arthur questioned her, the old memories began to come back and shape
themselves in her mind, and he said at last:

'It was like this--playin' you was a sick lady and I was your nurse. I
can't think of her name, I guess I'll call her Manny. And there must be
a baby; that's me, only I can't think of my name.'

'Call it Jerry, then,' Arthur suggested, both interested and amused,
though he did not quite understand what she meant.

But he was passive in her hands, and submitted to have a big
handkerchief put over his head for a cap, to hold on his arm the baby
she improvised from a sofa-cushion of costly plush, around which she
arranged as a dress an expensive tablespread, tied with the rich cord
and tassel of his dressing-gown.

'You must cry a great deal,' she said, 'and pray a great deal, and kiss
the baby a great dea