to her, and by the time she was ten
years old she spoke, and read, and wrote it almost as well as Arthur
himself.

'It takes me back somewhere, I can't tell where,' she said to him; 'and
I seem to be somebody else than Jerry Crawford, and I hear music and see
people, and a pale face is close to me, and I get all confused trying to
remember things which come and go.'

Only once after her first day at the park had she enacted the pantomime
of the sick woman and the nurse, and then she had done it at Arthur's
request. But it was not quite as thrilling as at first; the _him_ for
whom the dying woman had prayed was omitted, and the whole was mixed
with the Tramp House, and the carpet-bag, and Harold, who was now a
youth of seventeen, and a student at the high school in Shannondale,
where he was making as rapid progress in his studies as Jerry was at the
park.

But Harold's life was not as serene and happy as Jerry's, for it was not
pleasant for him to hear, as he often did, that he was a charity
student, supported by Arthur Tracy. Such remarks were very galling to
the high-spirited boy, and he was constantly revolving all manner of
schemes by which he could earn money and cease to be dependent. All
through the summer vacations, which were long ones, he worked at
whatever he could find to do, sometimes in people's gardens, sometimes
on their lawns, but oftener in the hay-fields, where he earned the
most. Here Jerry was not infrequently his companion. She liked to rake
hay, she said; it came natural to her, and she had no doubt she
inherited the taste from her mother, who had probably worked in the
fields in Germany.

One afternoon, when Jerry knew that Harold was busy in one of Mr.
Tracy's meadows, she started to join him, for he had complained of a
headache at home, and had expressed a fear that he might not be able to
finish the task he had imposed upon himself. The road to the field was
by the Tramp House, which looked so cool and quiet, with its thick
covering of woodbine and ivy over it, that Jerry turned aside for a
moment to look into the room which had so great a fascination for her,
and where she spent so much time. Indeed, she seldom passed near it
without going in for a moment and standing by the old table which had
once held her and her dead mother. Things came back to her there, she
said, and she could almost give a name to the pale-faced woman who
haunted her so often.

As she entered the damp, dark plac