l never know. No one shall ever know that I care, for I
don't, or I am not going to. Harold is my brother, and I shall love
Maude as my sister, and I will do all I can to make her more like what
Harold's wife should be. She is beautiful, and good, and sweet, and
true, and with money and position can do far more for him than I
could--I, the daughter of a peasant woman, the child of the carpet bag;
and yet--'

Here Jerrie's hands beat the air excitedly as she recalled the wild
fancy which had twice taken possession of her that night, and which had
been born of that likeness seen in the mirror. Many times since she had
passed from childhood to womanhood had she speculated upon the mystery
which enshrouded her, while one recollection after another of past
events flitted through her brain, only to bewilder her awhile and then
to disappear into oblivion. But never before had she been affected as
she was that night when the possibility of what might be nearly drove
her wild.

'Oh, if that were so,' she said, 'I could help Harold, and I'd give
everything to him and make him my king, as he is worthy to be. There is
something far back,' she continued 'something different from the woman
who died at my side. That face which haunts me so often was a reality
somewhere. It has kissed me and called me darling, and I saw the life
fade out of it--saw it cold and dead. I know I did, and sometime, when I
have paid that debt to Mr. Frank Tracy, and have helped Harold, and made
grandmother comfortable, I'll go to Germany, to Wiesbaden and
everywhere, and clear the mystery, if possible; and if mother was a
peasant girl, with hands coarse and hard, and black from labor in the
field, then, I, too, will be a peasant girl, and marry a peasant lad,
and draw his potatoes home in a cart, while he trudges at my side.'

At this picture of herself Jerrie laughed out loud, and while trying to
think how it would seem to draw potatoes in a cart, after having dug
them, she fell asleep and dreamed of Maude and Harold, and studios and
lilies, and a face which was a caricature, as Arthur had said, and
which, when at a late hour she awoke, proved to be that of the
chambermaid, whom Arthur had sent to rouse her, as he was waiting for
his breakfast.

CHAPTER XXVI.

MAUDE'S LETTER.

TRACY PARK, June ----, 18--.

'My darling Jerrie:--I wish I could send you a whiff of the
delicious air I am breathing this morning from the roses under m