srespect to her,' Jerrie replied--'the good, brave woman, who gave
her life for me, and whose dear hands caressed and shielded me from the
cold as long as there was power in them to do it. I love and reverence
her memory as if she had been my mother; but Harold, do I look at all as
she did? You saw her--here, and at the park house. Think--am I like
her--in any thing?'

'No,' Harold answered. 'You are like her in nothing; but you may
resemble your father.'

'Ye-es,' Jerrie said, slowly, 'I may. Oh, Harold, the spell is on me now
so strong that I can almost remember. Tell me again about that night,
and the morning; what they did at the park house--Mr. Arthur, I mean. He
was expecting somebody; Nina told me a little once, but not much. Do you
know? Was it _Gretchen_ he expected?'

She had grasped his hand again, and was looking into his face as if his
answer would be life or death to her. And Harold who had no idea what
was in her mind, and who had never thought that the dark woman was not
her mother, looked at her wonderingly, as he replied:

'Yes, I remember that he had a fancy in his mind that Gretchen was
coming; but he has had that fancy so often. He said she was in the ship
with him and on the train, but she wasn't. I think Gretchen is dead.'

'Yes, she is dead,' Jerry said, decidedly; 'but tell me all you know of
the time I came.'

So Harold told her again what he knew personally of the tragedy, and all
he remembered to have heard. There was little which Jerrie did not
already know, for as Harold had been a boy when it happened, he had not
heard all that was said, and since that time other matters had crowded
the incidents of the death and burial out of his mind. The thing most
real to him was Jerrie herself, the beautiful girl sitting by his side,
astonishing him so with her mood and her questions. He had seen her
often in her spells, as he called them; when she acted her pantomimes,
and talked to people whom she said she saw; but he had only thought of
them as the vagaries of a peculiar mind--a German mind his grandmother
said, and he accepted her theory as the correct one.

He had never seen Jerrie as she was now, with that rapt look in her face
and in her eyes, which shone with a strange light as she went on to
speak of the things which sometimes came and went so fast, and which she
tried in vain to retain. It had never occurred to him that the woman he
had found dead was not her mother, and he thought he