ere is anything I shall find it. Oh,
Harold!' and she grasped his hand in hers, 'I may not be Gretchen's
daughter, but if I am more than a peasant girl--if anything good comes
of my search, my greatest joy will be that I can share with you who have
been so kind to me. I will gladly give you and grandma every dollar I
may ever have, and then I should not pay you.'

'There is nothing owing me,' Harold said, the pain in his heart and his
fear of losing her growing lean as she talked. 'You have brought me
nearly all the happiness I have ever known; for when I was a boy and
every bone ached with the hard work I had to do--the thought that Jerry
was waiting for me at home, that her face would greet me at the window,
or in the door, made the labor light; and now that I am a man--' He
paused a moment, and Jerrie's head dropped a little, for his voice was
very low and soft, and she waited with a beating heart for him to go on.
'Now that I am a man, life would be nothing to me without you.'

Was this a declaration of love? It almost seemed so, and but for a
thought of Maude, Jerry might have believed it was such, and lead him on
to something more definite. As it was, her heart gave a great bound of
joy, which showed itself on her face as she replied:

'If I make your life happier, _I_ am glad; for never had a poor, unknown
girl so good and true a brother as I. But come, I have kept you here too
long, and grandma must be wondering where we are.'

'Yes, and supper will be spoiled,' Harold said, as he followed her to
the door. 'We are to have it in the back porch, where it is so cool, and
to have tea-cakes, with strawberries from our own vines, and cream from
our own cow, or rather your cow. Did I write you that she had a splendid
calf, which we call Clover-top.

They had come back to commonplaces now, Jerrie's clairvoyant spell had
passed and she was herself again, simple Jerrie Crawford, walking along
the familiar path, and talking of the cow which Frank Tracy had given
her when it was a little sickly calf, whose mother had died. She had
taken it home and nursed it so carefully that it was now a healthy
little Jersey, whom she called Nannie.

'A funny name for a cow,' Harold had said, and she had replied:

'Yes, but it keeps repeating itself in my brain. I have known a Nannie
sometime, sure, and may as well perpetuate the name in my bossy as
anywhere.'

Nannie was in a little enclosure by the side of the lane, and at
Haro