d come to his mind,
so sure was he that an engagement existed between him and Maude.
Probably it was some one whom she had met while away at school; and if
so, Nina would know, and he would sound her cautiously, but never let
her know, if he could help it, the heart-wound he had received.

Poor Dick! every nerve was quivering with pain and disappointment when
at last, as the rain began to cease, he rose at Jerrie's suggestion, and
offering her his arm, walked silently and sadly with her to the door of
the cottage. Here for a moment they stood side by side and hand in hand,
until Jerrie said:

'Dick, your friendship has been very dear to me. I do not want to lose
it.'

'Nor shall you,' he answered; and winding his arms around her, he kissed
her lips, saying as he did so:

'That is the seal of our eternal friendship. The man you love would not
grudge me that one kiss, but perhaps you'd better tell him. Good-bye,
and God bless you. When I see you again I shall try to be the same Dick
you have always known.'

For a few moments Jerrie stood listening to the sound of his footsteps
as he went splashing through the wet grass and puddles of water; then,
kissing her hands to him, she whispered:

'Poor Dick! it would not be difficult to love you if I had never known
Harold.'

Opening the door softly, she found, as she had expected, that both her
grandmother and Harold had retired; and taking the lamp from the table
where it had been left for her, she stole quietly up to her room and
crept shivering into bed, more wretched than she had ever been before in
her life.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

AT LE BATEAU.

Harold got his own breakfast the next morning, and was off for his work
just as the sun looked into the windows of the room where Jerrie lay in
a deep slumber. She had been awake a long time the previous night,
thinking over the incidents of a day which had been the most eventful
one of her life, but had fallen asleep at last, and dreamed that she had
found the low room far away in Wiesbaden, with the wall adorned with the
picture of a young girl knitting in the sunshine, and the stranger
watching her from a distance.

It was late when she awoke, and Peterkin's clock was striking eight when
she went down to the kitchen, where she found Mrs. Crawford sewing, and
a most dainty breakfast waiting for her on a little round table near an
open window shaded with the hop-vines. There was a fresh egg for her,
with English