arer to her, and who said at last:

'Will you never speak to me, Jerrie? Never tell me how much you despise
me?'

'Then she looked up at the face quivering with anguish and entreaty, and
the sight melted her at once. Indeed, as he had talked she had scarcely
felt any resentment toward him, for she was sure that though his error
had been great, his contrition and remorse had been greater, and she
thought of him only as Maude's father and the man who had always been
kind to her. And she made him believe at last that she forgave him for
Maude's sake, if not for his own.

'Had my life been a wretched one because of your conduct,' she said, 'I
might have found it harder to forgive you, but it has not. I have not
been the daughter of Tracy Park, it is true, but I have been the petted
child of the cottage, and I would rather have lived with Harold in
poverty all these years than to have been rich without him. And do you
know, I think it was noble in you to tell me, when you might have kept
it to yourself.'

'No, no. I couldn't have done that much longer,' he exclaimed,
energetically, as he began to walk up and down the room. 'I could not
bear it. And the shadow which for years has been with me night and day,
counselling me for bad, was growing so black, and huge, and unendurable
that I must have confessed or died. But it is gone now, or will be when
I have told my brother.'

'Told your brother! Mr. Tracy--Uncle Frank--you cannot mean to do that?'
Jerrie exclaimed.

'But I do mean to do it,' Frank replied, 'as a part of my punishment,
and he will not forgive as you have done. He will turn me out at once,
as he ought to do.'

Jerrie thought this very likely, and with all her powers she strove to
dissuade Frank from making a confession which could do no possible good,
and might result in untold harm.

'Remember Maude,' she said, 'and the effect this thing would have upon
her if your brother should resort to immediate and violent means, as he
might in his first frenzy.'

'But, I mean to tell Maude, too,' Frank replied.

Then Jerrie looked upon him as madder than Arthur himself, and talked so
rapidly and argued so well that he consented at last to keep his own
counsel, for the present at least, unless the shadow still haunted him,
in which case he must tell as an act of contrition or penance.

'He will think the photograph came with the other papers in the bag,'
Jerrie said, as she kissed the sweet face, which looked