ered mind to its equilibrium.

And the doctor was partially correct, for when at last Arthur awoke he
seemed natural and bright, with a recollection of all which had happened
the day before, and an earnest desire for the letters and the rest of
the story which Jerrie told him, with her arm across his neck, and her
cheek laid occasionally against his, as she read him the letter directed
to his friends, and then showed him the certificate of her birth and her
mother's death.

'Born January 1st, 18--, to Arthur Tracy and Marguerite, his wife, a
daughter,' Arthur repeated, again and again, and as often as he did so
he kissed the bright face which smiled at him through tears, for there
was almost as much sadness as joy mingled with the reading of those
messages from the dead.

Just what Gretchen's letter to Arthur contained, Jerrie never knew,
except that it was full of love and tenderness, with no word of
complaint for the neglect and forgetfulness which must have hastened her
death.

'Oh, Gretchen, I can't bear it, I can't,' Arthur moaned, as he laid his
hand upon Jerrie's shoulder and sobbed like a child. 'To think I could
forget her, and she so sweet and good.'

Everything came back to him for a time, and he repeated to Jerrie much
which was of interest to her concerning her mother, but with which the
reader has nothing to do; while Jerrie, in turn, told him all she could
remember of her life in the old house where Gretchen had died. Idle
fancies she had sometimes thought these memories of the past, but now
she knew they were real. And Arthur hung upon her words with breathless
interest, moaning occasionally when she told of the sweet-faced woman
who cried so much and prayed so much, and whose death scene she had once
enacted for him when a little child. At his own letters addressed to
Gretchen he barely glanced, muttering, as he did so, 'how could I have
written such crazy bosh as that?' and then suddenly recollecting
himself, he asked for the photograph mentioned in Gretchen's letter to
his friends, and which he seemed to think had come with the other
papers, just as Jerrie meant he should. Taking it from the bag she
handed it to him, while his tears fell like rain as he gazed upon the
face which was far too young to wear the sad, wan look it did.

'That is as I remember her,' Jerrie said, referring again to the strange
ideas which had filled her brain and made her sure that not the dark
woman found dead at her