oser to him, so close
that his brown hair touched her golden curls, for the night was warm and
she had brought her bonnet in her hand all the way, while he had taken
off his hat when they sat down under the pines, which moaned and sighed
above them for a moment, and then grew still, as if listening for what
Harold would say.

'Yea,' he began slowly, 'I think I know what Maude meant by the mistake.
Did she say I must tell you what it was?'

'She said you would tell me, but perhaps you'd better not,' Jerrie
replied,

'Yes, I must tell you,' he continued, 'as a preliminary to what I have
to say to you afterward, and what I did not mean to say quite so soon;
but this decides me,' and Harold drew Jerrie a little closer to him as
he went on: 'Did you ever think that I loved poor little Maude?'

'Yes, I have thought so,' was Jerrie's answer.

'She thought so, too,' Harold continued, 'and it was all my fault; my
blunder, not hers. I loved her as I would a sister; as I did you in the
olden days, Jerrie. She was so sweet and good, and so interested in you
and all I wanted to do for you, that I regarded her as a very dear
friend, nothing more. And because I looked upon her this way, I
foolishly went to her once to confess my love for another; her dearest
and most intimate friend, and ask if she thought I had a chance for
success. I must have bungled strangely, for she mistook my meaning and
thought I was speaking of herself and in a way she accepted me; and
before I had time to explain, her mother came in and I have never seen
her since; but I shall never forget the eyes which looked at me so
gladly, smiting me so cruelly for the delusion in which I had to leave
her. That is what Maude meant. She saw the mistake, and wished to
rectify it by giving me the chance to tell you myself what I wanted to
tell you then and dared not.'

Jerrie trembled violently, but made no answer, and Harold went on:

'It may seem strange that I, who used to be so much afraid of Jerrie
Crawford that I dared not tell her of my love, have the courage to do it
now that she is Jerrie Tracy, and I do not understand it myself. Once
when you told me your fancies concerning your birth, a great fear took
possession of me, lest I should lose you, if they were true; but when I
heard that they were true, I felt so sure of you that I could scarcely
wait for the time when I could ask you, as I now do, to be my wife, poor
as I am, with nothing but love to give y