, when my purse has been as free to him as
myself. Colvin tells me there has been an awful lot of money spent
somewhere.'

'Yes,' Jerrie replied, 'but you gave him permission to spend it, and it
would hardly be fair now to leave him with little or nothing, and he so
broken down. When Maude feared she was going to die, and before she knew
who I was, she wrote a letter for her father and you, asking him to give
me what he would have given her, and you to do the same. So now, I want
you to give Maude's father what you would have given me for Maude's
sake.'

'Bless my soul, Jerrie!' Arthur said. 'What a beggar you are! I don't
know what I should have given you; all I am worth, perhaps. How much
will satisfy you for Frank? Tell me, and it is done.'

Jerrie thought one hundred thousand dollars would not be any too much,
nor did it seem so to Arthur, who placed but little value upon his
money, and Jerrie was deputed to tell her uncle what provision was to be
made for him, and that, if he wished, he was to remain at the park until
his brother's return from Europe.

Frank was not in his own room, but Mrs. Tracy was, and to her Jerrie
first communicated the intelligence that she was to be married and go
with her father to Germany. The look which the highly scandalized lady
gave her was wonderful, as she said:

'Married! almost before the crape is off the door, or the flowers wilted
on Maude's grave! Well, that shows how little we are missed; and I am
not surprised, though I think Maude would be, at Harold, certainly. I
suppose you know there was something between them; but a man will do any
thing for money. I wish you joy of your husband.'

Jerrie was too indignant to explain any thing, and hurried off in quest
of her uncle, whom she found in Maude's room, where he spent the most of
his time, walking up and down and examining the different articles which
had belonged to his daughter, and which, at his request, remained
untouched as she had left them. Her brushes, her comb, her bottled
perfumery, her work-box, her Bible, a little half-finished sketch, and
her soft bed-slippers she had worn when she died, and one of which he
held in his hand when Jerrie went in to him.

'It is so like Maude,' he said, with quivering lips, as she went to his
side, 'and when I hold it in my hand I can almost hear the dear little
feet, which I know are cold and dead, coming along the hall as she used
to come, and will never come again. I think