ree
which she and Harold had planted above the lonely grave. Her mother had
been dark, and coarse, and bony, and a peasant woman--so Ann Eliza
Peterkin, who had heard it from her father, had told her once, when
angry with her, and Harold, when sorely pressed, had admitted as much to
her.

'Dark, with large, hard hands,' he had said; and Jerrie with the great
tears shining in her eyes, had answered, indignantly:

'But hard and black as they were, they always touched _me_ gently and
tenderly, and sometimes I believe I can remember just how lovingly and
carefully they wrapped the old cloak around me to keep me warm. Dear
mother, what do I care how black she was, and coarse. She was mine, and
gave her life for me.'

This was when Jerrie was a child, and now that she was older she was
seeking to put away this woman with the dark face and the coarse hands,
and substitute in her place a fairer, sweeter face, with hands like wax
and features like a Madonna. But only for a few moments, and then the
wild dream vanished, and the sad, pale face, the low voice, the music,
the trees, the flowers, the sick-room, the death-bed, the woman who
died, and the woman who served, all went out together into the darkness,
and she was Jerrie Crawford again, wearing her commencement dress to
please the man still pacing the floor abstractedly, and paying no heed
to her when she went out to change her dress for the blue muslin she bud
worn through the day.

When she returned to the parlor she found him seated at the tea-table,
which had been laid during her absence. Taking her seat opposite to him,
she made his tea, and buttered his toast, and chatted, and laughed until
she succeeded in bringing back a quiet expression to the face which bore
no likeness now to her own, but looked pale and haggard as it always did
after any excitement. He was talking of the commencement exercises, and
regretting that he could not be present.

'I may not be home,' he said. 'And if I am. I shall not come. Crowds
kill me, and smells kill me, and we are sure to have both. I wish I had
a different nose, but it is as it was made, and I think I detect some
bad odor in here, don't you?'

Jerrie, who knew from experience that the better way was to humor his
fancy, said she did smell something; perhaps it was the carpet, or the
curtains, both of which were new.

'Very likely, and in that case the smell is a clean one,' he replied,
and began again to speak of commence