him. Frank was unfeignedly glad to see him, and told him so.

'Our dear little girl was fond of you, Hal. I am sure she was, and I
shall always like you for that. Heaven bless you, my boy,' he said, as
he wrung Harold's hand and then hurried away after his wife, leaving
Harold alone with Tom, who, awfully afraid he should break down, said,
indifferently:

'Glad to see you, Hal. Wish you had come before Maude died. She was in
a tearin' way to see you. Have a cigar? Got a prime lot in my room. Will
you go there?

Harold was in no mood for cigars, and, declining Tom's offer, sauntered
awhile around the grounds, where he found himself constantly expecting
to find the dead girl sitting under a tree wailing for him with the
light whose meaning he now knew kindling in her beautiful eyes as she
bade him welcome and told him how glad she was to see him. He was glad
now that he had not written and told her of her mistake, and he felt in
his heart a greater tenderness for the Maude dead than he ever could
have felt for the Maude living.

It was beginning to grow dark when he returned to the house where he
found Jerrie in the hall ready to go home. Arthur was at her side, with
his arm thrown lovingly around her, and as he passed her over to Harold,
he said:

'Make the most of her to-night, my boy, for to-morrow she comes home to
stay. Heaven bless you, my daughter!'

His words sent a thrill through both Harold and Jerrie, who walked on in
silence until they reached the four pines, where Jerrie halted suddenly
and said:

'Let us sit down, Harold. I have a message from Maude, which I promised
to deliver the first time we were alone together after you came home.'

Jerrie's voice trembled a little, and after they were seated she was
silent until Harold said to her:

'You were going to tell me of Maude;' then she started and replied:

'Yes; she wanted so much to see you and tell you herself. I don't know
what she meant, but she said she had made a mistake, and I must tell you
so, and that you would understand it. She had been thinking and
thinking, she said, and knew it was a stupid blunder of hers; that was
what she called it--a stupid blunder; and she was sorry for you that she
had made it, and bade me say so, and tell you no one knew but herself
and you. Dear little Maude! I wish she had not died.'

Jerrie was crying now, and perhaps that was the reason she did not mind
when Harold put his arm around her and drew her cl