'Detchen, Detchen, who are you? Detchen, Detchen, where are you?' and she noticed that the doll baby with which Jerry played the most was ever after called 'Detchen,' instead of Maude, as it had been christened when first given to her.

Jerry had seen Maude Tracy many times and had admired her greatly, with her pretty white dresses and costly embroideries; and once, at church, when Maude pa.s.sed near where she was standing, she stood back as far as possible out of the way and held her plain gingham dress aside, as if neither it nor herself had any right to come in close contact with so superior a being. Of the house in the park she knew nothing, except what Harold had told her, and that it was a place to be admired and gazed at breathlessly at a respectful distance. She had never been there since the day of the funeral But she was going at last with Harold, who had permission to gather cherries for his grandmother from some of the many trees which grew upon the place.

It was a hot morning in July, and the air seemed thunderous and heavy when she set off on what to her was as important an expedition as is a trip to Europe to an older person. She had wanted to wear her pink gingham dress, the one kept sacred for Sunday, and had even hoped that she might be allowed to display her best straw hat with the blue ribbons and cl.u.s.ter of apple blossoms. She had no doubt that she should go into the house and see the crazy man, and Mrs. Tracy, who she had heard wore silk stockings every day, and she wished to be suitably attired for such honor.

But Mrs. Crawford dispelled her air castles by telling her that she was only to go into the side yard where the cherry trees were, and that she must be very quiet, so as not to disturb Mr. Arthur, whose windows looked that way. To wear her pink dress was impossible, as she would get it stained with the juice of the cherries, while the best hat was not for a moment to be thought of.

So Jerry submitted to the dark calico frock and high-necked, long-sleeved ap.r.o.n which Mrs. Crawford thought safe and proper for her to wear on a cherry expedition. A clean, white sun-bonnet with a wide cape covered her head and concealed her face when she started from the cottage, with her quart tin pail on her arm; but no sooner was she on the path which led to the park that the obnoxious bonnet was removed and was swinging on her arm, while she was admiring the shadow which, her long, bright curls made in the sunshine as she shook her head from side to side.

To tell the truth, our little Jerry was rather vain. Pa.s.sionately fond of pictures and flowers, and quick to detect everything beautiful both in art and nature, she knew that the little face she sometimes saw in Mrs. Crawford's old-fashioned mirror was pretty, and after the day when d.i.c.k St. Claire told her that her hair was 'awful handsome,' she had felt a pride in it and in herself, which all Mrs. Crawford's a.s.severations that 'Handsome is that handsome does' could not destroy.

Maude Tracy's hair was black and straight, and here she felt she had the advantage over her.

'I do hope we shall see her,' she said to Harold, as she danced along, swaying her bonnet and shaking her hair. 'Do you think we shall?'

Harold thought it doubtful, and, even if they did, it was not likely she would speak to them, he said.

'Why not?' Jerry asked, and he replied:

'Oh, I suppose they feel big because they are rich and we are poor.'

'But why ain't I rich, too? Why don't I live at the park like Maude, and wear low-necked ap.r.o.ns instead of this old high one?' Jerry asked; but Harold could not tell, and only said:

'Would you rather live at the park than with me?'

'No,' Jerry answered, promptly, stopping short and digging her heel into the soft loam of the path. 'I would not stay anywhere without you; and when I live at the park you will live there, too, and have codfish and tatoe every day.'

Strangely enough this was Harold's favorite dish, and, as it was not his grandmother's, his taste was not gratified in that respect as often as he would have liked, hence Jerry's promise of the luxury.

Just here, at a sudden turn in the path, they came upon Jack and Maude Tracy playing on a bench under a tree, while the nurse was at a distance either reading or asleep. Harold would have pa.s.sed them at once, as he knew his grandmother was in a hurry for the cherries, but Jerry had no such intention.

Stopping short in front of Maude, she inspected her carefully, from her white dress and bright plaid sash to the string of amber beads around her neck; while, side by side with this picture, she saw herself in her dark calico frock and high-necked ap.r.o.n, with her sun-bonnet and tin pail on her arm. Jerry did not like the contrast, and a lump began to swell in her throat. Then, as a happy thought struck her, she said, with something like exultation in her tone:

'My hair curls and yours don't.'

'No,' Maude answered, slowly--'no it don't curl, but it's black, and yours is yaller.'

This was a set back to Jerry, who hated everything yellow, and who had never dreamed of applying that color to her hair. She only knew that d.i.c.k St. Claire had called it pretty, but in this new light thrown upon it all her pride vanished, for she recognized like a flash that it might be 'yaller,' and stood there silent and vanquished, until Maude, who in turn had been regarding her attentively, said to her:

'Ain't you Jerry Crawford?'

That broke the ice of reserve, and the two little girls were soon talking together familiarly, and Jerry was asking Maude if she wore beads and her best clothes every day.

'Phoo! These ain't my best clothes. I have one gown all brawdery and lace,' was Maude's reply, while Jack, who was standing near, chimed in:

'My father's got lots of money, and so has Uncle Arthur, and when he dies we are going to have it; Tom says so.'

Slowly the shadows gathered on Jerry's brow as she said, sadly;

'I wish I had an Uncle Arthur, and could wear beads and a sash every day' Then, as she looked at Harold, her face brightened immediately and she exclaimed.

'But I have Harold and a grandma, and you hain't,' and running up to Harold, she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him lovingly, as if to make amends for the momentary repining.

'We must go now,' Harold said, and taking her hand in his, he led her away toward the house, which impressed her with so much awe that as she drew near to it, she held her breath and walked on tiptoe, as if afraid that any sound from her would be sacrilege in that aristocratic atmosphere.

'Oh, isn't it grand, Harold?' Isn't it grand!' she kept repeating, with her mouth full of cherries, after they had reached the trees on which the ripe, red fruit hung so thickly. 'Do you s'pose we shall see the crazy man?' she asked, and Harold replied:

'I don't know. I guess not, unless he comes to the window. Those are his rooms, and that window which looks so ugly outside, is the one with the picture in it,' and he pointed to the south wing, most of the windows of which were open, while against one a long ladder was standing.

It had been left there by a workman who had been up on it to fix the hinge of a blind, and who had gone to the village in quest of something he needed, Jerry saw the ladder and its close proximity to the open window, and she thought to herself.

'I mean to fill my pail with cherries, and go up that ladder and take them to him, I wonder if he would bite me?'

Suiting the action to the word she stopped eating; and began to pick from the lower limbs as rapidly as possible until her pail was full.

'Pour them into the basket,' Harold called to her from the top of the tree, but Jerry did not heed him. She had seen the tall figure of a man pa.s.s before the window, and a pale, thin face had for a moment, looked out, apparently to discover whence the talking came.

'I'm going to take the crazyman some cherries,' she tried, and almost before Harold could protest, she was half way up the ladder, which she climbed with the agility of a little cat.

'Jerry, Jerry! What are you doing!' Harold exclaimed, 'Come back this minute. He doesn't like children; he tried to throw me over the banister once; he will knock you off the ladder; oh, Jerry!' and Harold's voice was almost a sob as he watched the girl going up round after round until the top was reached, and she stood with her flushed, eager face, just on a level with the window so that by standing on tiptoe, she could look into the room.

It was Arthur's bedroom, and there was no one in it, but she heard the sound of footsteps in the adjoining apartment, and raising herself as far as possible, and holding up her pail, she called out in a clear, shrill voice;

'Mr. Crazyman, Mr. Crazyman, don't you want some cherries?'

CHAPTER XVIII.

ARTHUR AND JERRY.

Arthur had pa.s.sed a restless night. Indeed all his nights were restless, but this one had been especially so. Thoughts of Gretchen had troubled him in his dreams, and two or three times he had started up to listen, thinking that he heard her calling to him from a distance. He had dreamed also of the blue hood seen that day of the funereal, now more than two years ago, and of the child who had come knocking at his door, first with her hands and then with her feet, but whom he had refused to admit. He had never seen her since, and had never inquired for her of his own accord. Two or three times his brother had spoken of her in a casual way, telling him once that she was with Mrs. Crawford. Arthur had then asked how she could afford to keep her, and Frank had made no reply. But the second time when he spoke of Jerry, and Arthur, more interested in Mrs. Crawford than in her, had asked the same question, Frank had said:

'She cannot afford it, I pay her three dollars a week.'

For a moment Arthur looked inquiringly at him; then he said:

'You are a good fellow after all, even if you did deceive me about sending John for Gretchen. Tell Colvin, when Christmas comes, to give Mrs. Crawford a hundred dollars for me.'

After this Mrs. Crawford and her affairs pa.s.sed completely out of Arthur's mind. He never went to the cottage, or near it. He never went anywhere, in fact, but lived the life of a recluse, growing thinner, and paler, and more reticent every day, talking now but seldom of Gretchen, though he never arose in the morning or retired at night without kissing her picture and murmuring to it some words of tenderness in German.

He had measured the length of his three rooms and dressing-room, and found them to be nearly one hundred feet, or six rods do that by pa.s.sing back and forth twenty-five times he would walk almost a mile.

Regularly each morning, when it was not too cold or stormy, he would throw open his windows and take his daily exercise, which was but a poor subst.i.tute for what might be had in the fresh air outside, but was nevertheless much better than nothing.

On this particular morning, when Harold and Jerry were at the park, he was taking his walk as usual, though very slowly, for he felt weak and sick, and, oh, so inexpressibly lonely and desolate that it seemed to him he would gladly lie down and die.