'Remember Maude. While she lives she must stay here.'

'Yes, I forgot Maude. Poor little Maude, I have not seen her yet,'

Arthur replied, subdued at once, and willing now that Jerrie should take the jewels to Dolly, who deserved but little forbearance from Jerrie's hand.

Up to the very last Mrs. Tracy had, unconsciously perhaps, clung to a shadowy hope that Arthur might repudiate his daughter and call it a trumped-up affair; but when she heard how joyfully he had acknowledged and claimed her, she lost all hope, and her face wore a sullen, defiant expression as she walked about the house and through the handsome rooms, the very furniture of which had nearly all been bought with Arthur's money, and consequently was not her own. Since the coming of Jerrie, when the dark shadow settled upon Frank, and remorse was always torturing him, he had had no heart for business, and had, to all intents and purposes, lived upon his brother's generosity, which had never failed.

'Get what you like; there is money enough,' was always Arthur's reply, when a request for anything was made to him, and thus they had literally been sponges, taking everything and giving nothing, until now, when all was lost--the luxury, the elegance, the ease, and the prestige of Tracy Park, which they had enjoyed so much. It was hard, and Dolly felt that she could not bear it, and that she hated the girl through whom this change had come, and in every possible way she meant to wound and annoy her; so when the cook came to her that day for orders for dinner, she answered, curtly:

'Go to the heiress. She is mistress now.'

In the hall, coming to seek her, Jerrie met the cook, who, with a comical look on her face, asked what she would have for dinner.

'I don't know what you mean,' Jerrie said, and when the cook explained, her cheeks flushed for an instant and her eyes blazed with resentment But she controlled herself quickly and said, 'Tell Mrs. Tracy--but, no, I am going to her room and will tell her myself.'

Knocking at Mrs. Tracy's door, she was admitted to the presence of the lady, who simply stared at her as if asking why she were there. Jerrie told her in a few words that her own diamonds had been found, and where they had been secreted, and that she had come to return them.

'Then your father was the thief,' Dolly said, with that rasping, aggravating tone so hard to hear unmoved.

'Call him what you please. A crazy man is not responsible for his acts,'

Jerrie answered, calmly; then, more proudly and decidedly, went on, 'By the way, Mrs. Tracy, I was met by the cook with a singular request, and I wish to say that as there can be but one mistress in a house, it is my wish that so long as you remain here you are that mistress in your own department; of course I shall take charge of my father's, and see that his wishes are carried out. Good afternoon,' and with a proud, lofty bearing, Jerrie walked from the room, leaving Dolly to her own morbid and angry thoughts.

Not even the restored diamonds had power to conciliate her, and they were so beautiful as she held them up, admiring their brilliancy and their size.

'I'll never wear them, never, because she has some like them,' she said to herself; and then the thought flashed upon her that she could sell them, and thus add to the sum which her husband had invested in his own name.

Ten thousand dollars, that was all, he had told her, and she had calculated the income, only six hundred dollars a year to live on--less than she now wasted yearly upon bric-a-brac and things of which she tired so soon.

It was a sombre outlook, and it is not strange that her tears fell fast upon the costly stones, whose value she could not guess, although she knew it must be great, they were so superior in size and quality to any she had ever seen.

'Yes, I will sell them,' she said, 'and invest the proceeds in my own name; but even that will hardly keep the wolf from the door, for Frank is growing more and more imbecile every day, and Tom is good for nothing. He'll have to scratch for himself, though, I can tell him.'

Here her ladylike, but very characteristic, soliloquy was brought to an end by a faint call, which had the power to drive every other thought from her heart, for the mother-love was strong even with her, and going to Maude, she asked what she wanted.

'Uncle Arthur,' Maude replied; 'I have not seen him yet. And Jerrie, too, she has scarcely been here to-day.'

Maude's request was made known to Arthur, who, two or three hours later, went to her room, and kissing her lips, told her how sorry he was to see her so sick, and that he hoped she would soon be better.

Frank had been alone with Maude for a long time that day, and he was with her now, sitting upon the side of her bed, near the head, with his arm across her pillow, and his eyes fixed anxiously upon her as she held her conference with his brother.

'No, uncle,' she said; 'I shall never be any better in this world; but by-and-by, pretty soon, I shall be well in the other And I want to tell you how glad I am for you and Jerrie, and to thank you for your kindness to us all these years, when Jerrie should have been here in our place.'

'Yes, yes,' Arthur said, with a wave of his hand. 'Only I didn't know.

If I had--'

'It would have been so different,' Maude interrupted him. 'I know that, but I want you to be kind to poor father still, and forgive him, he is sorry, and--'

'Oh, Maude, Maude,' came like a groan from Frank, as he laid his hand on Maude's lips, while Arthur replied:

'Forgive him! For what? He couldn't help being here. I sent for him. He did not keep Jerrie from her rightful position as my daughter. If he had I could never forgive him. Why, I believe I'd kill him, or any other one who, knowing that Jerrie was my daughter, kept it from me.'

He was gesticulating now with both hands, and Jerrie, who had listened wonderingly to the conversation, took hold of them as they were swaying in the air, and said to him softly:

'Father!'

The word quieted him, and with a gasp his mind seemed to change at once.

'Maude is very tired,' Jerrie went on; 'perhaps we'd better go now and come again to-morrow.'

'Yes, yes, that's best, child. I'm not fond of sick rooms, though I must say this is very free from smells,' Arthur replied; then stooping down he kissed Maude again, saying to her as he rose to go:

'Don't worry about your father; he is my brother, and he was kind to Jerry. I shan't forget that. Come, my daughter.'

And putting his arm fondly around Jerrie he left the room.

CHAPTER L.

THE FLOWER FADETH.

It took some days after Arthur's return for the household to settle down into anything like order and quiet, Arthur was so restless and so happy, and so anxious for everyone to recognise Jerrie as his daughter--Miss Tracy, as he called her when presenting her to the people who had known her all her life--the St. Claires, and Athertons, and Crosbys, and Warners--who came to call upon and congratulate him. Even Peterkin came in his coat-of-arms carriage, with a card as big as the back of Webster's spelling book, and himself gotten up in a dress coat, with lavender kids on his burly hands, which nearly crushed Arthur's in their grasp as he expressed himself 'tickleder than he ever was before in his life.'

'And to think I was the means on't,' he said, 'for if I hadn't of kicked that darned old table into slivers when I was givin' on't to Jerrie, she'd never of know'd what was in that dumbed rat-hole. I was a leetle too upstrupulous, I s'spose, but I'll be darned if she didn't square up to me like a catamount, till my hair riz right up, and I concluded the Tramp House was no place for me. But I respect her for it; yes, I do, and by George, old chap, I congratulate you with my whole soul, and so does May Jane, and so does Ann 'Lizy, and so does Bill, and so does the whole caboodle on us.'

This was Peterkin's speech, which Arthur received more graciously than Jerrie, who, remembering Harold, could not be very polite to the man who had injured him so deeply. As if divining her thoughts, Peterkin turned to her and said:

'Now, one word, Miss Tracy, about Hal. I hain't one to go halves in any thing, and I was meaner to him than pussly; but you'll see what I'll do.

I've met with a change, I swow, I have,' and he laid his lavender kid on his stomach. 'He never took them diamonds, nor May Jane's pin, nor nothin', and I've blasted it all over town that he didn't, and I've got a kerridge hired, and some chaps, and a bra.s.s band, and a percession, and when Hal comes, there's to be an oblation to the depot, with the bugle a playin' "Hail to the Chief," and them hired chips a histen' him inter the kerridge, with the star-spangled banner a floatin' over it, and a drawin' him home without horses! What do you think of that for high?' and he chuckled merrily as he represented the programme he had prepared for Harold's reception.

Jerrie shuddered, mentally hoping that Harold's coming might be at night, and unheralded, so as to save him from what she knew would fill him with disgust.

That call of Peterkin's was the last of a congratulatory nature made at Tracy Park for weeks, for the shadow of death had entered the grand old house, the doors and windows of which stood wide open, one lovely September morning, about a week after Arthur's return. But there was no stir or sign of life, except in the upper hall, near the door, and in the room where Maude Tracy was dying. Jerrie had been with her constantly for two or three days, and the converse the two had held together would never be forgotten, Maude was so peaceful and happy, so sure of the home beyond, where she was going, and so lovely and sweet to those around her, thinking of everything and planning everything, even whose hands were to lower her into the grave.

'd.i.c.k, and Fred, and Billy, and Harold,' she said to Jerrie, one day, 'Something tells me Harold will be here in time for that; and if he is, I want those four to put me in the grave. They can lift me, for I shall not be very heavy,' and, with a smile, she held up her wasted arms and hands, not as large now as a child's. 'And, Jerrie,' she went on, 'I want the grave lined with boughs from our old playing place--the four pines, you know--and many, many flowers, for I shudder at the thought of the cold earth which would chill me in my coffin. So, heap the grave with flowers, and come often to it, and think lovingly of me, lying there alone. I am thinking so much of that poem Harold read me long ago of poor little Alice, the May queen, who said she should hear them as they pa.s.sed, with their feet above her in the long and silent gra.s.s.

Maybe the dead can't do that. I don't know, but if they can, I shall listen for you, and be glad when you are near me, and I know I shall wait on the golden seat by the river. Remember your promise to tell Harold that it was all a mistake. My mind gets clearer toward the end, and I see things differently from what I did once, and I know how I blundered. You will tell him?'

Again Jerrie made the promise, with a sinking heart, not knowing to what it bound her; and as Maude was becoming tired, she bade her try to rest while she sat by and watched her.

The next day, at the same hour, when the balmy September air was everywhere, and the mid-afternoon sun was filling the house with golden light, and the crickets' chirp was heard in the long gra.s.s, and the robins were singing in the tree-tops, another scene was presented in the sick room, where Frank Tracy knelt at his dying daughter's side, with his face bowed on his hands, while her fingers played feebly with his white hair as she spoke to Arthur, who had just come in. They had told him she was dying and had asked for him, and with his nervous horror of everything painful and exciting, he had shrunk from the ordeal; but Jerrie's will prevailed, and he went with her to the room, where Frank, and his wife, and Tom were waiting--Tom standing, with folded arms, at the foot of the bed, and looking, with hot, dry eyes, into the face on the pillow, where death was setting his seal; the mother, half-fainting upon the lounge, with the nurse beside her; and Frank, oblivious of everything except the fact that Maude was dying.

'Kiss me good-bye, Uncle Arthur,' she said, when he came in, 'and come this side where father is.' Then, as he went round and stood by Frank, she reached her hand for his, and, putting it on her father's head, said to him: 'Forgive him, Uncle Arthur; he is so sorry, poor father--the dearest, the best man in the world. It was for me; say that you forgive him.'

Only Frank and one other knew just what she meant, although a sudden suspicion darted through Jerrie's mind, and, when Arthur looked helplessly at her, she whispered to him:

'Never mind what she means--her mind may be wandering; but say that you forgive him, no matter what it is.'