menu_book Chapter 12

CHAPTER XIX. ARTHUR'S PLAN Why, the madam is going to drive, too, and I've come to harness. There'll be a row somewhere, John said. Can't help it, Charles replied. Mr. Arthur wants the Phaeton, and will have it for all of madam. Yes, I suppose so. Well, I'll go and tell her, was John's rejoinder as he started for the house, where Mrs. Tracy was just drawing on her long driving gloves and admiring her new

hat and feather before the glass. Dolly looked almost as young and far prettier than when she came to the park years before. A life of luxury suited her. She had learned to take things easily, and the old woman with the basket might now come every day to her kitchen door without her knowing it. She aped Mrs. Atherton of Briar Hill in everything, and had the satisfaction of knowing that she was on all occasions quite as stylish-looking and well-dressed as that aristocratic

lady whom she called her intimate friend. She had also grown very proud and very exclusive in her ideas, and when poor Mrs. Peterkin, who was growing too with her million, ventured to call at the park, the call was returned with a card which Dolly's coachman left at the door. Since the night of her party and the election which followed when Frank was defeated, she had ignored the Peterkins and laughed at what she called their vulgar imitation of people above

them, and when she heard that Mary Jane had hired a governess for her two children Bill and Anne Eliza, she scoffed at the airs assumed by come-up people and wondered if Mrs. Peterkin had forgotten that she was one of Grace Atherton's hired girls. Dolly had certainly forgotten the Langley life and was to all intents and purposes the great lady of the park, who held herself aloof from the common herd and taught her children to do the same. She had seen Jerry enter the house that

morning with a feeling of disapprobation, which had not diminished as the day wore on, and still the child stayed, and what was worse, Maude was not sent for to join her. Not that I would have allowed it if she had been, she said to herself, for she did not wish her daughter intimate, with one of whose antecedents nothing was known, but Arthur might at least have invited her. He had never noticed her children much, and this she deeply resented.

Maude, who knew of Jerry's presence in the house, had cried to go and play with her, but Mrs. Tracy had refused, and promised as an equivalent a drive in the Phaeton around the town. And it was for this drive Dolly was preparing herself when John came with the message that she could not have the Phaeton, as Mr. Arthur was going to take Jerry home in it. Usually Arthur's slightest wish was a law in the household, for that was Frank's order,

but on this occasion Dolly felt herself justified in rebelling. Not have the Phaeton, that's smart, I must say, she exclaimed. Can't that child walk home? I'd like to know. Tell Mr. Tracy Maud has had the promise of a drive all day and I am ready with my things on. Ask him to take the Victoria. He never drives. All this in substance was repeated to Arthur, who answered quietly. Let Mrs. Tracy take the Victoria. I prefer the Phaeton myself.

That settled it, and in a few moments Jerry was seated at Arthur's side and skimming along through the park and out upon the highway which skirted the river for miles. This is not going home, and Grandma will scold, Jerry said. Never mind, Grandma, I will make it right with her. I am going to show you the country, Arthur replied as he cherubed to the fleet pony who seemed to fly along the smooth road. No one who saw the tall, elegant-looking man who sat so erect and handled the rain so skillfully

would have suspected him of insanity, and more than one stopped to look after him and the little girl whose face looked out from the white sunbonnet was so joyous an expression. On the homeward route they met the Victoria, with John upon the box and Mrs. Tracy and Maude inside. There's Maude! Hello, Maude! See me? I'm riding! Jerry called out cheerily while Maude answered back. "'Hello, Jerry!' But Mrs. Tracy gave no sign of recognition, and only rebuked her daughter for

her vulgarity in saying, "'Hello,' which was second-class and low. "'Then Nina St. Clair is second-class and low, for she says, "'Hello,' was Maude's reply, to which her mother had no answer. Meanwhile the Phaeton was going swiftly on toward the cottage, which it reached a few minutes after the furnace-whistle blew for six, and Harold, who had been working there, came up the lane. There were soiled spots on his hands and on his face, and his clothes showed marks of toil,

all of which Arthur noticed, while he was explaining to Mrs. Crawford, that he had taken Jerry for a drive and kept her beyond the prescribed hour. Then, turning to Harold, he said, And so you work in the furnace? Yes, sir, during vacation, when I can get a job there, Harold answered, and Mr. Tracy continued. How much do you get a day?

Fifty cents in dull times, was the reply, and Arthur went on. Fifty cents from seven in the morning to six at night and bored yourself. A magnificent sum, truly. Pray, how do you manage to spend so much? You must be getting rich.

The words were sarcastic, but the tone belied the words, and Harold was about to speak when his grandmother interrupted him and said, What he does not spend for us he puts aside. He is trying to save enough to go to the high school, but it's slow work. I can do but little myself, and it all falls upon Harold.

But I like it, Grandma. I like to work for you and Jerry, and I have almost twenty dollars saved, Harold said. And in a year or two I can go away to school and work somewhere for my board. Lots of boys do that. Arthur was hitching his pony to the fence while a new idea was dawning in his mind.

Fifty cents a day, he said to himself, and he has twenty dollars saved and thinks himself rich. Why, I've spent more than that on one bottle of wine, and here is this boy, Amy's son, wanting an education and working to support his grandmother like a common laborer.

I believe I am crazy. He was in the cottage by this time, in the clean, cool kitchen where the supper-table was laid with its plain fare, wholly unlike the costly viands which daily loaded his board. Don't wait for me, Harold must be hungry, he said, adding quickly.

Or stay if you will permit me, I will take a cup of tea with you. The drive has given me an appetite, and your tea smells very inviting. It was a great honor to have Arthur Tracy at her table, and Mrs. Crawford felt it as such, and was very sorry, too, that she had nothing better to offer him than bread and butter and radishes, with milk, and a dish of cold beans and chopped beets and a piece of apple pie saved

for Harold from dinner. But she made him welcome, and Jerry, delighted to return the hospitality she had received, brought him a clean plate and cup and saucer, and asked if she might get the best sugar bowl and the white sugar. Then, remembering the beautiful flowers which had adorned the table at Tracy Park, she ran out, and gathering a bunch of June pinks, put them in a little glass by his plate. When all was ready and they had taken their seats at the table,

Mrs. Crawford closed her eyes reverently and asked the accustomed blessing which in that house preceded every meal. Jerry's Amen was a good deal louder and more emphatic than usual while she nodded her head to Arthur with an expression which he understood to mean, You know now what you ought to say instead of that long prayer, and he nodded back that he did so understand it. Arthur enjoyed the supper immensely, or pretended that he did. He ate three slices of bread and butter, he drank

three cups of tea, he even tried the beans and the beets, but declined the radishes, which he said would give him nightmare. When supper was over and the table cleared away, he still showed no signs of going, but asking Mrs. Crawford to take a seat near him, he plunged at once into the business which had brought him there, and which, since he had seen Harold in his working dress and heard what he was trying to do, had grown to be of a twofold nature. He was very lonely,

he said, and the little taste he had had of Jerry's society had made him wish for more, and he must have her with him a part at least of every day. In short, he said, I should like to undertake her education myself until she is older, when I will see that she has the proper finishing. She tells me she hates the district school, with Bill Peterkin and his warts. Trying to kiss me, Jerry interrupted as open-eyed and open-mouthed, she stood with her hand on his shoulder listening to him.

Yes, trying to kiss you, though I do not blame him much for that, Arthur said with a smile, and then continued. She is ambitious enough to want a governess like Anne Eliza Peterkin and my brother's daughter, but I am better than a dozen governesses. I can teach her all the rudiments of an English education with French and German and Latin, too, if she likes. And my plan is that she shall come to me every day except Saturdays and Sundays at ten in the morning,

get her lessons and her lunch with me, and return home at four in the afternoon. Would you like it, Jerry? Oh, oh, was all the answer Jerry could make for a moment, but her cheeks were scarlet and tears of joy stood in her eyes until she glanced at Harold. Then all the brightness faded from her face,

for how could she accept this great good and leave him to drudge and toil alone? What is it, Jerry? Mr. Tracy asked, and with a half-sob she replied, I can't go without Harold. If I get learning, he must get learning, too. And leaving Arthur, she crossed over to the boy, and putting her arm around him, looked up at him with a look which in after years he would have given half his life to win.

I shall not forget Harold, Arthur hastened to say, and I have something better in store for him than reciting his lessons to me. When the high school opens in September, he is going there, and if he does well he shall go to Andover in time, and perhaps to Harvard. It will all depend upon himself and how he improves his opportunities.

What, crying? Don't you like it? Arthur asked, as he saw the tears gathering in Harold's eyes and rolling down his cheeks. Yes, oh, yes, but it don't seem real, and, and I guess it makes me kind of sick. Harold gasped, as freeing himself from Jerry's encircling arm, he hurried from the room to think over this great and unexpected joy which had come so suddenly to him. With his naturally refined tastes and instincts, the dirty furnace work was not pleasant to him,

neither were the many menial duties he was obliged to perform for the sake of those he loved. How to get an education was the problem he was earnestly trying to solve, and, lo, it was solved for him. For a moment the suddenness of the thing overcame him, and he sat down upon a block of wood in the yard, faint and bewildered, while Arthur made his plan clear to Mrs. Crawford, saying that what he meant to do was partly for Jerry's sake and partly for

the sake of the young girl who had been his early love. I always intended to take care of you, he said, but things go from my mind, and I forget the past as completely as if it had never been. But this will stay by me, for I shall have Cherry as a reminder, and if I am in danger of forgetting, she will jog my memory. For a moment Mrs. Crawford could not speak, so great was her surprise and joy that the good she had thought unattainable was to be Harold's at last. And yet something in her

proud, sensitive nature rebelled against receiving so much from a stranger, even if that stranger were Arthur Tracy. It seemed like charity, she said. But Arthur overruled her with that persuasive way he had of converting people to his views, and when at last he left the cottage, it was with the understanding that Jerry should commence her lessons with him the first week in September, and that Harold should enter the high school in Shannondale when it opened in the autumn.

Chapter 20. The Working of Arthur's Plan As Arthur was wholly uncommunicative with regard to his affairs, and as Mrs. Crawford kept her own counsel and bade Harold and Jerry to do the same, the Tracys knew nothing whatever of the plan until the September morning when Jerry presented herself at the parkhouse and was met in the doorway by Mrs. Frank, who was just going out. Very few could have resisted the bright little face so full of childish happiness or the clear assured voice which said so cheerily, Good morning, Mrs. Tracy. I'm come to school. but prejudiced as she was against the girl mrs tracy could resist anything and she answered haughtily come to school what do you mean this is not a school-house and if you have any errand here go round to the other door only company come in here

But I'm company. I'm going to get learning. He told me to come. Jerry answered, flushed and eager and altogether sure of her right to be there. Before Mrs. Frank could reply, a voice, distinct and authoritative, and to which she always yielded, called from the top of the stairway inside. Mrs. Tracy, if that is Jerry to whom you are talking, send her up at once. I am waiting for her. Jerry did not mean the nod she gave the lady as she passed her to be disrespectful, but Mrs. Frank felt it as such, and went to her own room in a most perturbed state of mind,

for which she could find no vent until her husband came in, when she stated the case to him and asked if he knew what it meant. But Frank was as ignorant as herself, and could not enlighten her until that night after he had seen his brother and heard from him what he was intending to do. God bless you, Arthur. You don't know how happy you have made me, Frank said,

feeling on the instant that a great burden was lifted from his mind. Jerry was to be educated and cared for, and would probably receive all that the world would naturally concede to her if the truth were known. He believed, or thought he did, that Gretchen had never been his brother's wife, though to believe so seemed an insult to the original of the sweet face

which looked at him from the window every time he entered his brother's room. Jerry was a great trouble to him, and he would not have liked to confess to anyone how constantly she was in his mind, or how many plans he had devised in order to atone for the wrong he knew he was doing her. And now his brother had taken her off his hands, and she was to be cared for and receive the education which would fit her to earn her own livelihood and make her future life

respectable. No particular harm was done her after all, and he might now enjoy himself and cast his morbid fancies to the winds, he reflected, and he went whistling to his wife's apartment and told her what he heard. For a moment Dolly was speechless with astonishment, and when at last she opened her lips, her husband silenced her with that voice and manner of which she was beginning to be afraid. It was none of their business, he said, what Arthur did in his own house, provided

they were not molested, and if he chose to turn schoolmaster he had a right to do so. For his part he was glad of it, as it saved him the expense of Jerry's education, for if Arthur had not taken it in hand he should, and Dolly was to keep quiet and let the child come and go in peace. After delivering himself of these sentiments, Frank went away leaving his wife to wonder, as she had done more than once, if he too were not a little crazy, like his brother.

But she said no more about Jerry's coming there, except to suggest that she might at least come in at the side door instead of the front, especially on muddy days when she was liable to soil the costly carpets. And Jerry, who cared but little how she entered the house if she only got in, came through the kitchen after the second day, and wiped her feet upon the mat, and once, when her shoes were worse than usual, took them off, lest they should leave a track.

It is not our intention to linger over the first few months of Jerry's school days at Tracy Park, but rather to hasten on to the summer four years after her introduction to Tracy Park as Arthur's pupil. During all that time he had never once seemed to be weary of the task he had imposed upon himself, but on the contrary, his interest had deepened in the child who developed so rapidly under his training that he sometimes looked at her in astonishment, marveling more and more who

she was, and from whom she had inherited her wonderful memory and power to grasp points which are usually far beyond the comprehension of a child of ten or even twelve, and which Maude Tracy could no more have mastered than her brother the stupid Jack, whose intellect had not grown with his body. There was a tutor now at Tracy Park for Jack, but Maude had been transferred to Arthur's care. This was wholly due to Jerry, who alone could have induced him to let Maude share her

instruction. Arthur did not care for Maude. She was dull, he said, and would never have her lessons. But Jerry coaxed so hard that Arthur consented at last, and when Jerry had been with him about three years, Maude became his pupil, and that of Jerry as well, for nearly every day when the lessons were over, the two little girls might have been seen together under the trees in the park or in some corner of the house. Maude, puzzled and perplexed and worried, and Jerry, anxious,

decided and peremptory, as she went over and over again with what was so clear to her and so hazy to her friend. Oh, dear me, Suze, what does ail you? she said one day with a stamp of her foot, after she had tried in vain to make Maud see through a simple sum in long division. Can't you remember first to divide, second multiply, third subtract, and fourth bring down? No, I can't. I can't remember anything. And if I could, how do I know what to divide or what to

bring down? I am stupid and shall never know anything, was Maud's sobbing reply as she covered her face with her slate. Maud's tears always moved Jerry, who tried to comfort her with the assurance that if she tried very hard, she might sometime know enough to teach a district school. This was the height of Jerry's ambition, to teach a district school and board around, but Maude's aspirations were different. She was rich. She was to be a belle and wear diamonds

and satins like her mother, and it did not matter so much whether she understood long division or not, though it did hurt her a little to be so far outstripped by Jerry, who was younger than herself. To Arthur, Jerry was a constant delight and surprise, and nothing astonished or pleased him more than the avidity with which she took up German. This language was like play to her,

and by the time she was ten years old she spoke and read and wrote it almost as well as Arthur himself. It takes me back somewhere, I can't tell where, she said to him, and I seem to be somebody else than Jerry Crawford, and I hear music and see people, and a pale face is close to me, and my head gets all confused trying to remember things which come and go.

Only once after her first day at the park had she enacted the pantomime of the sick woman and the nurse, and then she had done it at Arthur's request. But it was not quite as thrilling as at first. The hymn for whom the dying woman had prayed was omitted, and the whole was mixed with the tramp-house and the carpet-bag and Harold,

who was now a youth of seventeen and a student at the high school in Chanondale, where he was making as rapid progress in his studies as Jerry was at the park. But Harold's life was not as serene and happy as Jerry's, for it was not pleasant for him to hear, as he often did, that he was a charity student supported by Arthur Tracy. Such remarks were very galling to the high-spirited boy, and he was constantly revolving all manner of schemes by

which he could earn money and cease to be dependent. All through the long summer vacations he worked at whatever he could find to do, sometimes in people's gardens, sometimes on their lawns, but oftener in the hay-fields, where he earned the most. Here Jerry was not unfrequently his companion. She liked to rake hay, she said. It came natural to her, and she had no doubt she inherited the taste from her mother, who had probably worked in the fields in Germany.

One afternoon, when Jerry knew that Harold was busy in one of Mr. Tracy's meadows, she started to join him, for he had complained of a headache at noon, and had expressed a fear that he might not be able to finish the task he had imposed upon himself. The road to the field was by the tramp-house, which looked so cool and quiet, with its thick covering of woodbine and ivy over it, that Jerry turned aside for a moment to look into the room which had so great a fascination for her,

and where she spent so much time. Indeed, she seldom passed near it without going in for a moment and standing by the old table which had once held her and her dead mother. Things came back to her there, she said, and she could almost give a name to the pale-faced woman who haunted her so often. As she entered the damp, dark place now, she started with an exclamation of surprise, which was echoed by another, as Frank Tracy sprang up and confronted her. It was not often

that he visited the tramp-house, and he would not have confessed to anyone his superstitious dread of it, or that, when he was in it, he always had a feeling that the dead woman found three years ago would start up to accuse him of his deceit and hypocrisy. Could he have had his way, he would have pulled the building down. But it was not his, and when he suggested it to Arthur, as he sometimes did, the latter opposed it, saying latterly, since Jerry had been so much to him.

No, Frank, let it stand. I like it because but for it Jerry might have perished with her mother, and I should not have had her with me. So the tramp house stood and grew damper and mustier each year, as the moss and ivy gathered on the walls outside, and the dust and the cobwebs gathered on the walls within. These, however, Jerry was careful to brush away, for she had a playhouse in one corner and a little workbench and chair, and she often sat there alone and

talked to herself and the woman dead so long ago, and to others whose faces were dim and shadowy, but whom she felt sure she had known. Very frequently she went through the process of cleaning up, as she called it, and her object in stopping there now was, in part, to see if it did not need her care again. Oh, Mr. Tracy, are you here? How you scared me! I thought it was a tramp, she said as he came toward her. Do you come here often? he asked as he offered her his hand.

Yes, pretty often. I like it, because Mother died here and sometimes I feel as if she would make it known to me here who she was. I talked to her and asked her to tell me, but she never has. Oh, don't you wish she would? Frank shuddered involuntarily, for to have Jerry told who she really was was the last thing he could desire, but as a criminal is set always to talk about the crime he has committed and is hiding, so Frank, when with Jerry, felt impelled to talk

with her of the past and what she could remember of it. Seating himself upon the bench with her at his side, he said. And you really believe the woman found here was your mother? Why, yes, don't you? Who was my mother if she wasn't? And Jerry's eyes opened wide as they looked at him. I don't know, I am sure. Does my brother talk of Gretchen now? was the abrupt reply. Yes, at times, Jerry answered. And yesterday, after I sang him a little German song which he

taught me, he had them pretty bad. The bees in his head, I mean. That is what he calls it when things are mixed, and he says he is going to write to her or her friends. Write to her? I thought he had given that up. I thought he—did he say, write to her friends? Frank gasped, as he felt himself grow cold and sick with this threatened danger. Arthur had seemed so quiet and happy with Jerry, and had said so little of Gretchen, that Frank had grown quite easy in his mind, and the black

shadow of fear did not trouble him as much as formerly. But now it was over him again, and grew in intensity as he questioned the child. Have you ever tried to find out who Gretchen is? he asked at last. No, she replied.

But I guess she is his wife. Yes, Frank said falteringly, his wife. And where do you think she lived? Oh, I know that. In Wiesbaden.

He told me so once, and it seems as if I had been there too when he talked about it, and I hear the music and see the flowers, and a white-faced woman is with me,

not at all like mother who they say was ugly and dark, black as a nigger Tom told me once when he was mad. Was she black? Mr. Tracy made no reply to this, but said suddenly, Jerry, do you like me well enough to do me a great favor? Why, yes, I guess I do. I like you very much, though not as well as I do Harold and Mr. Arthur. What do you want? was Jerry's answer. After hesitating a moment Mr. Tracy began. There are certain reasons why I ought to know if my brother writes to

Gretchen or her friends or anyone in Germany, especially Wiesbaden. A letter of that kind might do me a great deal of harm. If he should write to anyone in Germany, you would perhaps be asked to post the letter as he never goes to town. He said this interrogatively, and Jerry answered him promptly. I think he would give it to me as I post nearly all his letters. Yes, well, Jerry, can you keep a secret and never tell anyone what I am saying to you?

was Frank's next remark, to which Jerry responded. I think I should tell Harold, and perhaps Mr. Arthur. No, no, Jerry, never. And Frank laid his hand half menacingly upon the little girl's shoulder. I have been kind to you, have paid for your board to Mrs. Crawford ever since you have been there.

He felt how mean it was to say this, and did not at all resent Jerry's quick reply. Yes, but Mrs. Peterkin says you do not pay enough. Perhaps not, he continued, but if Mrs. Crawford is satisfied, it matters little what Mrs. Peterkin thinks. Jerry, you must do this for me, he went on rapidly as his fears kept growing. You must never tell anyone of our conversation, and if my brother writes that letter soon,

or at any time, you must bring it to me. Will you do it? Great harm would come if it were sent, harm to me, and harm to Maud, and—' To Maud,' Jerry repeated, "'I would do anything for Maud. Yes, I will bring the letter to you if he writes one. You are sure it would be right for me to do so?' Frank had touched the right chord when he mentioned his daughter's name, for during the years of close companionship the two little

girls had learned to love each other devotedly, though naturally Jerry's was the stronger and less selfish attachment of the two. To her Maud was a queen who had a right to tyrannize over and command her if she pleased, and as the tyranny was never very severe, and was usually followed by some generous act of contrition, she did not mind it at all, and was always ready to make up and be friends whenever it suited the capricious little lady. Yes, I will do it for Maud, she said

again, but there was a troubled look on her face, and a feeling in her heart as if, in some way, she was false to Arthur in thus consenting to his brother's wishes. But, she reflected, Arthur was crazy, so people said, and she herself knew better than anyone else of his many panciful vagaries, which at times took the form of actual insanity. For weeks he would seem perfectly rational, and then suddenly his mood would change, and he would talk strange things to himself and the child,

who was now so necessary to him, and who alone had a soothing influence over him. Only the day before, he had been unusually excited after listening to a simple air which he had taught her, and which at his request she sang to him after Maud had gone out and left them alone. I could swear you were Gretchen singing to me in the twilight, and across the meadow comes the tinkle of the bells where the cows and goats are feeding, he said to her as he paced up and down

the room. Then, stopping suddenly, he went up to her and pushing her hair from her forehead, looked long and earnestly into her face. Cherry, he said at last, using the pet name he often gave her. You are some like Gretchen, as she must have been one of your age. Oh, if you only were hers and mine. But there was no child. And yet, and yet. He seemed to be thinking intently for a moment, and then going to a drawer in his writing-desk, which Jerry had never seen open before,

he took out a worn yellow letter and ran his eye rapidly over it until he found a certain paragraph which he bade Jerry read. The paragraph was as follows. I have something to tell you when you come, which I am sure will make you as glad as I am. Jerry read it aloud slowly, for the handwriting was cramped and irregular, and then looked up questioningly to Arthur, who said to her, What do you think she meant by the something which would make me glad as she was?

I don't know, Jerry answered him. Who wrote it? Gretchen? Yes, Gretchen. It is her last letter to me, and I never went back to see what she meant, for the bees were bad in my head and I forgot everything, even Gretchen herself. Poor little Gretchen! What was the idea which came to me like a flash of lightning in regard to this letter when I heard you sing? It is gone, and I cannot recall it. There was a worried, anxious look on his face as he put the letter away and went on

talking to himself of Gretchen, saying he was going to write her again or her friends and find out what she meant. The next day Jerry met Frank in the tramp-house, as we have described, and gave him the promise to bring him any letter directed to Germany which Arthur might entrust to her. But the promise weighed heavily upon her as she walked slowly on toward the field where Harold was at work, and where she found him resting for a moment under the shadow of a wide-spreading

butternut. He looked tired and pale, and there was an expression on his face which Jerry did not understand. Harold was not in a very happy frame of mind. Naturally cheerful and hopeful, it was not often that he gave way to fits of despondency, or repining at his humble lot so different from that of the boys of his own age, with whom he came in daily contact both at the school and in the town. Dick St. Clair, his most intimate friend, always treated him as if he were fully his equal,

and often stood between him and the remarks which boys make thoughtlessly, and which while they mean so little wound to the quick such sensitive natures as Harold's. But not even Dick St. Clair could keep Tom Tracy in check. With each succeeding year he grew more and more supercilious and unbearable, pluming himself upon his position as a Tracy of Tracy Park and the wealth he was to inherit from his uncle Arthur. For the last year he had been at Andover, where he had formed a

new set of acquaintances, one of whom was spending the vacation with him. This was young Fred Raymond, whose home was at Redstone Hall in Kentucky, and whose parents were in Europe. Between the two youths there was but little similarity of taste or disposition, for young Raymond represented all that was noble and true, and though proud of his state and proud of his name, he never assumed the slightest superiority over those whom the world considered his inferiors. He was Tom's roommate,

and hence the intimacy between them which had resulted in Fred's accepting the invitation to Tracy Park. If anything had been wanting to complete Tom's estimate of his own importance, this visit of the Kentuckian would have done it. All his former friends were cut except Dick St. Clair, while Harold was as much ignored as if he had never existed. Tom did not even see him or recognize him with so much as a look, but passed him by as he would any common day laborer whom

he might chance to meet. All through the summer days, while Harold was working until every bone in his body ached, Tom and his friend were enjoying themselves in hunting, fishing, driving, or rowing, or lounging under the trees in the shady lawns. That afternoon, when Jerry joined him in the hayfield, Tom and the Kentuckian had passed him in their fanciful hunting suits with their dogs and guns, but though Harold was within a few yards of them, Tom affected not to see him,

and kept his head turned the other way as if intent upon some object in the distance. Leaning upon his rake, Harold watched them out of sight with a choking sensation in his throat, as he wondered if it would always be thus with him, and if the day would never come when he too could know what leisure meant, with no thought for the morrow's bread. I am Tom's superior in everything but money, and yet he treats me like a dog,

he said as he seated himself upon the grass, where he sat fanning himself with his straw hat. When Jerry appeared in view he brightened at once, for in all the world there was nothing half so sweet and lovely to him as the little blue-eyed girl who sat down beside him, and, nestling close to him, laid her curly head upon his arm. I've come to help you rake the hay, she said, for Grandma told me you had a headache at noon

and couldn't eat your huckleberry pie. I am awfully sorry, Harold, but I ate it myself, it looked so good, instead of saving it for your supper. It was nasty and mean in me, and I hope it will make me sick. But Harold told her he did not care for the pie, and was glad that she ate it if she liked it. Then he questioned her of the parkhouse and of Arthur, asking if the bees were often in his head now, or had she driven them out. No, I guess I haven't. They were awful yesterday,

Jerry replied. He was talking of Gretchen all the time. I wonder who she was. Sometimes I look at her until it seems to me I have seen her or something like her, a paler face with sadder eyes. How he must have loved her! Better than you or I could ever love anybody, don't you think so? Harold hesitated a moment and then replied, I don't know, but it seems to me I love you as much as one could ever love another. Foo! Of course you do, but that's boy love. That isn't

like when you are old enough to have a bowl. And Jerry laughed merrily as she sprang up, and taking Harold's rake, began to toss the hay about rapidly, bidding him sit still and see how fast she could work in his place. Harold was very tired, and his head was aching badly, so for a time he sat still, watching the graceful movements of the beautiful child who, it seemed to him, was slipping away from him. Constant intercourse with a polished man like

Arthur Tracy had not been without its effect upon her, and there was about her an air which with strangers would have placed her at once above the ordinary level of simple country girls. This Harold had been the first to detect, and though he rejoiced at Jerry's good fortune, there was always with him a dread lest she should grow beyond him and that he should lose the girl he loved so much. What if she should think me a clown and a clodhopper, as Tom Tracy does?

he said to himself, as he watched her raking up the hay faster and quite as well as he could have done himself. I believe I should die. It was impossible that Jerry should have guessed the nature of Harold's thoughts, but once, as she passed near him, she dropped her rake, and going up to him, wiped his forehead with her apron, and kissing him fondly, said to him, Poor tired boy! Is your head awful? You look as if you wanted to vomit. Do you?

No, Jerry, Harold answered laughingly. I am not as bad as that. I was only wishing that I were rich and could give you and Grandma a home as handsome as Tracy Park. How would you like it? First rate if you were there, Jerry replied, but if you were not I shouldn't like it at all.

I never mean to live anywhere without you, because you know I am your little girl, the one you found in the carpet bag, and I love you more than all the world, and will love and stand by you forever and ever. Amen. She said the last so abruptly, and it sounded so oddly that Harold burst into a laugh, and taking up the rake she had dropped, began his work again, declaring that the headache was gone,

and that he was a great deal better. End of Chapters 19 and 20