THE NEXT DAY.
Jerrie was astir the next morning almost as soon as the first robin
begin to sing under her window. She had left a blind open, and the red
beams of the rising sun fell upon her face and roused her from a dream
of Germany and what she meant to do there. Once fairly awake, Germany
seemed far away, as did the fancies of the previous night. The spell,
mesmeric, or clairvoyant, or whatever one chooses to call it, was
broken, and she was only Jerrie Crawford again, dressing herself rapidly
and noiselessly so as not to awaken her grandmother, who slept in the
room beneath hers.
'I shall get the start of her,' she said, as she donned a simple working
dress which had done her service during the summer vacations for three
successive years. 'I heard her telling Harold last night to have the
tubs and water ready early, for she had put off the Monday's washing
until I came home, as I was sure to bring a pile of soiled clothes. And
I have; but, my dear grandmother, your poor old twisted hands will not
touch them. What is a great strapping girl like me for, I'd like to
know, if it is not to wash her own clothes, and yours, too?' and Jerrie
nodded resolutely at the fresh young face in the mirror, which nodded
back with a smile of approbation of the _tout ensemble_ of the figure
reflected in the glass.
And truly it was a very pretty and piquant picture which she, made in
her neat calico dress, which, as it was three years old at least, was a
little too short for her, and showed plainly her red stockings and
high-heeled slippers, with the strap around her instep. Her sleeves were
short, for she had cut them off and arranged them in a puff above her
elbows to save rolling them up, and her white bib-apron was fastened on
each shoulder with a knot of blue ribbon, Harold's favorite color. She
had thoroughly brushed her beautiful wavy hair, and then twisting it
into a mass of curls had tucked it under a coquettish muslin cap, whose
narrow frill just shaded her lovely face. 'You look like a peasant
girl, and I believe you are a peasant girl, and ought to be working in
the fields of Germany this minute,' she said to herself with a mocking
courtesy, as she left the mirror and descended to the kitchen, where,
early as it was, she found Harold warming some coffee over a fire of
chips, and cutting a slice of dry bread.
'What in the world!' she exclaimed, stopping short on the threshold. 'I
mean to be the first on the scene, and lo! here you are before me. What
are you doing?'
'Getting my breakfast,' Harold replied, turning toward her with a slight
shade of annoyance on his face. 'You see, I have a job. I did not tell
you last night that a Mr. Allen, who lives across the river, four miles
away, looked in one day when I was painting your ceiling, and liked it
so much that he has engaged me to paint one for him. I told him I was
only an amateur, but he said he'd rather have me than all the boss
painters in Shannondale. He offered me three dollars a day and board,
which means dinner and supper, or fifteen for the job; and I took the
last offer, as I can make the most at it by beginning early and working
late, and we need--'
Here he stopped short, for how could he tell Jerrie that the raised roof
had taken all his means, and that he even owed the grocer for the sugar
she had eaten upon her berries, and the butcher for the bit of steak
bought the previous night for her breakfast and his grandmother's. But
Jerrie guessed it without his telling, but with her quick instinct and
delicate perception knew that no genuine man like Harold cares to have
even his best friend know of his poverty if he can help it. Forcing back
the tears which sprang to her eyes, she cried, cheerily:
'Yes, I know; you are a kind of second Michael Angelo, though I doubt if
that old gentleman, at your age, could have done my room better than you
did. I don't wonder Mr. Allen wanted you. But you are not going to tramp
four miles on a hot morning, on nothing but bread and coffee, and such
coffee--muddier than the Missouri River! You shall have a decent
breakfast, if I can get it for you. Just sit down and rest, and see what
a Vassar with a diploma can do.'
As she talked she was replenishing the fire with hard-wood, putting on
the kettle, pouring out the coffee dregs saved from yesterday's
breakfast, and hunting for an egg with which to settle the fresh cup she
intended to make.
'No, no, Jerrie. No, you must not take that; it is all we have in the
house, and grandma must have a fresh one every day at eleven o'clock,
the doctor says--it strengthens her,' Harold said, rising quickly, while
Jerrie put the one egg back in the box and asked what Mrs. Crawford did
settle coffee with.
'I am sure I don't know; cold water, I guess,' Harold said, resuming his
seat, while Jerrie tripped here and there, laying the cloth, bringing
his cup and saucer and plate, and at last pouncing upon the bit of steak
in the refrigerator.
But here Harold again interfered.
'Jerrie--Jerrie, that is for your breakfast and grandma's. You must not
take that.'
'But I shall take half of it. I would rather have a glass of Nannie's
milk any time than meat, and you are going to have my share; so, Mr.
Hastings, just mind your business and let the cook alone, or she'll be
givin' ye warnin',' Jerrie answered laughingly, as she divided the
steak, which she proceeded at once to broil.
So Harold let her have her way, and felt an increase of self-respect,
and that he was something more than a common day laborer, as he ate his
steak and buttered toast, and drank the coffee, which seemed to him the
best he had ever tasted. Jerrie picked him a few strawberries, and laid
beside his plate a beautiful half-opened rose, with the dew still upon
it. It was a delicate attention, and Harold felt it more than all she
had done for him.
'Thank you, Jerrie,' he said, picking up the rose as he finished his
breakfast. 'It was so nice in you to think of it, just as if I were a
king instead of a jack-at-all-trades, but I hardly think it suits my
blue checked shirt and painty pants. Keep it yourself, Jerrie,' and he
held it up against her white bib apron. 'It is just like the pink on
your cheeks. Wear it for me,' and taking a pin from his collar, he
fastened it rather awkwardly to the bib, while his face came in so close
proximity to Jerrie's that he felt her breath stir his hair, and felt,
too, a strong temptation to kiss the glowing cheek so near his own.
'There, that completes your costume,' he said, holding her off a little
to look at her. 'By the way, haven't you got yourself up uncommonly
well this morning? I never saw you as pretty as you are in this rig. If
it would not be very improper, I'd like to kiss you.'
He was astonished at his own boldness, and not at all surprised at
Jerrie's reply, as she stepped back from him.
'No, thank you, it would be highly improper for a man of twenty-six, who
stands six feet in his boots, to kiss a girl of nineteen, who stands
five feet six in her slippers.'
There was a flush on her cheeks and a strange look in her eyes, for she
was thinking of Harvard, where he had put her from him, ashamed that
strangers should see her kiss him. Harold had forgotten that incident,
which at the time had made no impression upon him, and was now thinking
only of the beautiful girl whose presence seemed to brighten and ennoble
everything with which she came in contact, and to whom he at last said
good-bye, just as Peterkin's tower clock struck for half-past five.'
'I _must_ go now,' he said, taking up his basket of brushes. 'I have
lost a full half-hour with you, and your steaks, and your coddling me
generally. I ought to have been there by this time. Good-bye,' and
offering her his hand, he started down the lane at a rapid pace,
thinking the morning the loveliest he had ever known, and wondering why
everything seemed so fresh, and bright, and sweet.
If he could have sung, he would have done so, but he could not, and so
he talked to himself, and to the birds, and rabbits, and squirrels,
which sprang up before him as he struck into the woods as the shortest
route to Mr. Allen's farm house--talked to them and to himself of
Jerrie, and how delightful it was to have her home again, unspoiled by
flattery, sweet and gracious as ever, and how he longed to tell her of
his love, but dared not yet until he was surer of her and of what she
felt for him. He had no faith now in her fancies with regard to herself.
Of the likeness to Arthur, which he thought he saw the previous there
had been no trace on the face which had almost touched his that morning
when he pinned the rose upon her bib. She was not--could not be
Gretchen's daughter, and was undoubtedly the child of the woman found in
the Tramp House--his Jerry, whom he had found, and claimed as his own,
and whom he meant to win some day, when he had his profession, and was
established in business. 'But that will be a long, long time, and some
one else may steal her from me,' he said to himself, sadly, as he
thought of the years which must elapse before he could venture to take a
wife. 'Oh, if I were sure she cared for me a little, as I do for her, I
would ask her now and have it settled; for Jerrie is not a girl to go
back on her promise, and the years would seem so short, and the work so
easy, with Jerrie at the end of it all,' he continued, and then he
wondered how he could find out the nature of Jerrie's feeling for him
without asking her directly, and so spoiling everything if he should
happen to be premature.
Would his grandmother know? Not at all likely. She was too old to know
much of love, or its symptoms in a girl. Would Nina St. Claire know?
Possibly, for she and Jerrie were great friends, and girls always told
each other their secrets, so Maude said, and Maude was just then his
oracle. He had seen so much of her the last few months that he felt as
if he knew her even better than he did Jerrie, and he was certainly more
at his ease in her presence. Then why not talk with Maude and enlist her
as a partisan. He might certainly venture to make her his confidente,
she had been so very communicative and familiar with him, telling him
things which he had wondered at, with regard to her father, and mother,
and Tom, and the family generally. Yes, he would sound Maude, very
cautiously at first, and get her opinion, and then he should know better
what to do. Maude would espouse his cause, he was sure, for she liked
him and worshipped Jerrie. He could trust her, and he would.
He had reached the Allen farm-house by this time, and though he was
perspiring at every pore, for the morning was very hot, he scarcely felt
the heat or the fatigue of his rapid four-mile walk, as he mixed his
paints and prepared for his work, for there was constantly in his heart
a thought of Jerrie, as she had looked in that bewitching dress, and of
the bright, smile she had flashed upon him when she said good-bye.
Meanwhile Jerrie had watched him out of sight, whistling merrily:
'Gin a body meet a body,
Comin' through the rye,
Gin a body kiss a body,
Need a body cry?'
whistling it so loud and clear that Nannie came to the fence and put
her head over it with a faint low of approval, while Clover-top thrust
his white nose through the bars, and looked at her inquiringly, as
Jerrie pulled up handfuls of fresh grass and fed them from her hands,
noticing that Nannie had lost her knot of ribbon, and wondering where it
was. Then she returned to the house, and was busying herself with
preparations for her grandmother's breakfast and her own, when the
latter appeared in the kitchen, surprised to find her there, and saying:
'Why, Jerrie, what made you get up till I called you? Why didn't you lie
and rest?'
'Lie and rest,' Jerrie answered laughingly. 'It is you who are to lie
and rest, and not a great overgrown girl like me. I have given Harold
his breakfast and seen him off. I cooked him half the steak,' she added
as she took out the remaining half and put it on the gridiron. 'I don't
care for steak,' she continued, as she saw Mrs. Crawford about to
protest. 'I would rather any time have bread and milk and strawberries.
I shall never tire of them;' and the big bowl full which she ate with a
keen relish, proved that she spoke the truth.
'Now, grandma,' she said, when breakfast was over. 'I am going to do the
work, washing and all. I must do something to work off my superfluous
health, and strength, and muscle. Look at that arm, will you?' and she
threw out her bare arm, which for whiteness and roundness and symmetry
of proportion, might have been coveted by the most fashionable lady in
the land. 'Go back to your rocking-chair and rest your dear, old lame
foot on your softest cushion, and see how soon I will have everything
done. It is just seven now, and by ten we shall be all slicked up, as
Ann Eliza Peterkin says.'
It was of no use to try to resist Jerrie. She would have her own way;
and so Mrs. Crawford, after skimming her milk and attending to the
cream, went to her rocking-chair and her cushion, and sat there quietly,
while Jerrie in the woodshed pounded and rubbed, and boiled and rinsed,
and wrung and starched and blued, and hung upon the line article after
article, until there remained only a few towels and aprons and stockings
and socks, and a pair of colored overalls which Harold had worn at his
work. As these last were rather soiled and had no them patches of
paint, Jerrie was attacking them with a will, when her grandmother
called out in great trepidation:
'Jerrie, Jerrie, do wipe your hands and come quick! Here's Tom Tracy
hitching his horse at the gate.'
Jerrie's first impulse was to do as her grandmother bade her, and her
second to stay where she was.
'If Tom chooses to call so early he must take me as he finds me,' she
thought, while to her grandmother she said: 'Nonsense! Who cares for Tom
Tracy? If he asks for me send him to the woodshed. I can't stop my
work.'
In a moment the elegant Tom, fresh from his perfumed bath, the odor of
which still lingered about him, and faultlessly attired in a cool summer
suit, was bending his tall figure in the door-way of the woodshed where
Jerrie, who was rubbing away on Harold's overalls, received him with a
nod and a smile, as she said:
'Good-morning, Tom. You are up early, and so was I. Business before
pleasure, you know; so I hope you will excuse me if I keep right on. I
have stinted myself to get through, mopping and all, by ten, and it is
now nine by Peterkin's bell. Pray be seated. How is Maude?'
She pointed to a wooden chair near the door, where Tom sat down, wholly
nonplussed, and not knowing at all what to say first.
Never before had he been received in this fashion, and it struck him
that there was something incongruous between himself, in his dainty
attire, with a cluster of beautiful roses in his hand, and that chair,
minus a back, in the woodshed, where the smell of the soapsuds would
have made him faint and sick if he had not been so near to the open
door.
Tom had not slept well the previous night. He had joined the fine
dinner-party his mother had given to the Hart's, and St. Claire's and
Atherton's, and had sat next to Fred Raymond's sister Marian, a very
pretty young girl with a good deal that was foreign in her style and in
her accent, for she had been in Europe nine years, and had only just
come home. Everything in her manner was perfect, from her low,
well-modulated voice, to her sweet, musical laugh, and Tom acknowledged
to himself that she was the most highly polished and cultivated girl he
had ever met; and still she tired him, and he was constantly
contrasting her with Jerrie, and thinking how much better he should
enjoy himself if she were there beside him, with her ready wit and
teasing remarks, which frequently amounted almost to ridicule. Jerrie
had been very gracious to him on the train, and had laughed and joked
with him quite as much as she had with Dick St. Clare.
'Perhaps she likes me better than I have supposed she did,' he thought.
'Anyway, I'd better be on hand, now she is at home and can see Harold
every day. He don't care a copper for Maude, or wouldn't if she didn't
run after him so much, and that will sicken him pretty soon, now that he
has Jerrie. By George, I believe I'd be as poor as he is, and paint for
a living, if I couldn't have Jerrie without it. But I think I can;
anyway, I am going to try. She cannot be insensible to the advantage it
would be to her to be my wife, and eventually the mistress of Tracy
Park. There is not a girl in the world who would not consider twice
before she threw such a chance away.'
Such was the nature of Tom's reflections all through the dinner, and to
him the tiresome talk which followed it and the short summer night
during which he was planning his mode of attack.
'I'll call in the morning and take her some roses; she likes flowers,'
he thought. 'I wonder what she did with those I gave her at Vassar? They
were not with her on the car, unless she hid them in the paper box she
carried so carefully. Yes, I guess they were there, and I shall see them
standing around some where.'
And this was the secret of Tom's early call. He had thought at first to
walk, but had changed his mind, and driven down to the cottage in his
light buggy, with the intention of asking Jerrie to drive with him along
the river road. But she did not look much like driving as she stood
there by the wash-tub in that working-dress, which he thought the most
charming of anything he had ever seen, notwithstanding his chagrin that
the future Mrs. Tom Tracy should ever come in contact with anything as
vulgar as soapsuds and pounding barrels. How beautiful she was in that
short dress, with her bare arms, the whitest he had ever seen, and how
pretty her feet looked in the red stockings and slippers, which he
would have sworn were threes instead of fours and a half.
'I was coming this way,' he said at last, 'and thought I'd stop and see
how you stood the journey, and I've brought you some roses.'
He held them toward her, and with a bright smile she came forward to
receive them.
'Oh, thank you, Tom,' she said, 'it was so kind in you. Roses are my
favorites after the white pond lilies, and these are very sweet.'
She buried her face in them two or three times, and then, putting them
in some water, resumed her position by the wash-tub.
'I'd like you to drive with me,' Tom said, 'but I see you are too busy.
Must you do that work, Jerrie? Can't somebody--can't your grandmother do
it for you?'
'Grandmother! That old lady do my washing! No, indeed!' Jerrie answered,
scornfully, as she made a dive into the boiler with the clothes-stick
and brought out a pair of Mrs. Crawford's long knit stockings, and
dropped them into the rinsing water with a splash.
'Grandma has worked enough,' she continued, as she plunged both her arms
into the water. 'Harold and I shall take care of her now. He was up this
morning at four o'clock, and has gone to Mr. Allen's, four miles away,
to paint a room for him like mine.'
She said this a little defiantly, for she felt hot and resentful that
Tom Tracy should be sitting there at his ease, while Harold was
literally working for his daily bread, and also took a kind of bitter
pride in letting Tom know that she was not ashamed of Harold's work.
'Yes,' Tom drawled, 'that new room must have cost Hal his bottom dollar.
We all wondered how he could afford it. I hope you like it.'
She was too angry to tell him whether she liked it or not, for she knew
the speech was a mean one and prompted by a mean spirit, and she kept on
rubbing a towel until there was danger of its being rubbed into shreds.
Then suddenly remembering that Tom had not told her of Maude, she
repeated her question. 'How is Maude? She was coming to see me this
morning I hope I shall be done before she gets here.'
'Don't hurry yourself for Maude,' Tom replied. 'She will not be here
to-day. I had nearly forgotten that she sent her love and wants you to
come there. She is sick in bed, or was when I left. She had a slight
hemorrhage last night. I think it was from her stomach, though, and so
does mother, but father is scared to death, as he always is if Maude has
a pain in her little finger.'
'Oh, Tom,' Jerrie said, recalling with a pang the thin face, the
blue-veined hands, the tired look of the young girl at the station. 'Oh,
Tom, why didn't you tell me before, so I could hurry and go to her;' and
leaning over her tub Jerrie began to cry, while Tom looked curiously at
her, wondering if she really cared so much for his sister.
'Don't cry, Jerrie,' he said, at last, very tenderly for him. 'Maude is
not so bad; the doctor has no fear. She is only tired with all she has
done lately. You know, perhaps, that she was here constantly with
Harold, and I believe she actually painted for him some, and for aught I
know helped shingle the roof, as Billy said.'
'Yes, I know; I understand,' Jerrie replied, 'I saw it in her face
yesterday. She has tired herself out for me, and if she dies I shall
hate the room forever.'
'But she will not die; that is nonsense,' Tom began when he was
interrupted by Mrs. Crawford, who called out:
'Oh, Jerry, here is Billy Peterkin, with his hands full. What shall I do
with him?'
Dashing away her tears, Jerry replied:
'Send him in here, of course.'
In a few moments the dapper little man was in the woodshed, with a large
bouquet of hot-house flowers in one hand and a basket of delicious
black-caps in the other. For a moment he stood staring first at Tom on
the wooden chair glaring savagely at him, and at Jerrie by the washtub
with the traces of tears on her face--then, with a wind of forced laugh,
he said:
'Be-beg pardon, if I in-tr-trude. Looks dusedly like l-love in a
t-t-tub.'
'And if it is, you have knocked the bottom out,' Tom said, with a sneer.
Both jokes were atrocious, but they made Jerrie laugh, which was
something. She was glad on the whole that Billy had come, and when he
offered her the berries and the flowers, she accepted them graciously,
and bade him sit down, if he could find a seat.
'Here is one on the wash bench,' she said, 'or, will be when I have
emptied the tub;' and she was about to take up the latter, when Billy
sprang to her assistance and emptied it himself, while Tom sat looking
on, chaffing with anger and disgust.
After a moment Billy stuttered out:
'Ann Eliza sent me here, and wants you to c-c-come and see her rooms.
G-g-got a suite, you know; and, by Jove, they are like a b-b-bazaar,
they are so f-full of things, and fl-flowers; half Vassar is there. Got
your basket of d-daisies, Tom, and when I asked her where she g-g-got
'em, she said it was n-n-none of my business. D-did she steal 'em?' and
he turned to Jerrie, whose face was scarlet, as she replied:
'No, I gave them to her, with a lot of others; I could not bring them
all and it was better to dispose of home flowers, as I can get them any
time.'
Tom could have beaten the air, he was so angry. He had been vain enough
to hope that his gift was carefully put away in some box or parcel; and
lo! it was in the possession of that red-haired Peterkin girl, whose
_penchant_ for himself he suspected, and whom he despised accordingly.
'Much obliged to you for giving away my flowers,' he was going to say,
when Mrs. Crawford called again, and this time in real distress.
'Jerrie, Jerrie! you _must_ come now, for here is Dick St. Claire.'
For an instant Jerrie hesitated, and then ashamed of the feeling which
had at first prompted her not to let Dick into the wood-shed, she
replied:
'If Tom and Billy can he admitted to my boudoir, Dick can. Send him in.'
'By George, this is jolly!' Dick said, as he bent his tall figure under
the low door-way, and seated himself upon the inverted washtub which
Billy had emptied. 'Have you all been washing?' 'No,' Jerrie answered,
proudly. 'I am the washerwoman, and all those clothes you saw on the
line are my handiwork.'
'By George!' Dick said again. 'You are a trump, Jerrie! Why didn't you
wear that dress when you were graduated? It's the prettiest costume I
ever saw.'
'Th-that's what I think, only I d-didn't d-dare t-tell her so!' Billy
cried, springing to his feet and hopping about like a little robin.
'How is Nina?' Jerrie asked, ignoring the compliment.
'Brisk as a bee,' Dick replied, 'and sends an invitation for you to come
over to a garden-tea to-night to meet Marian Raymond, Fred's sister.
Awful pretty girl, with an accent like a foreigner; was over there
several years, you know. I was going to the Park House to invite you and
Maude,' he continued, turning to Tom, 'but as you are here, it will save
me the walk. Half-past five sharp.'
Then as his eye fell upon Billy, in whose face there was a look of
expectancy, his countenance fell, for Nina had given him no instructions
to invite the Peterkins, and he felt intuitively that there was nothing
in common between Ann Eliza Peterkin and the refined and aristocratic
Marian Raymond, who had seen the best society in Europe, and in whose
veins some of Kentucky's bluest blood was flowing. But Dick was very
kind-hearted, and never knowingly wounded the feelings of any one if he
could help it; and, after an awkward moment, during which he was
wondering what Nina would do to him if he did it, he turned to Billy and
said, as naturally as if it were what he had been expressly bidden to
say:
'Why, I shan't have to walk over to Le Bateau either. I'm in luck this
hot morning, if you will take the invitation to your sister--for
half-past five.'
'Th-thanks,' Billy began; 'b-but am I left out?'
'Of course not. I'm an awful blunderer,' Dick said, adding, mentally,
'and liar, too, though I didn't say anybody would be happy to see them.
Poor Billy, he is well enough, and so is Ann Eliza, if she wouldn't pile
that red hair so high on the top of her head and wear so much jewelry.
Well, I am in for it, and Nina can't any more than kill me.'
By this time Jerrie was bustling about, putting away the washing
paraphernalia and sweeping the wood-shed, thus indicating that she had
no more time to lose with her three callers, two of whom Dick and Billy,
took the hint and left, but not until she had explained to the former
that it would be impossible for Harold to be present at the
garden-party, as she knew he would not be home until late, and would
then be quite too tired for company.
'I am sorry that he cannot join us. I counted upon him,' Dick said. 'But
you will come, of course, and I offer my services on the spot to see you
home. Do you accept them?'
Jerrie seemed to see, without looking, the disappointment in Billy's
face, and the wrath in Tom's; but as she greatly preferred Dick's
society to theirs in a walk from Grassy Spring to the cottage, she
accepted his offer, and then said, laughingly:
'Now, good-morning to you, and good riddance, too, for I am in an awful
hurry, I am going over to see Maude as soon as I can get myself ready.'
She had not thought that Tom would wait for her, and would greatly have
preferred to walk; but Tom was persistent, and moving his chair from the
wood-shed outside into the shade where it was cooler, he sat fanning
himself with his hat, and watching the long line of clothes, which
Jerrie had washed, flopping in the wind, with a feeling of mortified
pride, as if his own wife had washed them. He knew that his mother had
once been familiar with tubs, and wash-boards, and soap-suds, but that
was before his day. Twenty-seven years had washed all that out, and he
really felt that to be a Tracy and live at Tracy Park was an honor
scarcely less than to be President of the United States, and Jerrie, he
was sure, would see it as such when once the chance was offered her. She
could not be so blind to her own interest as to refuse him, Tom Tracy,
who was so much sought after by the belles of Saratoga and Newport,
where he had spent a part of two or three seasons. He had been best man
at the great ---- wedding in Springfield, and groomsman at another big
affair in Boston, and had scores of invitations everywhere. Taken
altogether, he was a most desirable _parti_, and he was rather surprised
himself at his infatuation for the girl whom he had found in the suds,
and who was not ashamed that he had thus seen her. This was while he was
watching the clothes on the line, scowling at three pairs of coarse,
vulgar stockings which he knew belonged to Mrs. Crawford, and the pair
of blue overalls which were Harold's.
'Yes, I do wonder at my interest in that nameless girl, whose mother was
a common peasant woman,' he thought; but when the nameless girl
appeared, fresh, and bright, and dainty, as if she had never seen a
wash-tub, with her hat on her arm, and two of his roses pinned on the
bosom of her blue muslin dress, he forgot the peasant woman, and the
lack of a name, and thought only of the lovely girl who signified that
she was ready.
It was very cool in the pine woods, where the heat of the summer morning
had not yet penetrated, and Tom, who was enjoying himself immensely,
suggested that they leave the park and take a short drive on the river
road. But Jerrie, who was not enjoying herself, said 'No!' very
decidedly. It would be hot there, and she was anxious to be with Maude
as soon as possible. So they drove on until they reached the grounds
which surrounded the house, and which Jerrie thought more beautiful than
she had ever seen them. The grass was like velvet, with masses of
flowers and shrubs, and urns, and bits of statuary here and there, while
over a little brook where Jerrie and Maude had often waded, and where
poor Jack had had a little water-wheel, a rustic bridge had been built,
with a pretty summer-house just beyond. Frank Tracy was a natural
gardener, and had lavished piles of money upon the grounds, in which he
often worked himself, and where he was busy now with a clump of roses
when Tom drove up with Jerrie.