Frank was there, and his wife, and Peterkin, and Jerry imitated the voices of them all, and when someone bade her kiss her mother she stooped and kissed Arthur's forehead, and said: 'Good-bye, mamma,' then throwing a thin tidy over his face, she continued, 'Now, I am going to shut the coffin,' and as she worked at the corners, as if driving down the screws, Arthur felt as if he were actually being shut out from life, and light, and the world.
To one of his superstitious tendencies the whole was terribly real, and when at last she told him he was buried, and the folks had come back, and he could get up, the sweat was standing upon his face and hands in great drops, and he felt that he had in very truth been present at the obsequies of some one, whose death had made an impression so strong upon Jerry's mind that time had not erased it.

There was in his heart no thought of Gretchen, as there had been in Frank's when he was a spectator at the play.

He had no cause for suspicion, and thought only of the child whose restlessness and activity were something appalling to him.
'Now, what shall we play next ?' she asked, as he sat white and trembling in his chair.
'Oh, nothing, nothing,' he groaned, 'I cannot stand any more now.' 'Well, then, you sit still, and I'll clean house; it needs it badly.
Such mud as that boy brings in I never saw, and I'm so lame, too!' Jerry responded, and Arthur recognized Mrs.Crawford, whose tidiness and cleanliness were proverbial, and for the next half hour he watched the little actress as she limped around the room exactly as Mrs.Crawford limped with her rheumatism, sweeping, dusting, and scolding a little, both to Harold and Jerry, the latter of whom once retorted: 'I would not be so cross as that if I had forty rheumatisses in my laigs, would you, Harold ?' But Harold only answered, softly: 'Hush, Jerry I you should not speak so to grandmamma, and she so good to us both, when we haven't any mother.' Arthur would have laughed, so perfect was the imitation of voice and gesture, but at the mention of Harold's mother there came into his mind a vision of sweet Amy Crawford, who had been his first love, and for whose son he had really done so little.
'Jerry,' he said, 'I guess you have cleaned house long enough.

Wash your hands and come to me.' She obeyed him, and looking into his face, said: 'Now, what?
can you play cat's cradle or casino ?' 'No; I want to talk to you of Harold.

You love him very much ?' 'Oh, a hundred bushels--him and grandma, too.' 'And he is very kind to you ?' 'Yes, I guess he is.