Can't you let Gretchen alone ?' Arthur said, petulantly, and springing up he began to pace the room in a state of great excitement, while Jerrie sat motionless, with a white, stony look on her face and a far off look in her eyes, as if she were seeing in a vision things she could not retain, they passed to rapidly before her, and were so hazy and indistinct.
The likeness she had seen in the glass was gone now.

She was not like Arthur at all; it was madness in her to have thought so.

And she was not like Gretchen either.

Her mother was lying under the little pine tree which she and Harold had planted above the lonely grave.

Her mother had been dark, and coarse, and bony, and a peasant woman--so Ann Eliza Peterkin, who had heard it from her father, had told her once, when angry with her, and Harold, when sorely pressed, had admitted as much to her.
'Dark, with large, hard hands,' he had said; and Jerrie with the great tears shining in her eyes, had answered, indignantly: 'But hard and black as they were, they always touched _me_ gently and tenderly, and sometimes I believe I can remember just how lovingly and carefully they wrapped the old cloak around me to keep me warm.