Dear mother, what do I care how black she was, and coarse.

She was mine, and gave her life for me.' This was when Jerrie was a child, and now that she was older she was seeking to put away this woman with the dark face and the coarse hands, and substitute in her place a fairer, sweeter face, with hands like wax and features like a Madonna.

But only for a few moments, and then the wild dream vanished, and the sad, pale face, the low voice, the music, the trees, the flowers, the sick-room, the death-bed, the woman who died, and the woman who served, all went out together into the darkness, and she was Jerrie Crawford again, wearing her commencement dress to please the man still pacing the floor abstractedly, and paying no heed to her when she went out to change her dress for the blue muslin she bud worn through the day.
When she returned to the parlor she found him seated at the tea-table, which had been laid during her absence.

Taking her seat opposite to him, she made his tea, and buttered his toast, and chatted, and laughed until she succeeded in bringing back a quiet expression to the face which bore no likeness now to her own, but looked pale and haggard as it always did after any excitement.

He was talking of the commencement exercises, and regretting that he could not be present.
'I may not be home,' he said.