Then, there is a blur, a darkness, with many people and a crying--two voices--the dark woman's and mine; then, a river, or the sea, or both, and noisy streets, and a storm, and cold; and _you_ taking me into the sunshine.' As she talked she had unconsciously laid her hand on Harold's knee, and he had taken it in his, and was holding it fast, when she startled him with the question: 'Do you--did you--ever think--did anybody ever think it possible, that the woman found dead in here, was not my mother ?' 'Not your mother!' Harold exclaimed, dropping her hand in his surprise.
'Not your mother! What do you mean ?' 'No disrespect to her,' Jerrie replied--'the good, brave woman, who gave her life for me, and whose dear hands caressed and shielded me from the cold as long as there was power in them to do it.

I love and reverence her memory as if she had been my mother; but Harold, do I look at all as she did?
You saw her--here, and at the park house.

Think--am I like her--in any thing ?' 'No,' Harold answered.

'You are like her in nothing; but you may resemble your father.' 'Ye-es,' Jerrie said, slowly, 'I may.

Oh, Harold, the spell is on me now so strong that I can almost remember.