It was coarse, and plain, and old-fashioned, and she felt intuitively that a servant had worn it and not she whose pale, refined face seemed almost to touch hers as she knelt beside the box.

The cloak and shawl, in which she had been wrapped, were inspected next, and on these Jerrie's tears fell like rain, while there was in her heart an indefinable feeling of pity for the woman who had resolutely put away the covering from herself to save a life which was no part of her own.
'Oh, Mah-nee,' she sobbed, laying her face upon the rough, coarse garments, 'I am not disloyal to you in trying to believe that you were not my mother, and could you come back to me, Mah-nee, whoever you are, I'd be to you so loving and true.

Tell me, Mah-nee, who I am; give me some sign that what comes to me so often of that far-off land is true.
There _was_ another face than yours, which kissed me fondly, and other hands, dead now, as are the dear old hands which shielded me from the cold that awful night, have caressed me lovingly.' But to this appeal there came no response, and Jerrie would have been frightened if there had.

The shawl, the cloak, the dress were as silent and motionless as she to whom they had belonged; and Jerrie folded them reverently, kissing each one as she did so; then she took out the carpet-bag, which had once held her tiny body.

She always laughed when she looked at this and tried to imagine herself in it, and she did so now as she held it up and said: 'I could not much more than get my two feet in you now, old bag; but you did me good service once, and I respect you, although I have outgrown you.' Her own clothes came next--the little dresses, which showed a mother's love and care; the handkerchief, marked 'J;' the aprons, and the picture book with which she had played, and from which it seemed to her she had learned the alphabet, standing by that cushioned chair before the tall white stove.