'I am so glad for Jerrie,' he said, without a thought that her relations to himself would in any way be changed.
Once, when she had told him of the fancies which haunted her so often, he had put them from him with a fear that, were they true, Jerrie would be lost to him forever.

But he had no such misgivings now; and when Jerrie's letter came, urging his return, both for her own sake and Maude's, he wrote a few hurried lines to her, telling her how glad he was for her, and of his intention to start for the East as soon as possible.

'To-morrow, perhaps,' he wrote, 'in which case I may be there before this letter reaches you, for the mails are sometimes slow, and the judge's communication was overdue three or four days.' Starting the second day after his letter, Harold travelled day and night, while something seemed beckoning him on--Maude's thin, white face, and Jerrie's, too; and when, between St.Paul and Chicago, there came a detention from a freight car off the track, he felt that he must fly, so sure was he that he was wanted and anxiously looked for at Tracy Park, where at that very time Maude was dying.

The next afternoon he left Chicago, and with no further accident reached Shannondale just as the long procession was winding its way to the cemetery.
He had heard from an acquaintance in Springfield that Maude was dead, and of her request that he should be one of the pall-bearers, together with Dick, and Fred, and Billy.

'And I will do it yet,' he said, with a throb of pain, as he thought of the little girl who had died believing that he loved her.