I don't know what she meant, but she said she had made a mistake, and I must tell you so, and that you would understand it.

She had been thinking and thinking, she said, and knew it was a stupid blunder of hers; that was what she called it--a stupid blunder; and she was sorry for you that she had made it, and bade me say so, and tell you no one knew but herself and you.

Dear little Maude! I wish she had not died.' Jerrie was crying now, and perhaps that was the reason she did not mind when Harold put his arm around her and drew her closer to him, so close that his brown hair touched her golden curls, for the night was warm and she had brought her bonnet in her hand all the way, while he had taken off his hat when they sat down under the pines, which moaned and sighed above them for a moment, and then grew still, as if listening for what Harold would say.
'Yea,' he began slowly, 'I think I know what Maude meant by the mistake.
Did she say I must tell you what it was ?' 'She said you would tell me, but perhaps you'd better not,' Jerrie replied, 'Yes, I must tell you,' he continued, 'as a preliminary to what I have to say to you afterward, and what I did not mean to say quite so soon; but this decides me,' and Harold drew Jerrie a little closer to him as he went on: 'Did you ever think that I loved poor little Maude ?' 'Yes, I have thought so,' was Jerrie's answer.
'She thought so, too,' Harold continued, 'and it was all my fault; my blunder, not hers.

I loved her as I would a sister; as I did you in the olden days, Jerrie.

She was so sweet and good, and so interested in you and all I wanted to do for you, that I regarded her as a very dear friend, nothing more.