‘A funny name for a cow,’ Harold had said, and she had replied: 

’Yes, but it keeps repeating itself in my brain.  I have known a Nannie sometime, sure, and may as well perpetuate the name in my bossy as anywhere.’

Nannie was in a little enclosure by the side of the lane, and at Harold’s call she came at once to the fence, over which she put her face for the caress she was sure to get, while Clover-top kicked up her heels and acted as if she, too, understood and were glad Jerrie had come.

‘Oh, it is so pleasant everywhere, and I am so glad to be home again,’ Jerrie said, as her eyes went rapidly from one thing to another, until at last they fell upon the raised roof shining to new and yellow in the sunlight.

CHAPTER XXXI.

AT HOME.

Oh, Harold, what is that?  What have you been doing?’ Jerrie cried, stopping short, while a suspicion of the truth began to dawn upon her.

‘That is the roof Tom told you I was shingling,’ Harold replied; and taking her by the arm, he hurried her into the cottage where Mrs. Crawford stood at the door, in her broad white apron and the neat muslin cap which Maude has fashioned for her.

With a cry of joy, Jerrie took the old lady in her arms, and kissed and cried over her.

‘It is so nice to be home, and everything is so pleasant!’ she said, as her eyes swept the sitting-room and kitchen, and back porch where the tea-table was laid, with its luscious berries and pitchers of cream.  ’Go right up stairs with Harold.  I have just come down, and cannot go up again,’ Mrs. Crawford said, excitedly; and, with a bound, Jerry was up the stairs and into the lovely room.

When she saw them coming in the lane, Mrs. Crawford had gone up and opened the shutters, letting in a flood of light, so that nothing should escape Jerrie’s notice.  And she saw it all at a glance—­the high walls, the carpet, the furniture, the curtains, and the flowers—­and knew why Harold did not come to Vassar.

He was standing in the bay-window, watching her, and the light fell full upon his shabby clothes, which Jerrie noticed for the first time, knowing exactly why he must wear them, and understanding perfectly all the self-denials and sacrifices he had made for her, who had been angry because he did not come to see her graduated.  Had she been three years younger, she would have thrown herself into his arms and died there.  Harold half thought and hoped she was going to do so now, for she made a rush toward him, then stopped suddenly, and sinking into the willow chair—­Maude’s gift—­began to sob aloud, while Harold stood looking at her, wishing she had not cried, and wondering what he ought to do.

‘Don’t you like it, Jerrie?’ he said at last.

‘Like it?’ and in the blue eyes so full of tears which she flashed upon him, he read her answer.  ’Like it!  Oh, Harold, it is perfect!  I never saw a room I liked better.  But why did you do it?  Was it because of that foolish speech of mine about knocking my brains out, the ceiling was so low?’