‘N—­no,’ Maude answered, piteously, with the great tears in her eyes.  ’It is all a mistake, and when I am dead and Harold comes, promise to tell him something from me, will you?’

‘Yes,’ Jerrie answered, and Maude continued: 

’Tell him the very first time you and he are alone together, and speak of me, that I have been thinking and thinking until it came to me clear as day that it was all a mistake, a stupid blunder on my part.  I was always stupid, you know; but I believe my brain is a little clearer now.  Will you tell him, Jerrie?’

‘Mistake about what?’ Jerrie asked with a vague apprehension that the task imposed upon her might not be a pleasant one if she know all it involved.

‘Harold will tell you what,’ Maude answered ’He will understand what I mean, and you must tell him, for I shall not be here when he comes, I am sure of it.  I hope to live till Uncle Arthur comes, for I must see him and ask him not to be hard on poor father, and tell him that I am sorry that I have been so long in your place where you should have been.  You will stay here when he comes, and be with me to the last.  I want you with me—­want you to hold my hand when I say good-bye for ever.  You are so strong that I shall not be afraid with you to see and hear as long as I hear and see anything.’

‘And are you afraid?’ Jerrie asked, and Maude replied: 

’Of the death struggle, yes; but not what lies beyond where He is, the Saviour, for I know I am going to Heaven; and when you think me asleep I am often praying silently for more faith and love, and for you all, that you may one day come where I soon shall be.  Heaven is very, very beautiful, for I have seen it in my dreams—­a material heaven some would say, for there are trees and flowers, and grass; and on a golden bench, beneath a tree whose leaves are like emeralds, and whose blossoms are like pearls, I am sitting, on the bank of a shining river, resting, resting, and waiting, as little Pilgrim waited for the coming of the Master, and for you all.’

Maude was very tired now, and her voice was so low that Jerrie could scarcely hear it, while the eyelids drooped heavily, and in a few moments she fell asleep, with a rapt look on her as if she were already resting on the golden seat beneath the tree whose leaves were emeralds and whose blossoms were like pearls.

That night Jerrie wrote as follows: 

’Dear Harold, come home as soon as you can, for Maude is very low, and, unless you come soon, you will never see her again.  The judge has written you of me, but I must tell you myself that nothing can ever change me from the Jerrie of old; and the fact which makes me the happiest is that now I can help you who have been so kind to me.  How I long to see you and talk it all over.  We expect Mr. Arthur in a few days.  I cannot call him father yet, until he has given me the right to do so by calling me daughter first; but to myself I am calling Gretchen mother