‘Yes, often,’ Harold said.

‘Just so it is with me,’ she continued, ’I try to keep the fancies which come and go so fast, and which always have reference to the past and some far off country—­Germany, I think.  Harold, I must have been older when you found me than you supposed I was.’

‘Possibly,’ Harold replied.  ’You were so small that we thought you almost a baby, although you had an old head on your shoulders from the first, and could you have spoken our language I believe you might have told us where you were and where you came from.’

‘Perhaps,’ Jerry said.  ’I don’t know; only this, as I grow older, the things way back come to me, and the others fade away.  The dark woman; my mother,’—­she spoke the name very low—­’is not half as real to me as the pale, sick face, on which the firelight shines.  It is a small house, and a low room, a poor room, I think, with a big, white stove in the corner, and somebody is putting wood in it; a dark woman; she stoops; and from the open door the firelight falls upon the face in the chair—­the woman who is always writing when she is not in bed; and I am there, a little child; and when the pale face cries, I cry, too; and when she dies—­oh, Harold! but you saw me play it once, and wondered where I got the idea.  I saw it.  I know I did; I was there, a part of the play.  I was the little child.  Then, there is a blur, a darkness, with many people and a crying—­two voices—­the dark woman’s and mine; then, a river, or the sea, or both, and noisy streets, and a storm, and cold; and you taking me into the sunshine.’

As she talked she had unconsciously laid her hand on Harold’s knee, and he had taken it in his, and was holding it fast, when she startled him with the question: 

’Do you—­did you—­ever think—­did anybody ever think it possible, that the woman found dead in here, was not my mother?’

‘Not your mother!’ Harold exclaimed, dropping her hand in his surprise.  ‘Not your mother!  What do you mean?’

‘No disrespect to her,’ Jerrie replied—­’the good, brave woman, who gave her life for me, and whose dear hands caressed and shielded me from the cold as long as there was power in them to do it.  I love and reverence her memory as if she had been my mother; but Harold, do I look at all as she did?  You saw her—­here, and at the park house.  Think—­am I like her—­in any thing?’

‘No,’ Harold answered.  ’You are like her in nothing; but you may resemble your father.’

‘Ye-es,’ Jerrie said, slowly, ’I may.  Oh, Harold, the spell is on me now so strong that I can almost remember.  Tell me again about that night, and the morning; what they did at the park house—­Mr. Arthur, I mean.  He was expecting somebody; Nina told me a little once, but not much.  Do you know?  Was it Gretchen he expected?’

She had grasped his hand again, and was looking into his face as if his answer would be life or death to her.  And Harold who had no idea what was in her mind, and who had never thought that the dark woman was not her mother, looked at her wonderingly, as he replied: