She was still looking at Mrs. Tracy, on whom all eyes were now resting as the precious stones flashed, and glittered, and shone in the sunlight in the hall in all the colors of the rainbow.

For an instant the proud woman hesitated, then, quickly unclasping the ear-rings and the pin, she laid them in Jerrie’s lap.

‘You are welcome to your property, if it is yours, I am sure,’ she said, and was about to leave the room.

But her husband kept her back.

‘No, Dolly,’ he said.  ’You must stay, and hear, and know.  It concerns us all.’

As he had closed the door and stood against it she had no alternative except to stay, but she walked to the window and stood with her back to them all, while Marian put into English and read, in a clear, distinct voice, and without the least hesitation, that message from the dead.

CHAPTER XLVI.

THE LETTERS.

There were four of them—­two in Arthur’s handwriting:  one directed to Mrs. Arthur Tracy, Wiesbaden, postmarked Liverpool; one to Margaret Heinrich, Wiesbaden, postmarked Shannondale; one in a strange handwriting to Arthur Tracy, if living; and one to Arthur Tracy’s friends if he were dead, or incapable of understanding it.  And it was this last which Marian read; for as Arthur was living, she felt that with his letters strangers had nothing to do.  The letter to the friends, which had evidently been written at intervals, as the writer’s strength would permit, was as follows: 

    ’WIESBADEN, December ——­, 18—­,

    ’To the friends of Mr. Arthur Tracy, if he is dead, or incapable of
    understanding this letter, from his wife, who was Marguerite
    Heinrich, and whom he always called Gretchen.

’I want to tell you about it for the sake of my little Jerrie, whom, if her father is dead, I give to your care, praying God to deal with you as you are good and just to her.  I was seventeen when I first saw Mr. Tracy.  My father was dead.  I was an only child, and my mother kept a little fancy shop in Wiesbaden.  I went to school and learned what other girls like me learned—­to read and write, and knit and sew, and fear God and keep His commandments.  People called me pretty.  I don’t know that I was, but he told me so when he came to me one day as I was knitting under a tree in the park.  He had a picture made of me as I was then, and it is on the wall, but I have pawned it for the rent, as I have almost everything.’

‘Oh, Jerrie!’ Marian exclaimed at this point.

But Jerrie’s face was buried in Maude’s pillow and she made no response.  So Marian read on: