Then Tom went to Maude, who, since the shock of the night before, had lain as if she were dead, except for her eyes, in which there was a new and wondrous light, and which looked up lovingly at Tom as he came in and kissed her, a most unusual thing for him to do.

‘Dear Tom,’ she whispered, ‘come closer to me,’ and as he bent down to her, she continued, ‘is every thing Jerrie’s?’

‘Yes, or will be.  She is Uncle Arthur’s daughter.’

‘Shall we be very poor?’

‘Yes, poor as a church mouse.’

Then there was a pause, and when Maude spoke again she said slowly: 

’For me, no matter—­sorry for you, and father and mother; but glad for Jerrie.  Stand by her, Tom; tell mother not to be so bitter—­it hurts me.  Tell Harold, when he comes, I meant to do so much for him, but Jerrie will do it instead.  Tell her I must see her, and send for Uncle Arthur.’

There was a lump in Tom’s throat as he left his sister’s room, and going to the village, telegraphed to his uncle’s head-quarters at the Palace Hotel, San Francisco, that he was to come at once.

At least a hundred people stopped him on his way to the office, asking if what they had heard was true, and to all he replied: 

‘True as the gospel; we are floored, as Peterkin would say.’

And then he hurried to the cottage to see Jerrie, and tell her of the message sent to Arthur, though not how it was worded After a moment he continued, hesitatingly, as if half ashamed of it: 

’I called at Lubbertoo last night to enquire after Ann Eliza’s foot, and you ought to have seen Peterkin when I told him the news.  At first he could not find any word in his vocabulary big enough to swear by, but after a little one came to him, and what do you think it was?’

Jerrie could not guess, and Tom continued.

He said, “by the great Peterkin!” and then he swowed, and vowed, and snummed, and vummed, and dummed, and finally said he was glad of it, and had always known you were a Tracy.  Ann Eliza was so glad she cried, and I think Billy cried, too, for he left the room suddenly, with very suspicious-looking eyes.  Why, everybody is glad for you, Jerrie, and nobody seems to think how mean it is for us; but I’m not going to whine.  I’m glad it’s you, and so is Maude, and she wants to see you.  I believe she’s going to die, and—­and—­Jerrie—­’

Something choked Tom for a moment, then he went on: 

’If Uncle Arthur should get high, and order us out at once, as father seems to think he will, you’ll—­you’ll—­let us stay while Maude lives, won’t you?’

‘Tom,’ Jerrie said, reproachfully, ’What do you take me for, and why does your father think his brother will order him out?’

‘I don’t know,’ Tom replied, ’but he seems awfully afraid to meet him.  Mother says he was up all night walking the floor and talking to himself, and yet he says he is glad, and he is coming this morning to see you and talk it over.  I believe I hear him now speaking to Mrs. Crawford.  Yes, ’tis he; so I guess I’ll go; and when I hear from my telegram I’ll let you know.  Good-bye.’