Maude was very calm, though her lips quivered a little and the tears filled her eyes as she put her hand caressingly upon Jerrie’s golden hair.  A great change had come over Maude since the night when she heard Jerrie’s strange story—­a change for the better some might have thought, although the physician who attended her gave no hope.  She neither coughed nor suffered pain, and could talk all she liked, although often in a whisper, she was so very weak.  ‘Yes, Jerrie,’ she said, ’I know you love me, and it makes me very glad, and dying seems easier for it; for, Jerrie, oh, Jerrie! once before I knew about you, and when I feared I might die, I wrote something on paper for father to see when I was dead, and it was that he should take you in my place, you and Harold.’

Maude’s voice shook a little here, but she soon steadied it and went on: 

’I wanted him to give you what I thought would be mine had I lived, and what all the time was yours.  Oh, Jerrie, how can you help hating me, who have stood so long where you ought to have stood, and enjoyed what you ought to have enjoyed?’

‘Maude,’ Jerrie cried, as she kissed the little wan face, ’don’t talk like that; as if I, or any one, could ever have hated you.  Why, I worshiped you as some little empress when I used to see you in your bright sashes and yellow kid boots, with the amber beads around your neck; and if the contrast between your finery and my high-necked gingham apron and white sun-bonnet sometimes struck me painfully, I had no wish to take the boots and sashes from you, whom they fitted so admirably; and as we grew older and you did not shrink from or slight Jerrie Crawford, I cannot tell you how great was the love which grew in my heart for you, the dearest girl friend I ever had, and a thousand times dearer now that I know you are my cousin.’

Maude was silent for a moment, and then she asked abruptly: 

‘Jerrie, why did you never fall in love with Harold?’

‘Oh, Maude!’ and Jerrie started as if Maude had struck her, while the tell-tale blood rushed to her face, and into her eyes there came a look which even Maude could not understand.

‘Jerrie,’ she exclaimed, ’forgive me.  I didn’t know, I never guessed, I was go stupid; but I have been thinking so much since Harold went away.  Does he know about you? who you are? and how long before he will come home?’

‘Judge St. Claire wrote him everything three days ago,’ Jerrie replied, ’and told him how sick you were.  That will surely bring him at once, if it is possible for him to leave; but it will he three or four days now before the letter will reach him, and take a week for him to come.  Would you like to see him very much?’

‘Yes,’ Maude answered with a sob, ’very much, but I never shall.  Jerrie, did Harold ever—­did he—­does he—­love you?’

‘He never told me so,’ Jerrie answered, frankly; ’but I have thought that he loved you’