Frank could not tell Jerry of his wife’s bitter prejudice against her, and that this was the reason why Maude had never been to the cottage or Jerry to the park.  But if Jerry had not visited it in person, she was greatly interested in the handsome house and grounds, and the lovely rooms where the crazy man lived.  This was Harold’s designation of Mr. Arthur—­the crazy man—­and perhaps of all the things at Tracy Park, Jerry was most desirous to see him and his rooms.  Harold, who, on one of the rare occasions when Arthur was out to dine, had been sent to the house on an errand, had gone with Jack into these rooms, which he described minutely to his grandmother and Jerry, dwelling longest upon the beautiful picture in the window.  ‘Gretchen, he calls it,’ he said; and then Jerry, who was listening intently, gave a sudden upward and sidewise turn to her Lead, just as she had done when Mr. Tracy spoke to her of Wiesbaden.

‘Detchen,’ she repeated, with a little hesitancy.  ’Vat the name vas?  Say again.’

He said it again, and over the child’s face there came a puzzled expression, as if she were trying to recall something which baffled all her efforts.  But she did not forget the name, and that evening Mrs. Crawford heard her singing to herself,

‘Detchen, Detchen, who are you?  Detchen, Detchen, where are you?’ and she noticed that the doll baby with which Jerry played the most was ever after called ‘Detchen,’ instead of Maude, as it had been christened when first given to her.

Jerry had seen Maude Tracy many times and had admired her greatly, with her pretty white dresses and costly embroideries; and once, at church, when Maude passed near where she was standing, she stood back as far as possible out of the way and held her plain gingham dress aside, as if neither it nor herself had any right to come in close contact with so superior a being.  Of the house in the park she knew nothing, except what Harold had told her, and that it was a place to be admired and gazed at breathlessly at a respectful distance.  She had never been there since the day of the funeral But she was going at last with Harold, who had permission to gather cherries for his grandmother from some of the many trees which grew upon the place.

It was a hot morning in July, and the air seemed thunderous and heavy when she set off on what to her was as important an expedition as is a trip to Europe to an older person.  She had wanted to wear her pink gingham dress, the one kept sacred for Sunday, and had even hoped that she might be allowed to display her best straw hat with the blue ribbons and cluster of apple blossoms.  She had no doubt that she should go into the house and see the crazy man, and Mrs. Tracy, who she had heard wore silk stockings every day, and she wished to be suitably attired for such honor.

But Mrs. Crawford dispelled her air castles by telling her that she was only to go into the side yard where the cherry trees were, and that she must be very quiet, so as not to disturb Mr. Arthur, whose windows looked that way.  To wear her pink dress was impossible, as she would get it stained with the juice of the cherries, while the best hat was not for a moment to be thought of.