"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 headquarters at the Palace Hotel in San Francisco.
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: