ARTHUR had passed a restless night. Thoughts of Gretchen had troubled him and two or three times he had started up to listen, thinking that he heard her calling to him from a distance. He had dreamed also of the blue hood seen that day of the funeral, and of the child who had come knocking at his door whom he had refused to admit. He had never seen her since, and had never mentioned her of his own accord.
Even Mrs. Crawford seemed to have passed completely from his mind. He never went to the cottage, or near it. He never went anywhere, in fact, but lived the life of a recluse, growing thinner, and paler, and more reticent every day, talking now but seldom of Gretchen, though he never arose in the morning or retired at night without kissing her picture and whispering to it some words of tenderness in German.
He had measured the length of his three rooms and dressing-room, and found it to be nearly one hundred feet, so that by passing back and forth twenty-five times he would walk almost a mile.
Regularly each morning, when it was not too cold or stormy, he would throw open his windows and take his daily exercise, which was but a poor substitute for what he might have had in the fresh air outside, but was nevertheless much better than nothing.
On this particular morning, when Harold and Jerry were at the park, he was taking his walk as usual, though very slowly, for he felt weak and sick, and, so inexpressibly lonely and desolate that it seemed to him he would gladly lie down and die.
"If I knew Gretchen was dead, nothing would seem so desirable to me as the grave," he was saying to himself, when the sound of voices outside attracted his attention, and going to the window, he saw the children, Harold in the top of the tree, and Jerry at the foot, with her white sun-bonnet shading her face.
Recognizing Harold, he guessed who the little girl was, and a strange feeling of interest stirred in his heart for her, as he said:
"Poor little waif! I wonder where she came from, or what will become of her?"
Then, resuming his walk, he forgot all about the little waif, until startled by a voice which rang, clear and bell-like, through the rooms:
"Mr. Crazyman! Mr. Crazyman! don't you want some cherries?"