His words sent a thrill through both Harold and Jerrie, who walked on in silence until they reached the four pines, where Jerrie halted suddenly and said:
'Let us sit down, Harold. I have a message from Maude, which I promised to deliver the first time we were alone together after you came home.'
Jerrie's voice trembled a little, and after they were seated she was silent until Harold said to her:
'You were going to tell me of Maude;' then she started and replied:
'Yes; she wanted so much to see you and tell you herself. I don't know what she meant, but she said she had made a mistake, and I must tell you so, and that you would understand it. She had been thinking and thinking, she said, and knew it was a stupid blunder of hers; that was what she called it—a stupid blunder; and she was sorry for you that she had made it, and bade me say so, and tell you no one knew but herself and you. Dear little Maude! I wish she had not died.'
Jerrie was crying now, and perhaps that was the reason she did not mind when Harold put his arm around her and drew her closer to him, so close that his brown hair touched her golden curls, for the night was warm and she had brought her bonnet in her hand all the way, while he had taken off his hat when they sat down under the pines, which moaned and sighed above them for a moment, and then grew still, as if listening for what Harold would say.
'Yea,' he began slowly, 'I think I know what Maude meant by the mistake. Did she say I must tell you what it was?'
'She said you would tell me, but perhaps you'd better not,' Jerrie replied,
'Yes, I must tell you,' he continued, 'as a preliminary to what I have to say to you afterward, and what I did not mean to say quite so soon; but this decides me,' and Harold drew Jerrie a little closer to him as he went on: 'Did you ever think that I loved poor little Maude?'
'Yes, I have thought so,' was Jerrie's answer.