Two or three times his brother had spoken of her in a casual way, telling him once that she was with Mrs.Crawford.Arthur had then asked how she could afford to keep her, and Frank had made no reply.

But the second time when he spoke of Jerry, and Arthur, more interested in Mrs.Crawford than in her, had asked the same question, Frank had said: 'She cannot afford it, I pay her three dollars a week.' For a moment Arthur looked inquiringly at him; then he said: 'You are a good fellow after all, even if you did deceive me about sending John for Gretchen.

Tell Colvin, when Christmas comes, to give Mrs.Crawford a hundred dollars for me.' After this Mrs.Crawford and her affairs passed completely out of Arthur's 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 murmuring to it some words of tenderness in German.
He had measured the length of his three rooms and dressing-room, and found them to be nearly one hundred feet, or six rods do 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 might be 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, oh, so inexpressibly lonely and desolate that it seemed to him he would gladly lie down and die.
'If I thought Gretchen were dead, nothing would seem so desirable to me as the grave, for then there would be nothing to live for,' 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 ?' It was not so much the words as something in the tone, the foreign accent, the ring like a voice he never could forget, and which the previous night had called to him in his dreams.