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.
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