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Updated: May 15, 2025
"Would you want to kill him the man that hurt me?" But his eyes were on the water and not on her face; his countenance became ashy, he gasped and hurried his handkerchief to his lips. Jeroma was not afraid of the bright spots that he sought to conceal by crumpling the handkerchief in his hand, she had known a long time that when her father was excited those red spots came on his handkerchief.
Jeroma had played upon the beach every day last winter, growing ruddy and strong, but the air had revived him only for a little time, he soon sank back into weakness and apathy. He had dismissed her with a kiss awhile ago, and had seemed to suffer instead of respond to her caresses. "Papa gets tired of loving me," she had said to Nurse last night with a quivering of the lip.
He laid his hand upon her head as if she were indeed the little child, and for a long time no words were spoken. "Prudence, there is something else, there is the photograph of the little girl her mother named her Jeroma." "I will take that," she said, lifting her head, "and I will write to her to-night."
"I like you, Cousin Marjorie," the child said. "Of course you do, and I love you. Are you Prue, or Jeroma?" "I'm Prue," she replied with dignity. "Don't you ever call me Jeroma again, ever; papa said so." Marjorie laughed and kissed her again. "I never, never will," she promised. "Aunt Prue says 'Prue' every time."
In the time of which little Jeroma had heard, there had been a fire on the hearth in the front parlor, but to-night, when that old time was among the legends, the fire glowed in a large grate; in the back parlor the heat came up through the register.
And now they had Prue to love and to live for. She would never allow even a shadow of jealousy of poor little Prue again. Poor little Prue, with such a heritage of shame. How vehemently and innocently she had declared that she would not be called Jeroma. The wind blew sharply against her; she stepped back and closed the door; she was shivering while her cheeks were blazing.
Two letters were trembling in his hand, two open letters, and one of them was in several fluttering sheets; this handwriting was a lady's, Jeroma recognized that, although she could not read even her own name in script. "O, papa, those are the letters that made you sick! I'll throw them away to the lions," she cried, trying to snatch them. But he kept them in his fingers and tried to speak.
Marjorie will not be ashamed of me now." "I'd never be ashamed of you," said Marjorie, warmly. "Papa said I must not say my name was 'Jeroma, shall I write it Prue Holmes, Aunt Prue?" "Prue J. Holmes! How would that do?" But Miss Prudence spoke nervously and did not look at the child. Would she ever have to tell the child her father's story? Would going out among the children hasten that day?
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