The next morning it rained so heavily that Mr. Evringham was obliged to forego his ride. Wet weather was an unmixed ill to him. It not only made riding and golf miserable, but it reminded him that rheumatism was getting a grip on one of his shoulders.

“It is disgusting, perfectly disgusting to grow old,” he muttered as he descended the broad staircase. On the lower landing Jewel rose up out of the dusk, where she had been sitting near the beautiful clock. Her bright little face shone up at him like a sunbeam.

“You didn't expect to see me, grandpa, did you?” she asked, and as it did not even occur to him to stoop his head to her, she seized his hand and kissed it as they went on down the stairs.

“I was so disappointed because it rained so hard. I was going to see you ride.”

“Yes. Beastly weather,” assented Mr. Evringham.

“But the flowers and trees want a drink, don't they?”

“'M. I suppose so.”

“And the brook will be prettier than ever.”

“'M. See that you keep out of it.”

“Yes, I will, grandpa; and I thought the first thing this morning, I'll wear my rubbers all day. I was so afraid I might forget I put them right on to make sure.”

They had reached the hall, and Jewel exhibited her feet encased in the roomy storm rubbers.

“Great Scott, child!” ejaculated Mr. Evringham, viewing the shiny overshoes. “What size are your feet?”

“I don't know,” returned the little girl, “but I only have to scuff some, and then they'll stay on. Mrs. Forbes said I'd grow to them.”

“So you will, I should think, if you're going to wear them in the house as well as out.” It was against Mr. Evringham's principles to smile before breakfast, at all events at any one except Essex Maid; but the large, shiny overshoes that looked like overgrown beetles, and Jewel's optimistic determination to make him happy, even offset his painful arm.

“The house doesn't leak anywhere,” he said. “I think it will be safe for you to take them off until after breakfast.”

Jewel lifted her shoulders and looked up at him with the glance he knew.

“Unless we're going out to the stable,” she said suggestively.

He hesitated a moment. “Very well,” he returned. “Let us go to the stable.”

“But first we must tie the ribbons,” she said with a joyous chuckle. She would have skipped but for the rubbers. As it was, she proceeded circumspectly to the library, drawing the broker by the hand. “I want you to see, grandpa, if you don't think I made my parting real straight this morning,” she said as she softly closed the door.

“Gently on my arm, Jewel,” he remonstrated, wincing as she returned, flinging her energetic little body against him. “I have the rheumatism like the devil—pardon me.”

She looked at him suddenly, wondering and wistful. “Oh, have you?” she returned sympathetically. “But it is only like the devil, grandpa,” she added hopefully, “and you know there isn't any devil.”

“I can't discuss theology before breakfast,” he returned briefly.

“Dear grandpa, you shan't have a single pain!” She held her head back and looked at him lovingly.

“Very likely not, when I've begun playing the harp. Now where are those con—those ribbons?”

Jewel's eyes and lips grew suddenly serious and doubtful, and he observed the change.

“Yes, your hair ribbons, you know,” he added hastily and with an attempt at geniality.

“Not if you don't like to, grandpa.”

“I love to,” he protested. “I've been looking forward to it all the morning. I thought 'never mind if I can't go riding, I can tie Jewel's hair ribbons.'”

The child laughed a little, even though her companion did not. “Oh grandpa, you're such a joker,” she said; “just like father.”

But he saw that she doubted his mood, and the toe of one of the overshoes was boring into the carpet as she stood where she had withdrawn from him.

“Let us see if you parted your hair better,” he said in a different and gentler tone, and instantly the flaxen head was bent before him, and Jewel felt in her pocket for the ribbons. He had not the heart to say what he thought; namely, that her parting looked as though a saw had been substituted for a comb.

“Very well, very well,” he said kindly.

When the ribbons were at last tied, the two proceeded to the dining-room. Here an open fire of logs furnished the cheerful light that was lacking outside. The morning paper hung over the back of a chair, warming before the blaze.

Mrs. Forbes entered from the butler's pantry and looked surprised. “I didn't expect you down for half an hour yet, sir. Shall I hurry breakfast?”

“No; I'm going to take Jewel to the stable.” Mr. Evringham stopped and took a few lumps of sugar from the bowl.

“Julia, where are your rubbers?” asked the housekeeper.

“On,” said the child, lifting her foot.

“I only hope they'll stay there,” remarked her grandfather. “I think, Mrs. Forbes, you must buy shoes as I've heard that Chinamen do,—the largest they can get for the money.”

He disappeared with his happy little companion, and the housekeeper looked after them disapprovingly.

“They're both going out bareheaded,” she mused. “I'd like to bet—I would bet anything that she asked him to take her. He never even stopped to look at the paper. He's just putty in her hands, that's what he is, putty; and she's been here three days.”

Mr. Evringham's apprehensions proved to have foundation. Halfway to the barn Jewel stepped in a bit of sticky mud and left one rubber. Her companion did not stop to let her get it, but picking her up under his well arm, strode on to the barn, where they appeared to the astonished Zeke.

Jewel was laughing in high glee. She was used to being caught up in a strong arm and run with.

Mr. Evringham shook the drops from his head. “Get Jewel's rubber please, Zeke,” he said, pointing with his thumb over his shoulder.

“I was Cinderella,” cried the child gayly. “That's my glass slipper out there in the mud.”

Zeke would have liked to joke with her, but that was an impossibility in the august presence. He cast a curious glance at the little girl as he left the barn. He had received his mother's version of yesterday's experience. “Well, it looks to me as if there was something those Christian Science folks know that the rest of us don't,” he soliloquized. “I saw her with my own eyes, and felt her with my own hands. Mother says children get up from anything twice as quick as grown folks, but I don't know.”

“Don't you love a stable, grandpa?” exclaimed Jewel. “Oh, I'm too happy to scuff,” and she kicked off the other rubber. Even while she spoke Essex Maid looked around and whinnied at sight of her master.

“She knows you, she knows you,” cried the little girl joyously, hopping up and down.

“Of course,” said Mr. Evringham, holding out his hand to the delighted child and leading her into the stall. The mare rubbed her nose against him. “We couldn't get out this morning, eh, girl?” said the broker, caressing her neck, while Jewel smoothed the bright coat as high as she could reach. Her grandfather lifted her in his arms. “Here, my maid, here's a new friend for you. In my pocket, Jewel.”

The child took out the lumps of sugar one by one, and Essex Maid ate them from the little hand, touching it gently with her velvet lips. Zeke came in and whistled softly as he glanced at the group in the stall.

“Whew,” he mused. “He's letting her feed the Maid. I guess she can put her shoes in his trunk all right.”

Mr. Evringham set Jewel on the mare's back and she smoothed the bright mane and patted the beautiful creature.

“I'd like to gallop off now over the whole country,” she said, her face glowing.

“I shouldn't be surprised either if you could do it bareback,” returned Mr. Evringham; “but you must never come into either of the stalls without me. You understand, do you?”

“Yes, grandpa. I'm glad you told me though, because I guess I should have.” The child gave a quick, unconscious sigh.

“Well we'd better go in now.”

“How kind you are to me,” said the child gratefully, as she slid off the horse's back with her arms around her grandfather's neck.

He had forgotten his rheumatic shoulder for the time.

“You can bring those rubbers in later,” he said to Zeke, and so carried Jewel out of the barn, through the rain, and into the house.

Mrs. Forbes watched the entrance. “Breakfast is served, sir,” she said with dignity. She thought her employer should have worn a hat.

Jewel was not offered eggs this morning. Instead she had, after her fruit and oatmeal, a slice of ham and a baked potato.

Her roses were fresh this morning and opening in the warmth of the fire, but Mr. Evringham's eyes were caught by a mass of American Beauties which stood in an alcove close to the window.

“Where did those come from?” he demanded.

“They belong to Miss Eloise,” replied Mrs. Forbes. “She asked me to take care of them for her.”

“Humph! Ballard again, I suppose,” remarked the broker.

“I hope so,” responded Mrs. Forbes devoutly.

Mr. Evringham had spoken to himself, and he glanced up from his paper, surprised by the prompt fervor of the reply. The housekeeper looked non-committal, but her meaning dawned upon him, and he smiled slightly as he returned to the news of the day.

“Dr. Ballard must love Cousin Eloise very much,” said Jewel, mashing her potato. “He sent her a splendid box of candy, too.”

She addressed her remark to Mrs. Forbes, and in a low tone, in order not to disturb her grandfather's reading.

“Any girl can get candy and flowers and love, if she's only pretty enough,” returned Mrs. Forbes; “but she mustn't forget to be pretty.”

The speaker's tone appealed to Jewel as signifying a grievance. She looked up.

“Why, somebody married you, Mrs. Forbes,” she said kindly.

Mr. Evringham's paper hid a face which suddenly contorted, but the housekeeper's quick-glancing eyes could not see a telltale motion.

She gave a hard little laugh. “You think there's hope for you then, do you?” she returned.

“I guess I'm not going to be married,” replied Jewel. “Father says I'm going to be his bachelor maid when I grow up.”

“Shouldn't wonder if you were,” said Mrs. Forbes dryly.

The owner of the American Beauties and the beribboned bonbon box was taking her coffee as usual in bed. This luxurious habit had never been hers until she came to Bel-Air; but it was her mother's custom, and rather than undergo a tete-a-tete breakfast with her host, she had adopted it.

Now she had made her toilet deliberately. There was nothing to hurry for. Her mother's voice came in detached sentences and questions from the next room.

“Dear me, this rain is too trying, Eloise! Didn't you have some engagement with Dr. Ballard to-day?”

“He thought he could get off for some golf this afternoon.”

“What a disappointment for the dear fellow,” feelingly. “He has so little time to himself!”

Eloise gave a most unsympathetic laugh. “More than he wishes he had, I fancy,” she returned.

She came finally in her white negligee into her mother's room. Mrs. Evringham was still in bed. Her eyeglasses were on and she regarded her daughter critically as she came in sight. She had begun to look upon her as mistress of the fine old Ballard place on Mountain Avenue, and the setting was very much to her mind. The girl sauntered over to the window, and taking a low seat, leaned her head against the woodwork, embowered in the lace curtains.

“How it does come down!” said Mrs. Evringham fretfully. “And I lack just a little of that lace braid, or I could finish your yoke. I suppose Forbes would think it was a dreadful thing if I asked her to let Zeke get it for me.”

“Don't ask anything,” returned Eloise.

“When you are in your own home!” sighed Mrs. Evringham.

“Don't, mother. It's indecent!”

“If you would only reassure me, my child, so I wouldn't have to undergo such moments of anxiety as I do.”

“Oh, you have no mercy!” exclaimed the girl; and when she used that tone her mother usually became tearful. She did now.

“You act as if you weren't a perfect treasure, Eloise—as if I didn't consider you a treasure for a prince of the realm!”

A knock at the door heralded Sarah's arrival for the tray, and Mrs. Evringham hastily wiped her eyes.

“Yes, you can take the things,” she said as the maid approached. “I can't tip you as I should, Sarah. I'm going to get you something pretty the next time I go to New York.”

Sarah had heard this before.

“And if you know of any one going to the village this morning, I want a piece of lace braid. Have you heard how Miss Julia is?”

“She was down at breakfast, ma'am, and Mr. Evringham had her out to the stable to see Essex Maid.”

“He did? In the rain? How very imprudent!”

After Sarah had departed with her burden, Mrs. Evringham took off her eyeglasses.

“There, Eloise, you heard that? It's just as I thought. He is taking a fancy to her.”

The girl smiled without turning her head. “Oh no, that wasn't your prophecy, mother. You said she was too plain to have a chance with our fastidious host.”

“Well, didn't she look forlorn last night at the dinner table?” demanded Mrs. Evringham, a challenge in her voice.

“Indeed she did, the poor baby. She looked exactly as if she had two female relatives in the house, neither of whom would lift a finger to help her, even though she was just off a sick bed. The same relatives don't know this minute how or where she spent the evening.”

“I felt very glad she was content somewhere away from the drawing-room,” returned Mrs. Evringham practically. “You know we expected Dr. Ballard up to the moment the roses arrived, and from all I gathered at the dinner table, it would have been awkward enough for him to walk in upon that child. Besides, I don't see why you use that tone with me. It has been your own choice to let her paddle her own canoe, and you've had an object lesson now that I hope you won't forget. You wouldn't believe me when I begged you to exert yourself for your grandfather, and now you see even that plain little thing could get on with him just because she dared take him by storm. She has about everything in her disfavor. The child of a common working woman, with no beauty, and a little crank of a Christian Scientist into the bargain, and yet now see! He took her out to the stable to see Essex Maid! I never knew you contradictory and disagreeable until lately, Eloise. You even act like a stick with Dr. Ballard just to be perverse.” Mrs. Evringham flounced over in bed, with her back to the white negligee.

Eloise had seen what she had been watching for. Her grandfather had driven away to the station, so she arose and came over to the foot of the bed.

“I know I'm irritable, mother,” she said repentantly. “The idleness and uselessness of my life have grated on me until I know I'm not fit to live with. If I had had any of the training of a society girl, I could bear it better; but papa kept my head full of school,—for which I bless him,—and now that the dream of college is hopeless, and that the only profession you wish for me is marriage, I dread to wake up in the mornings.”

The young voice was unsteady.

Mrs. Evringham heaved a long sigh. “Give me patience!” she murmured, then added mentally, “It can't be many days, and she won't refuse him.”

“Go down to the piano and play yourself good-natured,” she returned. “Then come up and we'll go on with that charming story. It quite refreshed me to read of that coming-out ball. It was so like my own.”

Eloise, her lips set in a sad curve, rose and left the room. Once in the hall, she paused for a minute. Then instead of descending the stairs, she ran noiselessly up the next flight. The rain was pelting steadily on the dome of golden glass through which light fell to the halls. She stole, as she had done yesterday, to the door of Jewel's room.

Again as yesterday she heard a voice, but this time it was singing. The tones were very sweet, surprisingly strong and firm to proceed from lips which always spoke so gently. The door was not quite closed, and Eloise pressed her ear to the crack. Thus she could easily hear the words of Jewel's song:—

The hymn stopped for a minute, and the child appeared to be conversing with some one.

Eloise waited, openly, eagerly listening, hoping the singer would resume. Something in those unexpected words in the sweet child voice stirred her. Presently Jewel sang on:—

The lump that rose in the listener's throat forced a moisture into her eyes.

“I never could hear a child sing without crying,” she said to herself in excuse, as she leaned her forehead on her hand against the jamb of the door and waited for the strange stir at her heart to quiet.

The house was still. The rain swept against the panes, and tears stole from under the girl's long lashes—tears for her empty, vapid life, for the hopelessness of the future, for the humiliations of the present, for the lack of a love that should be without self-interest.

“I like that verse, Anna Belle,” said the voice within. “Let's sing that again,” and the hymn welled forth:—

“Is there a haven?” thought the swelling, listening heart outside. “Is there a place far alike from tired joy and grief?”

“'Father, where Thine own children are,'” quoted Jewel. “We know where a lot of them are, don't we, Anna Belle, and we do love to be with them.” A pause, and a light sigh, which did not reach the listener. “But we're at grandpa's now,” finished the child's voice.

Eloise's breaths came long and deep drawn, and she stood motionless, her eyes hidden.