“Yes,” eagerly. “Would you like to see her?” Jewel gave a fleeting glance at Mrs. Forbes. “She always comes to the table with me at home,” she added.
“Sit still,” murmured Mrs. Forbes in low, sepulchral warning.
“Now then, Jewel,” said Mr. Evringham as he began to serve the filet, “you didn't take the doctor's medicine. What do you think made that high fever go away?”
The little girl looked up brightly. “Oh, I telegraphed to Mrs. Lewis, one of mother's friends in Chicago, to treat me.”
“The dev—What do you mean, child?”
Mr. Evringham gazed at her, and his tone was so fierce, although he was only very much amazed, that Jewel's smile faded. The corners of her lips drew down pitifully, and suddenly she slipped from her chair, and running to him threw her arms around his neck and buried her averted face, revealing two forlorn little flaxen pigtails devoid of ribbons.
“What's this, Jewel?” he said quickly, fearfully embarrassed before his wondering audience. “This is very irregular, very irregular.” He dropped his fork perforce, and his hand closed over the little arm across his cravat.
Jewel was trying to control a sob that struggled to escape, and saying over and over, as nearly as he could understand, something about God being Love.
“Go right back to your chair now, like a good girl.”
“Do you—love me?” whispered Jewel.