JEWEL.
Mr. Evringham had scarcely finished reading this epistle when Jewel's head slipped on the polished woodwork against which she was leaning and bumped against the side of the chair with a jar which awoke her.
Seeing her grandfather standing near she smiled drowsily. “I fell asleep, didn't I?” she said, and rubbed her eyes; then noting the sheet of paper in Mr. Evringham's hand, memory returned to her. She sat up with a start.
“Oh, grandpa, you haven't read my letter!” she exclaimed, with an accent of dismay which brought the blood to the broker's face. He felt a culprit before the shocked blue eyes.
“To—to see if it was spelled right, you know,” he said. “You had me do it before.”
“Yes, I wanted you to then,” returned the child; “but it is error to read people's letters unless they ask you to, isn't it?”
“Yes, it's confoundedly bad form, Jewel. I beg your pardon. You didn't mean me to see those sweet things you said about me, eh?”
“That was no matter. It was cousin Eloise's secret. She trusted me.” The child's eyes filled with tears.
The broker cleared his throat. “No harm done, I'm sure. No harm done,” he returned brusquely, to cover his discomfiture. For the first time he made an advance toward his granddaughter. “Come here a minute, Jewel.” He took her hand and led her to his chair, and seating himself, lifted her into his lap. The corners of her lips were drawing down involuntarily, and as her head fell against his broad shoulder, he took out his handkerchief and dried her eyes. “I hope you'll forgive me,” he said. “After this I will always wait for your permission. Now what is this about cousin Eloise?”
Jewel shook her head, not trusting herself to speak.