“I wish I could be, cousin Eloise; I meant to be, but error crept in.” The girl was learning something of the new phraseology, and she smiled at Jewel in the glass and was surprised to find what troubled eyes met hers. “I went to sleep that night waiting for grandpa to be through with his book, and when I waked up he had read my letter.”
Eloise's smile faded. “Tell me again what you said in it,” she returned.
Jewel's lips quivered. “I said how kind you were, and washed my hair, and asked me not to tell grandpa—”
“You put that in?” Eloise interrupted eagerly.
The child took courage from her changed tone. “Yes; I said you didn't want him to know you were kind to me.”
The girl smiled slightly and went on with her brushing.
“He wished he hadn't read it when he saw how sorry I was. He asked my pardon and said he had done bad form. I don't know what that is.”
“It's the worst thing that can happen to some people,” returned Eloise. “Good form is said to be the New York conscience.”
“Oh,” responded Jewel, not understanding, but too relieved and grateful that her cousin was not unforgiving to press the matter.
Eloise fell into thought. Mr. Evringham had certainly been more genial at table, conversation had been more general and sustained last evening than ever before the advent of Jewel, and he had not sneered, either. Eloise searched her memory for some word or look that might have given hurt to her self-esteem, but she could find none.