"Jewel will invite you pretty soon, I think," said Mr. Evringham. "I hope so, for one of my feet is turned in and she is standing on it, but I wouldn't have her get off until she is entirely ready."
He could feel the child swallowing hard, and though she moved her little feet, she could not lift her face.
"Grandpa," she began, in an unsteady, muffled tone, "I didn't tease you too much about the old boat, did I?"
"No,—no, child!"
"Shall you—shall you like this one, too?"
"Well, I should rather think so. I have to give all my shoes to the poor as it is. I've nothing left fit to put on but my riding-boots. How shall we go over to the beach this time, Jewel, row or sail? Your mother is waiting for you to ask her to get in."
Slowly the big bows behind the child's ears came down into their normal position. She kissed her grandfather fervently and then turned her flushed face and eyes toward her mother.
"Come in, so you can see the boat's name," she said, and her smile shone out like sunshine from an April sky.
"Give me your hand, then, dearie. You know I'm a poor city girl and haven't a very good balance."
The name was duly examined, and Mrs. Evringham's "oh's" of wonder and admiration were long-drawn.