The more she saw of Mr. Evringham's absorbed attachment to the child, the more grateful she was for the manner in which he had guarded Jewel's simplicity, the self-restraint with which he had abstained from loading her with knickknacks or fine clothes. The child was not merely a pet with him. She was an individual, a character whose development he respected.
"God keep her good!" prayed the mother.
It was a charming place to continue the story, there in the large chintz chair by Mrs. Evringham's window. The raindrops pattered against the clear glass, the lawn grew greener, and the great trees beyond the gateway held their leaves up to the bath.
"Anna Belle's pond will overflow, I think," said Jewel, looking out the window musingly.
"And how good for the ferns," remarked her mother.
"Yes, I'd like to be there, now," said the child.
"Oh, I think it's much cosier here. I love to hear the rain, too, don't you?"
"Yes, I do, and we'll have the story now, won't we, mother?"
At this moment there was a knock at the door and Zeke appeared with an armful of birch wood.
"Mr. Evringham said it might be a little damp up here and I was to lay a fire."