ve a slight smile. "If everything that isn't love is hate, I
suppose I ought to," she returned.

"Yes, indeed," agreed Jewel; "and he has been so kind to you I don't see
how you can help it."

The girl sighed. "Don't grow up, Jewel," she said. "It makes lots of
trouble."

On the second one of her visits to the child's room she put her hand
on the flaxen head. "I'd like to fix your hair," she said. "Mrs. Forbes
doesn't part it nicely."

"I do it myself," returned Jewel; "but I'd be glad to have you."

So Eloise washed the thick flaxen locks and dried them. Then she parted
and brushed the hair, and when it was finally tied, Jewel regarded the
reflection of her smooth head with satisfaction.

"It looks just the way mother makes it," she said. "I'm going to write
to mother and father to-night, and I'm going to tell them how kind you
are to me."

That evening, in Mr. Evringham's library, Jewel wrote the letter.

Her grandfather, after making some extremely uncomplimentary comments
upon the weather, had lowered his green-shaded electric light and
established himself beneath it with his book.

He looked across at the child, who was situated as before at the table,
her crossed feet, in their spring-heeled shoes, dangling beneath.

"May I smoke, Jewel?" he asked, as he took a cigar from the case. He
asked the question humorously, but the reply was serious.

"Oh yes, grandpa, of course; this is your room; but you know nobody
likes tobacco naturally except a worm."

Mr. Evringham's deep-set eyes widened. "Is it possible? Well, we're all
worms."

Jewel smiled fondly at him, her head a little on one side, in its
characteristic attitude.

"You're such a joker," she returned.

"If you really dislike smoke," said the broker after a minute, "perhaps
you'd better take your letter up to your room."

"I don't mind it," she returned. "Father used to smoke. It's only a
little while since it gave him up."

"You mean since he gave it up."

"No. When people study Christian Science, the error habits that they
have just go away."

"Indeed? I'm glad you warned me." Mr. Evringham blew a delicate ring of
smoke toward the table, but Jewel had begun to think of her parents, and
her pencil was moving. Her grandfather noted the trim appearance of the
bowed head.

"I don't know but I was cut out for a man milliner after all," he mused
complacently. "Those bows have really a very chic appearance."

His book interested him, and