“Nonsense, nonsense, my dear girl,” brusquely, “put it out of your head at once.  There is no need for you to do anything after this but bring up your child and keep your husband’s shirt buttons in place.”

“I won’t neglect either,” replied Julia quietly; “but Mr. Reeves says there is great need of practitioners in Bel-Air.  You know where the reading-room is?  There is a little room leading out of it that I could have.”

“For an office, do you mean?  Nonsense,” exclaimed Mr. Evringham again.  “Harry wouldn’t think of allowing it.”

Julia smiled.  “Will you if he does?”

“What shall I say to her, Jewel?” The broker looked down into the serious face.

“I suppose mother ought to do it,” replied the child.  “Of course every one who knows how and has time wants to.  You can see that, grandpa, because isn’t your rheumatism better?”

“Yes.  I like our resident physician very much; but we need her ourselves.  I don’t think I shall ever give my consent to such a thing.”

“Oh, yes, you will, grandpa, if it’s right.”  The flaxen head on his breast wagged wisely.  “Some morning you’ll come downstairs and say:  ’Julia, I think you can go and get that office whenever you like.’”

Mrs. Evringham pressed her handkerchief to her lips.  The couple in the armchair were so absorbed in one another that they did not observe her, and the broker’s face showed such surprise.

“Upon my word!” he exclaimed, after a minute.  “Upon my word!”

“Are you all through talking about that?” asked Jewel, after a pause.

“I am, certainly,” replied Mr. Evringham.

“And I,” added his daughter.  She was content that the seed was planted, and preferred not to press the subject.

“Well, then,” continued Jewel, “I was wondering, grandpa, if the cracks in that boat couldn’t be stuffed up a little more so I wouldn’t have to bail, and then I could learn how to row.”

“Ho, these little hands row!” returned Mr. Evringham scoffingly.

“Why, I could, grandpa.  I just know I could.  It was fun to bail at first, but I’m getting a little tired of it now, and I love to be on the pond—­oh, almost as much as on Star!”

Mr. Evringham’s eyes shone with an unusually pleased expression.  “Is it possible!” he returned.  “It’s a water-baby we have here, a regular water-baby!”

“Yes, grandpa, when I know how to swim and row and sail—­yes,” chuckling at the expression of exaggerated surprise which her listener assumed, “and sail, too, I’ll be so happy!”

“Oh, come now, an eight-year-old baby!”

“I’ll be nine in five weeks, nine years old.”

“Well,” Mr. Evringham sighed, “that’s better than nineteen.”

“Why, grandpa,” earnestly, “you forget; perhaps you’ll like me when I’m grown up.”

“It’s possible,” returned the broker.

How the sun shone the next morning!  The foam on the great rollers that still stormed the beach showed from the farmhouse windows in ever-changing, spreading masses of white.  Essex Maid and Star, after a day of ennui, were more than ready for a scamper between the rolling fields where already the goldenrod hinted that summer was passing.