“H’m.  You are musical, I know, for Jewel has the voice of a lark.  Do you play the piano?”

Julia looked wistfully at the Steinway grand.  “Ah, if I only could!” she returned.

Mr. Evringham cleared his throat.  “Madam,” he said, lowering his voice, “that child has a most amazing talent.”

“Jewel’s voice, do you mean?”

“She’ll sing, I’m sure of it,” he replied, “but I mean for music in general.  Eloise is an accomplished pianist.  She has one piece that Jewel especially enjoyed, the old Spring Song of Mendelssohn.  Probably you know it.”

Julia shook her head.  “I doubt it.  I’ve heard very little good piano playing.”

“Well, madam, that child has picked out the melody of that piece by herself,” the broker lowered his voice to still deeper impressiveness.  “As soon as we return in the autumn, we will have her begin lessons.”

Julia’s eyes met his gratefully.

“A very remarkable talent.  I am positive of it,” he went on.  “Jewel,” for here the child entered the room, “play the Spring Song for your mother, will you?”

“Now?  Zeke is out there, grandpa.”

“Dick can stretch his legs a bit faster this morning.  Play it.”

So Jewel set Anna Belle on a brocaded chair and going to the piano, played the melody of the Spring Song.  She could perform only a few measures, but there were no false notes in the little chromatic passages, and her grandfather’s eyes sought Julia’s in grave triumph.

“A very marvelous gift,” he managed to say to her again under his breath, as Jewel at last ran ahead of him out to the porte cochere.

Julia’s eyes grew dreamy as she watched the brougham drive off.  How different was to be the future of her little girl from anything she had planned in her rosiest moments of hopefulness.

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.