The child’s eyes dwelt upon the pair admiringly as they waved their hands to her and rode away.  Little she knew how their hearts were beating.  Mrs. Evringham, watching from an upper window, suspected it.  She felt that this afternoon would end all suspense.

The child gave a wistful sigh as the horses disappeared, and jumping off the piazza, she wandered around the house toward the stable.  There had been no rules laid down to her since the night of Essex Maid’s attack, and Zeke was always a congenial companion.

As she neared the barn a young fellow left it, laughing.  She knew who he was,—­one of the young men Zeke had known in Boston.  He had several times of late come to call on his old chum, for he was out of work.

As he left the barn he saw the child and slouched off to one side, avoiding her; but she scarcely noticed him, congratulating herself that Zeke would be alone and ready, as usual, to crack jokes and stories.

The coachman was not in sight as she entered, but she knew she would find him in the harness room.  Its door stood ajar, and as the child approached she heard a strange sound, as of some one weeping suppressedly.  Sturdily resisting the sudden fear that swept to her heart, she pushed open the door.

There stood Mrs. Forbes, leaning against a wooden support, her forehead resting against her clasped hands in a hopeless posture, as she sobbed heavily.  The air was filled with an odor which had for Jewel sickening associations.  The only terror, the only tragedy, of her short life was wrapped about with this pungent smell.  She seemed again to hear her mother’s sobs, to feel once more that sensation of all things coming to ruin which descended upon her at the unprecedented sight and sound of her strong mother’s emotion.

All at once she perceived Zeke sitting on a low chair, his arms hanging across his knees and his head fallen.

The child turned very pale.  Her doll slid unnoticed to the floor, as she pressed her little hands to her eyes.

“Father, Mother, God,” she murmured in gasps.  “Thou art all power.  We are thy children.  Error has no power over us.  Help us to waken from this lie.”

Running up to the housekeeper, she clasped her arms about her convulsed form.  “Dear Mrs. Forbes,” she said, her soft voice trembling at first but growing firm, “I know this claim, but it can be healed.  It seems very terrible, but it’s nothing.  We know it, we must know it.”

The woman lifted her head and looked down with swollen eyes upon the child.  She saw her go unhesitatingly across to Zeke and kneel beside him.

“Don’t be discouraged, Zeke,” she said lovingly.  “I know how it seems, but my father had it and he was healed.  You will be healed.”

The coachman lifted his rumpled head and stared at her with bloodshot eyes.

“Great fuss ’bout nothing,” he said sullenly.  “Mother always fussing.”