Something in his look made the child shudder.  Resisting the sudden repugnance to one who had always shown her kindness, she impulsively took his big hand in both her little ones.  “Zeke, what is error saying to you?” she demanded.  “You can’t look at me without love.  I love you because God does.  He is lifting us out of this error belief.”

The young fellow returned the clasp of the soft hands and winked his eyes like one who is waking.  “Mother makes great fuss,” he grumbled.  “Scott was here.  We had two or three little friendly drinks.  Ma had to come in and blubber.”

“What friendly drinks?  What do you mean?” demanded Jewel, looking all about her.  Her eyes fell upon a large black bottle.  She dropped the coachman’s hand and picked it up.  She smelled of it, her eyes dilated, and she began to tremble again; and throwing the whiskey from her, she buried her face for a moment against Zeke’s shirt sleeve.

“Is it in a bottle!” she exclaimed at last, in a hushed voice, drawing back and regarding the coachman with such a white and horrified countenance that it frightened the clouds from his brain.  “Is that terrible claim in a bottle, and do people drink it out?” she asked slowly, and in an awestruck tone.

“It’s no harm,” began Zeke.

“No harm when your mother is crying, when your face is full of error, and your eyes were hating?  No harm when my mother cried, and all our gladness was gone?  Would you go and drink a claim like that out of a bottle—­of your own accord?”

Zeke wriggled under the blue eyes and the unnatural rigidity of the child’s face.

“No, Jewel, he wouldn’t,” groaned Mrs. Forbes suddenly.  “Zeke’s a good boy, but he’s inherited that.  His father died of it.  It’s a disease, child.  I thought my boy would escape, but he hasn’t!  It’s the end!” cried the wretched woman.  “What will Mr. Evringham say!  To think how I blamed Fanshaw!  Zeke’ll lose his place and go downhill, and I shall die of shame and despair.”  Her sobs again shook her from head to foot.

Jewel continued to look at Zeke.  A new, eager expression stole over her face. “Is it the end?” she asked.  “Don’t you believe in God?”

“I suppose so,” answered the coachman sullenly.  “I know I’m a man, too.  I can control myself.”

“No.  Nobody can.  Even Jesus said, ‘Of myself I can do nothing.’  Only God can help you.  If you can drink that nasty smelling stuff, and get all red and rumply and sorry, then you need God the worst of anybody in Bel-Air.  You look better now.  It’s just like a dream, the way you lifted up your face to me when I came in, and it was a dream.  I’ll help you, Zeke.  I’ll show you how to find help.”  The child suddenly leaned toward the young fellow, and then retreated.  “I can’t stand your breath!” she exclaimed, “and I like to get close to the people I love.”

This seemed to touch Zeke.  He blushed hotly.  “It’s a darned shame, kid,” he returned sheepishly.