"Wide awake," was the older man's mental comment. "Doesn't seem at all the sort of person to be fooled about that healing business. Good eye.

Good manner. Perhaps this was Ballard's handicap all the time. I guess you're in for it, Madge."

Nat moved to greet Mrs. Evringham, who gave him no welcoming smile. She leaned back listlessly, not caring what effect she produced. He seemed to her a part of the combination entered into by the Fates to thwart and annoy.

Bonnell knew her nearly as well as Eloise did. "I'm sorry you're under the weather," he said sympathetically, when he had discovered that, in his own phrase, there was "nothing doing." "I received a letter from my mother to-day, in which she impressed upon me that she expected you both by the middle of June."

"My plans have changed since yesterday, Nat," returned Mrs. Evringham dismally. "Yes. We shall not be able to go to your mother's, as I had hoped. Some time during the season I shall try to look in on her of course. You tell her so, Nat, when you write."

"Nonsense, nonsense, Mrs. Evringham. You don't in the least mean it," he returned cheerfully, with the smile and manner which she could not and would not endure.

"I do mean it, Nat. I tell you my plans are changed. Eloise and I may go to Europe."

Naturally she had never thought of Europe until that moment, but that laughing, caressing light in Nat Bonnell's eyes was insufferable.

"Ah, in that case, of course," he returned, "we couldn't say a word,"

and then he moved to go.

Mr. Evringham urged the visitor to stay to dinner, but he declined and once more shook hands.

"Good-by, Jewel," he said to the child. "Sunday, you know."

"Yes indeed, I know," she returned, an irresistible tendency to hop moving her feet. On nearer acquaintance she had found Mr. Bonnell exhilarating.

"Good-by, Nat," said Eloise.

He looked into the face on which rested a cloud. "I think you might be a degree more attentive," he suggested.

"How?"

"Oh--take me to the gate, for instance."

Eloise smiled and went with him. He turned with a slight bow that included the group, and they strolled down the path.

"It's all up, Madge," remarked Mr. Evringham, half smiling. "No use wriggling, no use staying away from the mother. Might as well yield gracefully. I think Ballard might have been told, that's all."

"There was nothing to tell, father! How can you be so unkind? That's just Nat's manner. He is used to everybody liking him, and always having his own way; but Eloise never--she _never_"--the speaker saw that if she continued, in a moment more she would be weeping, and she certainly was not going to weep in this company. So she contented herself by glaring toward the gate, where could be seen two figures in earnest conversation.

"I had counted so much on Mrs. Bonnell's influence," Eloise was saying.

"What does mother mean? She knows my mind is made up as to Christian Science. What is she afraid of?"

Bonnell caught his thumbs in his coat pockets and lifted himself slightly on his toes. "She is afraid of me."

"Of you?" The girl lifted surprised eyes to his and let them fall again, her grave face coloring.

"She has always been more or less afraid of me. I'm ineligible, you know."

"Yes, you are, awfully, Nat," returned Eloise earnestly. "That's what makes you so nice. Didn't we always have a good time together?"

"Yes, on those rare occasions when we had a chance, but Mrs. Evringham always suspected me. She never felt certain that I wasn't waiting for your skirts to be lengthened and your hair to go up in order to steal you."

Eloise tried to look at him, but found it more comfortable to examine the inexpressive gravel path. "But now you have something to think of besides girls," she said gently.

"Yes. Do you know, Eloise, if I had been promised the granting of one wish as I took the cars for Bel-Air, it would have been that I might find you convinced of the truth of Christian Science."

She looked at him now brightly, gladly. "It is such a help to me to know that you are in it," she returned. Their hands simultaneously went forth and clasped. "What shall we do about mother?"

He smiled. "That will all come right," he returned confidently.

"There are cla.s.ses, Nat," she said. "Have you been through one?"

"Not yet. Perhaps we could enter together."

"Do you think so?" she returned eagerly.

He was looking down at her still--calm, strong.

She started. "I mustn't be late to dinner. Good-by. Sunday, Nat."

"Not to-morrow? I want some golf."

"Yes, go. It's a fine links. I'm sorry, but I'd better not go there for the present. Good-by."

She was gone, so he strolled on and out through the park, and as he went he put two and two together, and suspected the cause of the girl's objection to golf.

CHAPTER XXVI

ON WEDNESDAY EVENING

"This is my silk dress, grandpa," said Jewel, coming out on the piazza Sunday morning.

Mr. Evringham was sitting there reading the paper. He looked up to behold his granddaughter standing expectantly.

She had on the cherished frock. Her plump black legs ended in new shoes, the brim of her large hat was wreathed with daisies, snowy ribbons finished her well-brushed braids, while, happiest touch of all, Little Faithful was ticking away on her breast.

"Well, who is this bonnie la.s.sie?" asked Mr. Evringham, viewing her.

"It's my best one," said Jewel, smilingly, coming close to him.

"I should hope so. If you were anything grander I should have to put on smoked gla.s.ses to look at you. Church, eh?" He took the brown pamphlet she carried and examined it.

"Yes. I wish you were coming."

"Oh, I have an important engagement at the golf club this morning."

"Have you? Well, grandpa, I was thinking you can't play golf or ride at night, and wouldn't you take me Wednesday evening?"

"Where to?"