So Eloise washed the thick flaxen locks and dried them. Then she parted and brushed the hair, and when it was finally tied, Jewel regarded the reflection of her smooth head with satisfaction. “It looks just the way mother makes it,” she said. “I'm going to write to mother and father to-night, and I'm going to tell them how kind you are to me.” That evening, in Mr. Evringham's library, Jewel wrote the letter. Her grandfather, after making some extremely uncomplimentary comments upon the weather, had lowered his green-shaded electric light and established himself beneath it with his book. He looked across at the child, who was situated as before at the table, her crossed feet, in their spring-heeled shoes, dangling beneath. “May I smoke, Jewel?” he asked, as he took a cigar from the case. He asked the question humorously, but the reply was serious. “Oh yes, grandpa, of course; this is your room; but you know nobody likes tobacco naturally except a worm.” Mr. Evringham's deep-set eyes widened. “Is it possible? Well, we're all worms.” Jewel smiled fondly at him, her head a little on one side, in its characteristic attitude. “You're such a joker,” she returned. “If you really dislike smoke,” said the broker after a minute, “perhaps you'd better take your letter up to your room.” “I don't mind it,” she returned. “Father used to smoke. It's only a little while since it gave him up.” “You mean since he gave it up.” “No. When people study Christian Science, the error habits that they have just go away.” “Indeed? I'm glad you warned me.” Mr. Evringham blew a delicate ring of smoke toward the table, but Jewel had begun to think of her parents, and her pencil was moving. Her grandfather noted the trim appearance of the bowed head. “I don't know but I was cut out for a man milliner after all,” he mused complacently. “Those bows have really a very chic appearance.” His book interested him, and he soon became absorbed in its pages. Jewel occasionally coming to an orthographic problem looked up and waited, but he did not observe her, so she patiently kept silence and resumed her work. At last the letter was finished. She looked again at her grandfather, and opened her cramped little hand with relief. The back of her neck was tired with her bending posture. She leaned back in the heavy chair to rest it while she waited. The eyelids, grown heavy with her labors, wavered and winked. The rain dripped down the panes, as if it had fallen into a monotonous habit. The sound was soothing. Jewel fell asleep. When finally Mr. Evringham glanced at her he smiled. “Little thoroughbred,” he mused; “she'd never disturb me.” He rose and crossed to the child. There lay the finished letter. He took it up with some anticipation:-- DEAR MOTHER AND FATHER----It is most time to get a leter from you but I will not wait to tell you I am happy and well.