“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. “Mrs. Forbes, come here, please,” said Jewel. The housekeeper had ceased crying, and was watching the pair. She saw that her boy's senses were clearer. She approached obediently, and when the child took her hand her own closed tightly upon the little fingers. “Zeke, you're a big strong man and everybody likes you,” said Jewel earnestly. “Isn't it better to stay that way than to drink out of a bottle, no matter _how_ much you like it?” “I don't like it so awfully,” returned Zeke protestingly. “I like to be sociable with the boys, that's all.” “What a way to be sociable!” gasped the child. “Well, wouldn't you rather be nice, so people will like to get close to you?” “Depends on the folks,” returned the boy with a touch of his usual manner. “You're all right, little kid.” He put out his hand, but quickly withdrew it. Jewel seized it. “Now give your other one to your mother. There now, we're all together. If your mother thinks you have a disease, Zeke, then she must know you haven't. If you want me to, I'll come out here every day at a quiet time and give you a treatment, and we'll talk all about Christian Science, and we'll know that there's nothing that can make us sick or unhappy--or unkind! Think of your unkindness to your mother--and to me if you go on, for I love you, Zeke. Now _may_ I help you?”