"A LOVE THAT LIFE COULD NEVER TIRE"
The next morning Phares Eby called David, "Wait, I want to see you. I—David," the preacher began gravely, "perhaps I shouldn't tell you, but I really think I ought. Do you know all Phœbe did for your mother while you were gone?"
"Why, yes. Mother told me. Phœbe was lovely to her. She's been great! Writing her letters and doing ever so many kind things for her."
"I know—but—I guess you don't know all she did. That story about a great doctor operating for charity didn't quite please me. I thought as long as it was in the family I'd pay him for what he did. So I wrote to him and his secretary wrote back that the bill had been paid by a check signed by Phœbe Metz—the bill had been five hundred dollars. I guess that explains her giving up the music lessons. What a girl she is to make such a sacrifice! She don't know that I know, but I felt I ought to tell you."
"Five hundred dollars! Phœbe did that for us—she paid it? Oh, Phares, I'm glad you told me! I'm going to find her right away and thank her! You're a brick for telling me!"
The preacher smiled as David turned and ran down the hill, but preachers are only human—he felt a pang of pain as he went back to his work in the field while David went to find Phœbe.
David forgot for the time that he was crippled as he ran limping over the road. Dressed in his working clothes, his head bare to the October sunlight, he hurried to the gray farmhouse.
"Phœbe here?" he asked Aunt Maria.
"What's wrong? Anything the matter at your house?" she asked.
"No. Nothing's wrong. Where's Phœbe?"
"Ach, over at the quarry again for weeds or something like she brings home all the time."
"All right." He turned to the gate. "I'll find her."
He half ran up the sheltered road to the old stone quarry.
"Phœbe," he cried when he caught sight of her as she stooped to gather goldenrod that fringed the woods.
"Why, David, what's the matter?" she asked as she stood erect and faced him.
"You angel!" he cried, taking her hands in his and spilling the goldenrod over the ground. "You angel!" he said again, and the full gratitude of his heart shone from his eyes. "You bought Mother Bab's sight! You gave up the music lessons that she might see!"
"How d'you know?" she challenged.
"Oh, I know!" He told her briefly. "That's all true, isn't it?"
"Yes," she admitted. "I can't lie out of it now, I guess. Though I've lied like a trooper about it already. But you needn't get excited about it. Mother Bab's earned more than that from me!"
"Oh, Phœbe!" The man could hardly refrain from taking her in his arms. "You're an angel! To sacrifice all that for us—it's the most unselfish thing I've ever heard of! You gave her sight so she could see me. I came right down to bless you and to thank you."
Other words sought utterance but he fought them back. Phœbe must have read his heart, for she looked up suddenly and asked, "And you came all the way down here just to say thank you! There's nothing else——"
Then, half-ashamed and startled at her forwardness, her gaze dropped.
But the words had worked their magic. "There is something else!" David cried, exulting. "I can't wait any longer to tell you! I love you!"
He held out his arms and as she smiled into his face his arms enfolded her and he knew that she loved him. But he wanted to hear the sweet words from her lips. "Is it so?" he asked. "You do care for me, you'll marry me?"
"Oh, Davie, did you think I could live the rest of my life without you? Did you think I could love you any less because you're crippled?"
He flushed. "It seemed like working on your sympathy to ask you."
"And if you hadn't asked me, Davie," she began.
"Yes, go on. If I hadn't asked you——"
They both laughed at that, but a moment later were serious as he said, "Just the same, Phœbe, it seems presumptuous for a maimed man to ask a girl like you to marry him. You are beautiful and you have a wonderful voice—and you've done such wonderful things for Mother Bab and me. You have sacrificed so much——"
"Stop, David!" she cried, her voice ominously tearful. "David, don't hurt me like that! Do you love me?"
"I do." His words had all the solemnity of a marriage vow.
"You know I love you?"
"I do."
"Then, David, can't you see that we love each other not only in prosperity but in misfortunes as well?"
"What a big heart you have, dear, what a woman's heart! I have two wonderful women in my life, Mother Bab and you."
Phœbe felt the delicacy and magnitude of the tribute. "I'm happy, Davie," she said softly. "I feel so safe with you—no doubts, no fears."
"Just love," he added.
"Just love," she repeated.
"Then, Phœbe"—how she loved the name from his lips—"you'll marry me?" He said it as though he could not quite believe his good fortune. "Then you will marry me?"
"Yes, if you want."
"If I want! Oh, Phœbe, Phœbe, I have always wanted it!"
