Phœbe took it, and flung it away.
Miser Farebrother rose slowly to his feet. One hand rested on the table, in the other he held his crutch stick.
"Pick it up!" he said, sternly.
Phœbe did not move.
"Pick it up!" he cried again.
Still Phœbe made no motion. Trembling with passion, he lifted his crutch stick and struck her across the neck. It was a cruel blow, and it left a long red streak upon the girl's fair flesh. She tottered, and almost fell to the ground, but she straightened herself, and uttered no word.
"If I were dead," he said, "you could marry your gentleman lawyer."
"If he would have me," Phœbe replied, in a low, firm tone. "I should then not be bound by my oath."
"You hear!" he exclaimed, appealing to Mrs. Pamflett and Jeremiah. "She wishes for my death, and would bring it about if she could in order that she might be free to disgrace me!"
They heard; but Phœbe did not. The pain of the blow was great, and she could scarcely bear it. Blinding tears rushed into her eyes.