“When he told her how he loved her,” mused Sophie, almost as if to herself, “and asked her to be his bride——”
Phœbe came back to sad realities. “How did he ask her?” she wanted to know.
“She was settin’,” recounted Sophie. “He come close, and looked at her. She dropped her eyes; so he reached over and took her hand. Next, down he went on one knee. ‘Dear little woman,’—that’s what it read in print—‘let us ride into the sunset together!’” Sophie gestured, indicating a possible sunset.
“But did she say Yes?” inquired Phœbe, impatiently.
“Well, not just at first. She kinda hung off——”
“Goodness!” exclaimed Phœbe, incredulous. She walked to and fro, head down.
“But think of it! A gang of Indians come scootin’ up to the Ranch. And he fought ’em all, and saved her. So she took him, and he kissed her——!”
Phœbe paused. It seemed to her then as if she were to be penned up forever in this small town which she so hated; as if she would never grow up, and be able to say what she would do; as if other girls—this William S. Hart girl, for instance—simply had everything. In an excess of resentment she went up to Uncle John’s favorite armchair—and kicked it!
CHAPTER XX
“Phœbe, dear,” cried Uncle John, “I am the happiest of men!”