“Yourself—or you won’t get one.”
“But—but,” she protested, trying to rise from beneath his hold.
He would not let her go. “Phœbe! Oh, Phœbe, listen to me! Your father guesses that you don’t want him to marry. And so he won’t. For that very reason you must choose your mother. And you must choose her before you go!”
“Before tomorrow?”
“This very afternoon!”
At that they both rose. There was that set look about Uncle Bob’s jaw which Phœbe, learning the moods of men, recognized as a sign of determination. Before that big, glowing countenance and those clenched teeth, Phœbe weakened.
He saw that. “Oh, Phœbe,” he pleaded, “there’s so much that you must know for your own safety and happiness. My little girl, you didn’t even realize what dangers lay along the Valley Road as you went! Think of it! It makes my heart sick when I think of it. Well, there must be someone beside you—some dear woman who will love you, someone you can trust and love!”
“But—but who—?” she faltered.
He drew back. “Mm,—yes, that’s so. Now, who?” He took one of his characteristic turns, hands behind back, knuckles of one tapping the palm of the other. “Now who? Of course, it must be somebody nice.”
She stared. “I should think so!”