“Devotedly.”
“And—you love her.”
“I don’t count.”
Phœbe was puzzling something out: “You love her, and Daddy loves her, and you’re two brothers——”
“And each wants the other to be happy,” said Uncle Bob, as if completing the sentence. “But you see, Miss Ruth loves your daddy; she’s never loved anyone else—not since she wore braids down her back. So that’s how it is, old dumpling. And you’ll understand why my own brother pulls back, and says No, and——” His voice broke.
“Uncle Bob,” she asked tenderly, “are you sure you want Daddy to marry Miss Ruth? Because—because you’re crying.”
His eyes were indeed brimming. But through the tears shone a smile. He caught her to him, laughing down at her, pressing her head against his shoulder, pressing his cheek against her cheek. “Of course I’m crying,” he said, not even trying to keep his voice even. “Because I know why you asked what you did. You think—you’re afraid that old Uncle Bob will be terribly hurt, broken-hearted. And so your tender, precious thought is for him. Oh, little Phœbe! My sweet girl!” He choked. And fell to rocking her back and forth, not being able to go on.
“Yes,” she whispered up to him. “That’s why. Oh, dear Uncle Bob!”
“Well, Phœbe,”—he set her free, found his handkerchief, mopped his eyes with it, blew a resounding blast, and took on a wider smile than ever—“this is the truth, little woman: I want Daddy to marry Miss Ruth better than anything else in the world.”
Phœbe smiled back at him. Only fourteen years had those gray-blue eyes looked upon the big world, yet those years had brought Phœbe something of that age-long wisdom of woman which is called intuition. And as she looked at Uncle Bob, she knew that he was, at one and the same time, telling the whole truth and a great falsehood.