She put a hand against his cheek. “Precious Uncle Bob!” she whispered tremulously. And lowering her head, hid her face against his breast. He had freed her from the ugly vision that haunted: he had given her the promise of love and peace and joy. He had said he would do anything in the world to make her happy. Now he was keeping his word—he was giving up his hope of happiness in giving up Miss Ruth.
“More than anything, Phœbe,” he repeated huskily.
She moved her head in assent “Then he will,” she said simply.
“But there isn’t any time to lose!” Uncle Bob stood up, wound his watch-chain round a finger, pulled the big silver time-piece from its pocket, consulted it hastily, and shoved it back. “I must get Miss Ruth. I’ll telephone her house.”
“Oh, but suppose she won’t come,” suggested Phœbe.
“What shall I say to her?” Uncle Bob looked suddenly helpless.
“I know!” A mischievous twinkle came back into Phœbe’s eyes. “If she holds back you scare her!”
He gasped. “Scare her?”
“Once I saw it—in the movies,” she confided excitedly. “Oh, Uncle Bob, you say to her, ‘Poor Phœbe is dying!’”
He joined in her laughter. “You muggins! If I have to, I’ll do it!” Then gravely, “When she gets here, go awful slow—take your time.”