“My little daughter!” faltered Miss Ruth. She laid her cheek against Phœbe’s hair.
It was then that Phœbe heard a heavy step—heard the door close, and the step come toward them. “Ruth!” said a voice. (Uncle Bob had sent some one else!)
Miss Ruth rose, lifting Phœbe with her. The two stood, arms about each other, waiting. But Miss Ruth’s look was lowered. Only Phœbe silently beseeched her father.
“Dearest,” he said presently,—and he was not speaking to Phœbe; “I suppose there’s no use fighting against it.”
“No,” she answered. “No use.”
“Because he wants it,” went on Phœbe’s father; “dear old Bob. He’s the one that’s fixed this up?” He came a step nearer.
Miss Ruth looked up then. “My heart was breaking,” she whispered, “at the thought of having you go.”
“Ruth!” He held out his arms to her, and she went to him.
Phœbe scarcely knew what to do. She had never seen just this situation on the screen. But instinct told her that it would be best, perhaps, to let Daddy and Miss Ruth have this moment to themselves. So Phœbe turned aside, and looked out of a window at the branches that were close and the clouds that were far. And valiantly she tried to forget the two behind her, and hear only the birds.
“I want you, Ruth,” her father was saying. “Oh, I’ve always wanted you!”