“Daddy!” she cried, her arms suddenly about him. “Dear, dear Daddy!”
“Phœbe, you must try to understand,” he counseled; “and take it all just like the little woman you are. Then you and I will decide what’s best—nobody else. It’s your happiness I’ll think of—just you!”
She felt now that she was to hear the truth. She was ready to confide in him all her fears of a step-mother—even her jealousy; ready to say if, above all things, he wanted her happiness, then he could give her that by putting no new wife in her mother’s place.
But her father got no further with what he plainly intended to say to her. And Phœbe was not able to open her young heart to him. For their conference was broken in upon by Sophie, who entered, smiling, telegram in hand.
“Boy wants a’ answer, Mr. Jim,” she announced.
Phœbe’s father took the yellow envelope with a trace of irritation at being interrupted.
“Oh, Daddy, is it from Mother?” Phœbe questioned.
He did not answer. The telegram was open in his hand. He was reading it, and his hand was shaking.
“Wait!” he bade, as Sophie turned to go.
“Is it?—Oh, Daddy!” pleaded Phœbe. She saw with alarm that his face had gone suddenly white.