Her face lighted. Up came her hands, to reach toward him joyously. “Mother!” she breathed.
He shook his head. “The telegram is from a Doctor,” he answered. “Your mother is—is pretty sick. She has asked your daddy to come.”
“Oh!—but—but you think Mother will get well?”
“Of course she will,” declared Uncle Bob stoutly.
The next moment, here came Phœbe’s father, a suit-case in one hand, his hat in the other. Behind him was Sophie, carrying his overcoat. He said nothing, only put down the suit-case, crossed to Phœbe, and took her hand.
She lifted a beaming face to his. “Oh, Daddy,” she said tremulously. “Now I know you and Mother are not divorced!”
He smiled at her. The others moved—started, rather. Phœbe saw them and heard them, and realized that she had shocked. She reddened.
“My little Phœbe!” said her father, tenderly.
She strove to explain herself, to lessen the bad effect she felt she had made on the others. “I knew you weren’t,” she apologized. “I didn’t believe it, Daddy. I’m sorry I said it to you!—Oh, Daddy, take me with you!”
Her father turned to his mother. But it was Dr. Blair who spoke. “No, Jim!” he cried.