“Yes, ma’am,” acknowledged Joe, blankly.
“You can’t be mean enough—I should say you don’t mean to tell her we won’t take Phoebe?” gasped Harvey, blinking rapidly. “Surely you can’t be so hard-hearted as all––”
“That will do, Harvey,” said she, sternly. “Don’t let me hear another word out of you. The idea! Just as soon as she thinks you’re safely married to some one who can give that child a home she up and tries to get rid of her. The shameless thing! No, sir-ree! She can’t shuffle her brat off on me. Not if I know what I’m––” 232
She fell back in alarm. The telegram fluttered to the floor. Harvey was standing in front of her, shaking his fist under her nose, his face contorted by a spasm of fury.
“Don’t you call my little girl a brat,” he sputtered. “And don’t you dare to call my wife a shameless thing!”
“Your wife!” she gasped.
He waved his arms like a windmill.
“My widow, if you are going to be so darned particular about it,” he shouted, inanely. “Don’t you dare send a telegram saying Phoebe can’t come and live with her father. I won’t have it. She’s coming just as fast as I can get her here. Hurray!”
Mrs. Davis lost all of her sternness. She dissolved into tears.
“Oh, Harvey dear, do you really and truly want that child back again?” she sniffled.