“May I put on my Sunday dress?” cried Phoebe, gleefully.
“Only one of ’em,” said he, in haste. “Annie will pick out one for you.” 80
Considerably bewildered, Phoebe was led away by the nurse.
“She’s a pretty child,” said Fairfax. If his manner was a trifle strained Harvey failed to make note of it. “Looks like her mother.”
“I’m glad you think so,” said the father, radiantly. “I’d hate to have her look like me.”
Fairfax looked him over and suppressed a smile.
“She is quite happy here with you, I suppose,” he said, taking a chair.
“Yes, sir-ree.”
“Does she never long to be with her mother?”
“Well, you see,” said Harvey, apologising for Nellie, “she doesn’t see much of Miss—of her mother these days. I guess she’s got kind of used to being with me. Kids are funny things, you know.”