Old Mr. King drew a long breath of pleased reminiscence. Phronsie sat quite still, the afternoon sunlight that streamed through the western window glinting her yellow hair. Her hands lay in Grandpapa’s, and her eyes never wavered from his face. But she said nothing.
“You don’t ask me anything, Phronsie,” said the old gentleman at last. “Hey, child?” pinching her ear.
“No, Grandpapa, because you will tell me yourself.”
“And so I will; you are a good girl not to badger me with questions. Well, he came about the same thing, Phronsie,—wanted to see you, and all that. But I couldn’t allow it, of course; for, if I did, the next thing, you would be worried to death by his teasing. And that’s all out of the question. Besides being decidedly unpleasant for you, it would kill me.”
“Would it, Grandpapa?” Phronsie leaned forward suddenly, and held him with her brown eyes.
“Not a shadow of doubt,” he answered promptly; “I shouldn’t live a month if you went off and got married, Phronsie.”
“I wouldn’t go off and get married, Grandpapa!” exclaimed Phronsie. “I could stay with you then; didn’t Roslyn say we could, and you would always go with us if we went away? O Grandpapa, you didn’t think I would ever leave you!” She threw her arms around his neck, and clung to him convulsively.
“Yes, yes, that’s right,” said the old gentleman, immensely pleased, and patting her on the back as if she were a child of three; “but you see this is nothing to the point, Phronsie, nothing at all.” Then he went on testily, “You’d belong to somebody else besides me, and that would be the same as being a thousand miles away. And as long as I’m sure you don’t love him, Phronsie,”—which he had found out by taking care not to ask her,—“why, I’ve done just the very best thing for you, to send him away about his business.”
“Did he ask to see me?” Phronsie sat up quite straight now, and waited quietly for the answer.
“Why, of course he did; but I knew it would only trouble you to see him.”