Andrew the Glad

"At your present rate of stitching I will have a year or two to decide,

beautiful," she answered as she settled down on the broad window-seat

near them. "David Kildare and I have come to lunch, Mrs. Matilda, and the

major has sent him over for Andrew. I hope he brings him, but I doubt it.

I have told Tempie and she says she is glad to have us," she added as

Mrs. Buchanan turned and looked in the direction of the kitchen regions.

They all smiled, for the understanding that existed between Phoebe and

Tempie was the subject of continual jest.

"Have you seen the babies to-day?" asked Caroline as she drew a long new

thread through the needle. "Isn't it lovely the way people are making

them presents? Mr. Capers says the men at the mills are going to give

them each a thousand dollar mill bond."

"Well, I doubt seriously if they will live to use the bonds if some one

does not stop David from trying experiments with them," answered Phoebe

with a laugh. "After dinner last night he came in with two little

sleeping hammock machines which he insisted in putting up on the wall for

them. If the pulley catches you have to stand on a chair to extract them;

and if it slips, down they come. Milly was so grateful and let him play

with them for an hour; she's a sweet soul."

"Has he sent any more food?" asked Mrs. Matilda as they all laughed.

"Two more cases of a new kind he saw advertised in a magazine. Somebody

must tell him that--Milly is equal to the situation. Billy Bob _won't_;

and so the cases continue to arrive. The pantry is crowded with them and

they have sent a lot to the Day Nursery," and Phoebe slipped from the

window-seat down on to the rug at Caroline's feet in a perfect ecstasy

of mirth.

"But he is just the dearest boy, Phoebe," said Caroline Darrah as she

paused in her sewing to caress the sleek, black, braided head tipped back

against her knee. There was the shadow of reproach in her voice as she

smiled down into the gray eyes upturned to hers.

"Yes," answered Phoebe, instantly on the defensive, "he is just exactly

that, Caroline Darrah Brown--and he doesn't seem to be able to get over

it. I'm afraid it's chronic with him."

"He's young yet," Mrs. Buchanan remarked as she clipped a thread with her

bright scissors.

"No," said Phoebe slowly, "he is six years older than I am and that makes

him thirty-two. I have earned my living for ten years and a man five

years younger who sits at a desk next to mine at the office is taking

care of his mother and educating two younger brothers on a salary that is

less than mine--but _David_ is a dear! Did you see the little coats Polly

sent the babies?" she asked quickly to close the subject and to cover a

note of pain she had discovered in her own voice.