Andrew the Glad

"If _I_ fall on your neck it will make seven this morning. Aren't you

satisfied?" And Phoebe drew her hand away from his, allowing, however, a

regretful squeeze as he let it go.

"No, six if you would do it," answered David disconsolately, "I told you

that Mrs. Cherry failed me."

"Yes," answered Phoebe as she lowered her eyes, "I know you told me."

David Kildare was keen of wit but it takes a most extraordinary wisdom to

fathom such a woman as Phoebe chose to be--out of business hours.

"Isn't it time for you to go to dress for the parade?" she asked quickly

with apparent anxiety.

"No," answered David as he filled his tooled leather case from the

major's jar of choice Seven Oaks heart-leaf--he had seen Phoebe's white

fingers roll it to the proper fineness just the night before, "I'm

all ready! Did you think I was going to wear a lace collar and a sash?

Everything is in order and I only have to be there at two to start them

off. Everybody is placed on the platform and everybody is satisfied. The

unveiling will be at three-thirty. You are going out with Mrs. Matilda

early, aren't you? I want you to see me come prancing up at the

head of the mounted police. Won't you be proud of me?"

"Sometimes, really, I think you are the missing twin to little Billy

Bob," answered Phoebe with a laugh, but in an instant her face became

grave again. "I'm worried about Caroline Darrah," she said softly. "I

found her crying last night after I had finished work. I was staying here

with Mrs. Matilda for the night and I went into her room for a moment on

the chance that she would be awake. She said she had wakened from an ugly

dream--but I know she dreads this presentation, and I don't blame her. It

was lovely of her to want to give the statue and plucky of her to come

and do it--but it's in every way trying for her."

"And isn't she the darling child?" answered David Kildare, a tender smile

coming into his eyes. "Plucky! Well I should say so! To come dragging old

Peters Brown's money-bags down here just as soon as he croaked, with the

express intention of opening up and passing us all our wads back. Could

anything as--as pathetic ever have happened before?"

"No," answered Phoebe. Then she said slowly, tentatively, as she looked

into David's eyes that were warm with friendliness for the inherited

friend who had preempted a place in both their hearts: "And the one awful

thing for which she can offer no reparation she knows nothing of. I pray

she never knows!"

"Yes, but it is about to do him to the death. I sometimes wake and find

him sitting over his papers at daybreak with burned-out eyes and as pale

as a white horse in a fog."