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The dark-eyed beautiful Mary was a sad thorn in the flesh for the fair girl who knew she was always overshadowed by the brilliant, queenly brunette. Involuntarily the country girl looked at David Eby he was listening intently to Mary; his eyes never seemed to leave her face. Little, sharp pangs of jealousy thrust themselves into the depths of Phœbe's heart.
McCoy, he knew, had figured a bed-rock, cash price and the extreme lowness of the quotation offered the Western was influenced solely by the possibility of a quick sale in straight car lots. And still the man claimed he could beat it. "Do you mind telling me who is offering you stuff at a lower figure?" he asked. Mr. Eby hesitated. It was to his interest to stimulate price cutting.
"Do I look " she began, but David burst into hilarious laughter. "Oh, oh," he held his sides and laughed. "Oh, your face " "Don't you laugh at me, David Eby! Don't you dare laugh!" She was deeply hurt at his unseemly behavior, but the deluge was only beginning! The sound of David's laughter and Phœbe's raised voice reached the front room where the quilting party was in progress.
"My idea is working out all right, Mr. Eby," he said in parting. "And you are going to live to see you've overlooked a good bet." Eby laughed. "Go to it, young man," he said. "You'll just have to live and learn like the rest of us. When you get down to earth again, come in and see us." Somewhat taken back by his interview, Gregory sought the other jobbers.
All I said against her going did as much good as if I said it to the chairs in the kitchen. Phœbe is going to get Miss Lee, the one that was teacher on the hill once, to help her. And Miss Lee has a cousin that lives with her and he plays the fiddle and he is goin' to get a teacher for her." Phares Eby groaned and gritted his teeth. "I guess I'll go talk with her a while," he decided.
Sometimes David tells me he is anxious to supply me with the beet juice, cream and flour whenever I'm ready to begin the prima donna act. I can hear his laugh when I read the letter. Sometimes he's serious and talks about the crops of their farm and tells me the community news like an old grandmother. Phares Eby writes me an occasional letter, a stilted little note that sounds just like Phares.
Ach, Phœbe Metz, you don't know what you want!" she said to herself as she jumped from the fence and ran down the road to the Eby farm. At the gate she paused. Mother Bab stood among her flowers, her white-capped head bare of any other covering, the hot sunshine streaming upon her. "Mother Bab," she cried, "you are simply baking in the sun!" "No," the woman turned to Phœbe and smiled.
Phœbe and the two boys attended the same little country school and had become frankly fond of each other. "What's wrong?" asked Phares again as Phœbe hung her head and remained silent. "Ach," laughed David, "somebody's broke her dolly." "Nobody ain't not broke my dolly, David Eby!" she said crossly. "I wouldn't cry for that!" "What's wrong then? come on, Phœbe."
At first Maria Metz did not seem too well pleased with the child's persistent naming of Barbara Eby as Mother Bab; but gradually, as she saw Phœbe's joy in the adoption, the woman acknowledged to herself that another woman was capable of mothering where she had failed.
So absorbed were man and maid that neither heard the rustle of parted corn nor were aware of the presence of a third person until a voice exclaimed, "Oh, I beg your pardon. I didn't know you were here." As they turned David Eby stood before them, his expression a mingling of surprise and wonder.
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