But when he paid the promised visit to Phœbe he was again disappointed by her lack of the old comradely friendliness. She shared his joy at Mother Bab's restored sight but when he began to thank her for her part in it she disclaimed all credit and asked questions to lead him from the subject of the operation. The girl seemed interested in all he said yet there was a restraint in her manner. For the first time in his life David was baffled by her attitude. As he climbed the hill again he thought, "Now, what's the matter with Phœbe? Was she or wasn't she glad to see me? I couldn't tell her I love her when she acts like that! And I'm a cripple, and she's beautiful---- Oh, my mind's in a muddle! But one thing's clear--I want Phœbe Metz for my wife." CHAPTER XXXVII "A LOVE THAT LIFE COULD NEVER TIRE" THE next morning Phares Eby called David, "Wait, I want to see you. I--David," the preacher began gravely, "perhaps I shouldn't tell you, but I really think I ought. Do you know all Phœbe did for your mother while you were gone?" "Why, yes. Mother told me. Phœbe was lovely to her. She's been great! Writing her letters and doing ever so many kind things for her." "I know--but--I guess you don't know all she did. That story about a great doctor operating for charity didn't quite please me. I thought as long as it was in the family I'd pay him for what he did. So I wrote to him and his secretary wrote back that the bill had been paid by a check signed by Phœbe Metz--the bill had been five hundred dollars. I guess that explains her giving up the music lessons. What a girl she is to make such a sacrifice! She don't know that I know, but I felt I ought to tell you." "Five hundred dollars! Phœbe did that for us--she paid it? Oh, Phares, I'm glad you told me! I'm going to find her right away and thank her! You're a brick for telling me!" The preacher smiled as David turned and ran down the hill, but preachers are only human--he felt a pang of pain as he went back to his work in the field while David went to find Phœbe. David forgot for the time that he was crippled as he ran limping over the road. Dressed in his working clothes, his head bare to the October sunlight, he hurried to the gray farmhouse. "Phœbe here?" he asked Aunt Maria. "What's wrong? Anything the matter at your house?" she asked. "No. Nothing's wrong. Where's Phœbe?" "Ach, over at the quarry again for weeds or something like she brings home all the time." "All right." He turned to the gate. "I'll find her." He half ran up the sheltered road to the old stone quarry. "Phœbe," he cried when he caught sight of her as she stooped to gather goldenrod that fringed the woods. "Why, David, what's the matter?" she asked as she stood erect and faced him.