"Do you think me very selfish?" Phoebe assured him instantly that that had never been her idea of him. "Shall I tell you who is selfish?" Phoebe's little mouth hardened. She was so dreadfully afraid that he was going to say "Your father." "You," he said, "you." "I'm afraid I am," said she. "It's so hard not to be." He stood still in his astonishment, so that she had to stand still, too. "Of course it's hard not to give up things, when you like giving them up. But your sister likes giving them up, too, and it's selfish of you to prevent her, isn't it?" "Oh, but you don't know what it's been--Effie's life and Mary's." "And yours----" "Oh, no, I'm happy enough. I'm the youngest." "You mean you've had a year or two less of it." "Yes. They never told me, for fear of making me unhappy, when Father's illness came." "How long ago was that?" "Five years ago. I was at school." He made a brief calculation. During the two years of his married life Phoebe had been a child at school. "And two years," said Phoebe, "is a long time to be happy in." "Yes," he said, "it's a long time." "And then," she went on presently, "I'm so much stronger than Effie and Mary." "Not strong enough to go dragging that abominable bath-chair about." "Not strong enough? Look----" She held out her right arm for him to look at; under her muslin blouse he saw its tense roundness, and its whiteness through the slit above her wrist. His heart stirred in him. Phoebe's arms were beautiful, and they were strong to help. "I wish," he said, "I could make it better for you." "Oh, but you _have_ made it better for us. You can't think what a difference you've made." "Have I? Have I?" "Yes. Effie said so only the other day. She wrote it to Mary. And Mary says it's a shame she can't be here. It is, you know. It makes us feel so mean having you all to ourselves like this." He laughed. He laughed whenever he thought of it. There was nobody who could say things as Phoebe said them. "I wish," said she, "you knew Mary. You'd like her so." "I'm sure I should if she's at all like you." (Her innocence sheltered him, made him bold.) "Oh, but she isn't." And he listened while she gave him a long list of Mary's charms. (Dear little, tender, unconscious Phoebe.) "She sounds," he said, "very like you." "She isn't the least bit like me. You don't know me." "Don't I?" "Mary's coming back at the end of the month. Then either I or Effie will go away. Do you think you'll still be here?" He seemed to her to answer absently. "Which of you, did you say, was going away?" "Well--it's Effie's turn." "Yes," he said, "I think I shall still be here." One night, a week later, the two sisters sat talking together long after "Father" had been put to bed. "Phoebe," said Effie, "why did you want me to come with you and Mr. Gibson?" "Because----" said Phoebe. "My dear, it's you he likes, not me." "Don't, Effie." "But it's true," said Effie.