"Monday I am going far away,
Tuesday I'll be busy all the day,
Wednesday is the day I study French,
Thursday is the--"

and Phoebe hummed the little nonsense jingle to him in a most beguiling
manner.

The major laughed delightedly. "Phoebe, some day you will be held
responsible for David Kildare's--"

"But, my dear Major," interrupted Phoebe, "how could I be expected to
work all day for raiment and food, with malted milk and eggs at the price
they are now, and then be responsible for such a perfectly irresponsible
person as David Kildare? Why, just yesterday, while I was writing up the
Farrell débutante tea with the devil waiting at my elbows for copy and
the composing room in a stew, he called me twice over the wire. He knew
better, but didn't care."

"Still, my dear, still it's love," said the major as he looked at her
thoughtfully and dropped the banter that had been in his voice since she
had come in. "A boy's? Perhaps, but I think not. You'll see! It's a call,
a call that must be answered some time, child--and a mystery." For a
moment the major sat and looked deep into the gray eyes raised to his in
quick responsiveness to the change in his mood. "Don't trifle with love,
girl, it's God Almighty's dower to a woman. It's hers; though she
pays a bitter price for it. It's a wonder and a worker of wonders. It has
all come home to me to-day and I think you will understand when I tell
you about--"