“Who is he?” The dreadful question trembled on all the lips; but no one asked it.  Seeing this, Mr. King broke out, “Well, now of course you want to know who is going to marry your mother, that is, if you are willing.  For she won’t have him unless you are to be happy about it.  Would you like Dr. Fisher for a father?”

Joel broke away from the window with a howl, while Polly tumultuously threw herself within the kind arms encircling Phronsie.

“Next to you,” cried the boy, “why, he’s a brick, Dr. Fisher is!”

“Why didn’t you tell us before that it was he?” sobbed Polly, with joyful tears running over her face.  Davie, coming out of his gloomy walk, turned a happy face towards the old man’s chair, while Ben said something to himself that sounded like “Thank God!”

Phronsie alone remained unmoved.  “What is Dr. Fisher going to do?” she asked presently, amid the chatter that now broke forth.

“He’s going to live here,” said old Mr. King, looking down at her, and smoothing her yellow hair.  “Won’t that be nice, Phronsie?”

“Yes,” said Phronsie, “it will.  And he’ll bring his funny old gig, won’t he, and 111 drive sometimes, I suppose?” she added with great satisfaction.

“Yes; you will,” said the old gentleman, winking furiously to keep back the excited flow of information that now threatened the child.  “Well, Phronsie, you love Dr. Fisher, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do,” said the child, folding her hands in her lap, “love him very much indeed.”

“Well, he’s going to be your father,” communicated Mr. King, cautiously watching her face at each syllable.

“Oh, no!” cried Phronsie, “he couldn’t be; he’s Dr. Fisher.”  She laughed softly at the idea.  “Why, Grandpapa, he couldn’t be my father.”

“Listen, Phronsie,” and Mr. King took both her hands in his, “and I’ll tell you about it so that you will understand.  Dr. Fisher loves your mother; he has loved her for many years—­all those years when she was struggling on in the little brown house.  But he couldn’t tell her so, because he had others depending on him for support.  They don’t need him now, and as soon as he is free, he comes and tells your mother and me, like a noble good man as he is, all about it.  He’s a gentleman, children,” he declared, turning to the others, “and you will be glad to call him father.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Phronsie, with puzzled eyes.  “Dear Grandpapa, please tell me.”

“Why, he is going to marry your mother, child, and we are all to live here together just the same, and everything is going to be just as happy as possible.”

Phronsie gave a sharp and sudden cry of distress.  “But Mamsie, my Mamsie will be gone!” and then she hid her face in the old gentleman’s breast.

“O dear, dear! get a glass of water, Polly,” cried Mr. King.  “One of you run and open the window.  Phronsie, Phronsie—­there, child, look up and let me tell you.”  But Phronsie burrowed yet deeper in the protecting nest, regardless of his spotless linen.