hoarsely.

"I think," shot Mrs. Hastings, "that the easiest thing for Lois, and the
best thing, is for her to go quietly without seeing Phil."

"That's my own opinion," affirmed Mrs. Fosdick.

Lois listened with her detached air, as though the subject under
discussion related to some one she knew slightly but was not
particularly interested in.

"Bless me! Such a wow and a wumpus. You really think I'd better go?" she
asked casually.

The three, accepting this as a sign of yielding, chorused an eager,
sibilant Yes.

"Think of Phil, just at the threshold of her life. We've done our best
for poor dear Phil," said Mrs. Fosdick chokingly. "Amzi can't deny that
we've tried to do our duty by her."

"Of course, you have all been nice to her," remarked Lois, picking up a
box of candy and shaking it to bring to the surface some particular
sweetmeat.

"It has not been so easy to bring Phil up!" declared Mrs. Waterman,
enraged that Phil's mother should take their assumption of
responsibility for the child's upbringing so lightly, so entirely as a
matter of course.

"You ought to know, without our telling you, Lois," said Mrs. Hastings,
"that your coming back will be the worst thing possible for dear Phil.
If you think about it quietly for an hour or two, I'm sure you will see
that."

"You ought to go down on your knees to God with it!" boomed Mrs.
Waterman, "before you think of contaminating her young life. It's only
right that we should talk to our pastor before coming to a decision."

Amzi snorted and walked to the window. There he saw as he looked out
upon the lawn something that interested him; that caused a grin to
fasten itself upon his rubicund countenance. Phil, under a fire of
snowballs from a group of boys who were waiting with their Christmas
sleds for a chance to hitch to a passing vehicle, gained Amzi's gate,
ducked behind the fence to gather ammunition, rose and delivered her
fire, and then retreated toward the house. Her aunts, still stubbornly
confronting her mother, and sobbingly demanding that Phil be kept away
pending a recourse to spiritual counsel, started at the sound of an
unmistakable voice. Amzi, chewing his cigar, watched Phil's flight up
the path, and noted the harmless fall of the final shots about her. She
waved her hand from the doorstep, commented derisively upon the enemy's
marksmanship, and flung the door open with a bang. A gust of cold air
seemed to precipitate Phil into the room.