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Smith, Francis Hopkinson, 1838-1915

"Peter: a novel of which he is not the hero"

Had Jack
comforted her? Was she no longer worried over the disaster?
Jack released his arm and would have stepped forward, but she held
him back.
"No, Jack,--let me tell him. You said a while ago, daddy, that
there were only two of us--just you and I--and that it had always
been so and--"
"Well, isn't it true, little girl?" It's extraordinary how blind
and stupid a reasonably intelligent father can be on some
occasions, and this one was as blind as a cave-locked fish.
"Yes, it WAS true, daddy, when you went upstairs, but--but--it
isn't true any more! There are three of us now!" She was trembling
all over with uncontrollable joy, her voice quavering in her
excitement.
Again Jack tried to speak, but she laid her hand on his lips with--
"No, please don't, Jack--not yet--you will spoil everything."
MacFarlane still looked on in wonderment. She was much happier, he
could see, and he was convinced that Jack was in some way
responsible for the change, but it was all a mystery yet.
"Three of us!" MacFarlane repeated mechanically--"well, who is
the other, Puss?"
"Why, Jack, of course! Who else could it be but Jack? Oh! Daddy!--
Please--please--we love each other so!"
That night a telegram went singing down the wires leaving a trail
of light behind.


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