"I'm not educated up to Christmas angels that look as if they'd
been stepped on," Grant defended himself.
"She's a real nice little thing. If you boys would quit teasing
the life out of her, I don't doubt but what, in six months or so,
you wouldn't know the girl," Phoebe argued, with some heat.
"I don't know the girl now." Grant spoke dryly. "I don't want
to. If I'd held a tomahawk in one hand and her flowing locks in
the other, and was just letting a war-whoop outa me, she'd look
at me--the way she did look." He snorted in contemptuous
amusement, and gave a little, writhing twist of his slim body
into his trousers. "I never did like blondes," he added, in a
tone of finality, and started up the steps.
"You never liked anything that wore skirts," Phoebe flung after
him indignantly; and she came very close to the truth.
CHAPTER IV
THE CHRISTMAS ANGEL
Phoebe watched the two unhappily, sighed when they disappeared
around the corner of the house, and set her bowl of butter upon
the broad, flat rock which just missed being overflowed with
water, and sighed again.
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