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If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this ebook. - -Title: Phœbe - -Author: Eleanor Gates - -Release Date: November 05, 2020 [EBook #63642] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: Richard Tonsing, D A Alexander, and the Online Distributed - Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was - produced from images generously made available by The Internet - Archive) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PHŒBE *** - - - - - PHŒBE - - - BY - ELEANOR GATES - - AUTHOR OF - - THE POOR LITTLE RICH GIRL, APRON STRINGS, THE PRAIRIE GIRL, ETC. - -[Illustration] - - NEW YORK - GROSSET & DUNLAP - PUBLISHERS - - - - - COPYRIGHT 1919, BY - ELEANOR GATES - - _All rights reserved_ - - - _Printed in U. S. A._ - - - - - AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED TO THAT - LITTLE GIRL WHOSE STORY - IT IS - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - PHŒBE - - - - - CHAPTER I - - “_Dear little daughter_,” ran the telegram, “_when you get this, - fill a suit-case with a few things that you’ll need most, and leave - with Daddy for Grandma’s.—Mother._” - - -The train was already moving. Phœbe, with all the solemnity of her -fourteen years, puckered her brows over the slip of yellow paper, winked -her long lashes at it reflectively, and pursed a troubled mouth. How -strange that dear Mother should leave the New York apartment in -mid-morning, with the usual gay kiss that meant short separation; and -then in that same hour should send this message—this command—which was -to start Phœbe away from the great city, where all of her short life had -been spent, toward that smaller city where lived the Grandmother she had -never seen, and the two Uncles—one a Judge and the other a -clergyman—who, though her father’s own brothers, were yet strangers to -their only niece! - -Somehow, without having to be told, Phœbe had always understood that -Mother did not like Grandma, or the Uncles, judicial and ecclesiastic. -Then why was Mother, without a real farewell, and without motherly -preparation in the matter of dress, and with no explanations, sending -Phœbe to those paternal relations? - -It was all very strange! It was mysterious, like—yes, like stories Phœbe -had seen in moving-pictures. - -Out of the gloom and clangor of the great station, the train was now -fast winding its way, past lights that burned, Phœbe thought, like those -in the big basement of the apartment house where she had lived so long. -Now the coach was leaving one pair of rails for a new pair—changing -direction with a sharp clicking of the wheels and a heavy swaying of the -huge car’s body. And now the line of coaches was straightening itself to -take, as Phœbe knew, that long plunge under the southward flowing -Hudson. - -She let the telegram fall to her lap and closed her eyes, with a drawing -in of the breath. She was picturing all that lay above the roof of the -car and the larger domed roof of the tunnel—first there was the -river-bed, which the domed roof upheld; next, the wide, deep reach of -water which, in turn, held up the ferries and any other passing ships; -last of all, the sky, cloud-flecked and sun-lit, through which winged -the birds. What a load for that narrow, domed roof! - -Her father had been busy with the luggage, directing the porter about -the disposal of the two suitcases while taking off his own overcoat and -hat. But as he glanced down at Phœbe, he misunderstood the lowering of -telegram and eyelids, and dropped quickly to a place beside her. His -hand closed over hers, lovingly, and with a pressure that showed -concern. “Phœbe?” he questioned tenderly. - -She opened her eyes with a sudden reassuring smile. Though in the last -three or four years her father had been absent from home long months at -a time, so that during any year she might see him only seldom, and then -for brief afternoons only, her affection for him was deep, and scarcely -second to her love for her mother. Each visit of his was marked by gifts -as well as by a holiday outing—to the Park, the Zoo, or some -moving-picture theatre; so that gratitude and pleasure mingled with her -happiness at seeing him. Also, his visits had, for her, the novelty and -joy of the unexpected. He came from Somewhere—mysteriously; and went -again, into an Unknown that Phœbe made a part of her day-dreams. - -And so her love for him was tinged with something of the romantic. She -was proud of him, and she thought him handsome. Her mother never -exclaimed over him, but other people did. “Was that your father I saw -you with yesterday?” they would ask; and when Phœbe said Yes, they would -add, “Oh, but _isn’t_ he good-looking!” All of which delighted Phœbe, -who long since had compared him with the heroes she had seen pictured on -the screen—which comparison was to the very great disadvantage of the -film favorites. Her father was to her so gallant a figure that she often -wondered at her mother’s indifference to him. But then mother herself -was so lovely! - -Phœbe Blair was like her father. Her eyes were gray-blue, and set so far -apart on either side of her nose that the upper half of her face, at -first glance, had the appearance of being, if anything, a trifle too -wide—which made her firm little chin seem, correspondingly, a trifle too -peaked. Her hair was light brown, thick to massiness, but straight save -where it blew against the clear pink of her cheeks in slightly curling -tendrils. Of her features, it was her mouth that challenged her eyes in -beauty—a fine, sweet mouth that registered every mood of those grave and -womanly eyes. As for her height, it was a matter of the greatest pride -to her that she already reached to her father’s shoulder. But she was, -despite her height, still the little girl—sailor hat on bobbed hair, -serge jacket worn over blue linen dress, slim, brown-stockinged legs, -and laced brown shoes. - -Her father was thirty-seven. It seemed an almost appalling age to his -small daughter. And yet he still had a boyish slenderness. He was tall, -and straight, with a carriage that was noticeably military—acquired at -the preparatory school to which his elder brothers had sent him. His -hair, brown and thick like his daughter’s, was just beginning to show a -sprinkling of gray at the temples. His eyes were Phœbe’s eyes—set wide -apart, given to straight looking, and quick, friendly smiles. He had -presented her with his straight nose, too, and his mouth. But his chin -was firmer than hers, a man’s chin, and the chin of a man who, once -having set forward on any course, does not turn back. - -Phœbe thought him quite perfect. And she thought it wonderful that he -should be a mining-engineer. “It’s a clean business,” he had told her -once, when she was about ten years of age. “It takes a man into the big -out-doors.” She had treasured up what he had said—turned it over in her -mind again and again. And had come to feel that her father was entirely -different from the men whom she met in her home—a man set wholly apart. - -His profession explained to her his long absences from New York, and the -fact that, in the last year or so, he had been compelled to make a club -his headquarters during the period of his short stays in the city. “This -place is so tiny,” Phœbe’s mother always said. “And all Daddy’s traps -are at the Club.” It had never occurred to Phœbe to doubt anything that -Mother told her. And did not her father fully corroborate this excuse of -Mother’s? Phœbe longed to have her father stay at home when he arrived -in town. But she never complained against his being away. Hers was a -patient, a trusting, a sturdy little soul. - -With her smile of reassurance, Phœbe had leaned toward her father, to -speak confidingly. “You know, Daddy,” she began, “it seems so funny that -Mother had me go the way she did. Don’t you think so?—without saying why -she wanted me to leave, or—or anything? Did she say anything about it to -you?” - -“Well, you see,” her father answered, “having you go this way spared -your dear little heart. No good-byes, or tears. But pretty soon -Grandma’s, with Uncle Bob, and Uncle John, and a big garden, and a -horse——” - -“A horse!” marveled Phœbe. - -“Oh, he’s an old horse, and he pulls the surrey. Because Uncle Bob won’t -have a motor car—he wants to walk to and from the Court House, and keep -down his weight, and——” - -“Uncle Bob is fat?” Phœbe inquired. - -“Well, stout. And Uncle John, being a clergyman, and a trifle -particular, doesn’t believe ministers should rush around in automobiles. -So the surrey is for Uncle John, but Grandma will let you drive for her -sometimes. And there are ducks and chickens to feed, and big beds of -flowers, and a tall, green hedge where the birds build their nests, -and——” - -“And when will Mother come?” interposed Phœbe, with an intonation which -made plain her opinion that it would certainly take mother to make the -suburban picture complete. - -“Phœbe,” said her father, speaking with a new earnestness, “Mother is -not very well, and she is planning to leave New York for a while, and go -where she can get better.” - -“I know she isn’t very well,” agreed Phœbe. “She coughs too much.” - -“Exactly. You know, Mother’s health hasn’t been good for quite a -while——” - -“I know.” - -“And she must have the change. I didn’t want to have you go, dear, to a -strange city, where your mother has no friends, and might be very ill. -So away you go to Grandma’s till everything is straightened out. And -you’ll—— Oh, look at that automobile!—there! It’s keeping up with the -train! My! My! but that’s considerable speeding!” - -They talked of other things then,—of the homes past which they were -rushing, the towns through which they glided and grandly ignored, except -for a gingerly slowing down. Noon came, and with it a visit to the -dining-car. Then the afternoon dragged itself along. Toward the latter -half of it, Phœbe, worn by the excitement of the sudden departure, and -lulled by the motion of the train, curled up on the green plush of the -car seat and fell asleep, her short brown hair spread fanwise upon her -father’s shoulder. - -The afternoon went; twilight came. Still the train rushed on, carrying -Phœbe northward toward that new home awaiting her. She slept a second -time, after a simple supper. Her journey was to end shortly before -midnight. For this reason her father judged it best that a berth should -not be made up for her, but that she should rest as she had in the -afternoon, her head on his breast. - -She smiled as she slept, blissfully unaware that all at once her happy -life was changing; that she was being uprooted like some plant; that a -tragedy of which she was as yet mercifully ignorant had come forward -upon her, wave-like and overwhelming, to sweep her forever from her -course! - - - - - CHAPTER II - - -A rain was drenching the blackness of the night as the New York train -reached the small city that was Phœbe’s destination. Her father had -wakened her a little in advance of their stop, and when she had washed -her face and smoothed her hair, she had peered through the double glass -of a car window a-stream with water—and then recoiled from the panes -with a sinking of the heart. How dark it was out there! how stormy! how -lightless after a life-time in a city which, no matter at what hour she -might awake, was always alight! - -A long whistle made her catch up her hat and adjust its elastic under -her chin. The porter had already taken her father’s suit-case and her -own to the forward end of the coach. With a wild thumping in her breast -and a choking in her throat, she followed her father to the vestibule, -where the porter waited with the suit-case and a small, square stool -upon which, presently, she stepped down to meet the rain. - -There was a single light in the station, and beside it leaned a young -man in an agent’s cap. With her hand on her father’s arm—for he was -carrying both of the cases—she crossed a double line of glistening rails -to the depot, not taking her eyes from the agent, who represented to -her, at the moment, the sole sign of life and refuge in that black, -roaring downfall. - -Then, “Jim!” - -“Hello, Bob!” Her father dropped the luggage and stretched both hands -out to a figure that had emerged, in a shining raincoat, from the -blackness. - -“And Phœbe!” exclaimed Uncle Bob, lifting Phœbe from her feet and at the -same time turning himself about, so that she was carried forward to the -shelter of a roof. “God bless her! We’ll jump into the surrey, Jim, and -I’ll have you home in a jiffy. What a ghastly night!—It’ll take the snow -off, Phœbe. But we’ll have more. And then for some sleigh-rides!” - -The train was gone, booming into the distance, with parting shrieks that -grew fainter and fainter. As Phœbe was helped to the rear seat of the -surrey, Uncle Bob holding aside the curtains that shut out the storm, -she turned her head to look through the night to where great sparks were -going up with the smoke of the engine. The train was leaving her—that -train which seemed her only link with New York, with the beloved -apartment that was to her the home-nest, with her mother—her dear, -beautiful mother. - -Phœbe gulped. - -From the front seat sounded her uncle’s voice—a nice voice, she -concluded, though not at all like Daddy’s. As if he understood something -of what she was feeling—the lostness, the loneliness, the sensation of -being torn up and thrust out—her father had taken his seat beside her -and put an arm about her, drawing her so closely to him that, for -comfort, she was forced to take off her hat. The surrey was moving. And -its two side-lamps were casting a rain-blurred light upon the flanks of -a bay horse. Phœbe peered forward at the horse. She had pictured him -after horses she had seen in Central Park—shiny-coated saddlers, or -carriage pairs, proud and plump and high-stepping, with docked tails and -arching necks. But this horse was almost thin, and moved slowly, with a -_plop-plop-plop_ through the miry puddles of the unpaved street. This -horse had a long tail, and his head was on a level with his back. Phœbe -was disappointed. - -The drive took some time. Yet conversation lagged, and was a one-sided -affair between Uncle Bob and the horse, in which the former urged the -latter to “Get up” and “Go ’long.” Here and there a street light shone -with a sickly yellow flame through the pelting drops. Phœbe tried to see -something of the town, to right and left over Uncle Bob’s wide -shoulders. But only the dim outlines of buildings were discernible. -Strange and stormy was the little she could see. And there rose in her a -feeling against this town into which she was come; so that, with Grandma -and Uncle John still to meet and know, she yet longed for a quick -turnabout, and a train that would carry her away again—away and away to -the great city, to her little bed and her pretty mother. - -The surrey drew up beside a large house that showed a dozen glowing -windows, and as the wheels scraped the boards of a step, voices called -out in greeting, and Uncle Bob answered them. “I’ve got ’em!” he cried. -Whereupon a hand pulled at the curtain of the surrey on Phœbe’s side, -and here, under an umbrella, was a tall, thin gentleman in black, who -wore eye-glasses and had large teeth. “Our dear little niece!” he -exclaimed. And Phœbe climbed down to him, steadying herself by his hand, -and was led by him to a wide door where Grandma was waiting—a slender -little lady in a gray dress. - -Phœbe permitted herself to be kissed, first by Grandma, then by Uncle -John, as the man with large teeth proved to be, then by Uncle Bob, who -had shed his raincoat and now stood forth, a heavy-set person, quite -bald, and apple-cheeked, with smiling blue eyes. - -The greetings over, Phœbe fell back a step, felt for and found her -father’s hand, and then lost herself in contemplation of the trio of new -relatives. Of them, Daddy had, assuredly, spoken frequently. But, -man-like, he had never essayed a description of them, never endowed them -either with virtues or faults, never taught her in advance to render to -the three any love or loyalty. So that now, appraising them, Phœbe was -unprejudiced in her judgment, and viewed them as she might have viewed -three strangers who were not related. How very old Grandma was! Phœbe -noted that the white head trembled steadily, as if Grandma were, -perhaps, cold. As for Uncle John, there was something altogether -forbidding about him—eye-glasses, teeth and all. Aloofness was a part of -her feeling toward this clerical uncle. But Uncle Bob—upon his -apple-round cheeks glistened drops that Phœbe knew were not rain. And -his eyes were shining with something that Phœbe recognized—the something -she knew as love. He was big, he was round, he was, oh, so very homely. -But straightway, with a child’s true instinct, Phœbe loved him. - -Behind the three was another figure. Phœbe first glimpsed the white -apron, which to her city-bred eyes meant that here was a maid. And such -a funny maid, in a lavender dress, with no cap on tousled yellowish hair -that had been kinked rather than curled. The maid had a wide, grinning -mouth, and eager, curious, hazel eyes. Yet altogether she was a likeable -person, Phœbe decided. Youth spoke to youth across the Blair -sitting-room. So that when all were seated in the high-ceilinged -dining-room for a bite of supper, Phœbe answered Sophie’s smile with one -of her own, and for the cup of steaming chocolate that was set at her -plate murmured a friendly “Thank you.” - -The supper was a quiet affair. Grandma bobbed and nodded over her -chocolate, speaking only when Sophie was to fetch something or when one -of the three men needed to be urged to another helping. Uncle John spoke -not at all—after he had said what Phœbe afterwards learned was “a -blessing”. He looked at his food crossly. Phœbe’s father had little to -say, too. He looked tired and white. And when he smiled at Phœbe, he -seemed not to see her, but to be looking beyond somehow. Only Uncle Bob -appeared cheerful. His eyes danced when Phœbe lifted her eyes to him -shyly. Every now and then he patted her shoulder. But—compared by her -New York standards—Phœbe voted the supper altogether dreary—the result, -she felt sure, of having Uncle John present. - -A little later, she was conducted to her room by Sophie. How unlike was -that strange bed-chamber to the wee, cosy place, all rose hangings and -sheer white, which for as long as her memory could trace had held her -white bed and the twin one that was her mother’s! The new room was at -the top of a long, wide stairway that wound back upon itself. The new -room was high, and surely as large, Phœbe thought, as all of the New -York apartment made into one. It had lace curtains at both windows, and -there was an old-style dressing-table, slabbed over its top with mottled -marble. When Phœbe touched the marble, she drew back from it, and -stared, a little amazed. It was so cold! - -Sophie seemed to guess something of what was passing through Phœbe’s -mind. “I’ll just put a fancy towel on it t’morra,” she promised. “Ain’t -had time today.” - -“Thank you,” murmured Phœbe. Certainly the dressing-table needed -something. - -Sophie hung about for a little, shifting her weight from one substantial -foot to the other, and making offers of aid. Could she unpack Phœbe’s -jo-dandy suit-case? Phœbe replied with a polite, “No, thank you.” Could -she unbutton the blue linen dress? (“My, it’s pretty!”) Again, “No, -thank you.” Then the windows had to be raised a trifle, and lowered -again because of the rain. There were two windows, great, high affairs -against which tall green blinds were fastened. Next, Sophie displayed -the clothes-closet, and hung Phœbe’s serge coat on a nail. Last of all, -she caught up the two thick pillows on the wide bed, beat them as a -baker beats his dough (and with a touch of something almost like -temper), flung them down into place once more, and grudgingly sidled to -the door. - -Phœbe, standing in the middle of the floor, hat still in hand, made a -pathetic little figure that appealed to Sophie’s heart. “Ain’t there -anything I can do?” she inquired, persisting. - -Phœbe nodded. “If—if Daddy will please come up to kiss me good-night,” -she answered, choking; “and—and put out my light.” - -“I’ll tell him, you betcha,” declared Sophie, heartily. She went out, -turning her tousled head to smile a good-night. - -Phœbe hurried with her undressing. There was no running water in the big -room, and she could not bring herself to open her door and call down, or -go down, in quest of it. Presently, however, she caught sight of a tall -pitcher standing in a wide, flowered bowl, both atop what seemed to be a -cupboard. She went to peer into the pitcher. Sure enough! The pitcher -was full of water; and Phœbe, using all the strength of her slender -arms, heaved it up and out and filled the bowl. - -“How funny!” she marveled. And once in bed, with a single electric light -shining full into her face from where it hung on a cord from the high -center of the ceiling, she studied the room itself, walls, furniture, -curtains, carpet. “How queer!” she murmured, over and over. - -“Well, big eyes!” hailed her father, when he came in. - -She raised on an elbow. “Daddy,” she whispered, “isn’t it so—so -different here—everything. Why, in New York nobody has water-pitchers.” - -Her father laughed. “This is a wonderful old house,” he declared. He sat -down beside her. - -“It’s so big!” Phœbe lay back. Her hand crept into her father’s and she -looked up at the high ceiling, with its covering of wall-paper in a -wavy, watered design. - -“You’ll get used to it,” he promised, “and you’ll like it. And do you -know how happy Grandma is to have you?—Uncle John and Uncle Bob, too? I -can see they love my little girl already.” - -“And they’ll love Mother,” added Phœbe, stoutly “You just wait till she -comes back well again. Won’t they, Daddy?” - -Her father rose, and the smile in his eyes gave place to an expression -of sudden pain. “I don’t doubt it,” he answered hastily. Then leaning to -smooth back the hair from her brow, “You’re tired, aren’t you, darling? -And so is Daddy. We’ll say good-night now, and in the morning there’ll -be so much to see, and do, and talk about.” - -“Yes, sir.” - -He laid his cheek against hers, so babyish still. “God bless my -daughter,” he said tenderly. - -Her arms went round his neck then. “Oh, Daddy,” she implored brokenly, -“how long will I be away from mother? Oh, Daddy, just one day and I miss -her so!” - -He soothed her. “I can’t tell, Phœbe,” he asserted. “But will you trust -me to do the best that I know how?” - -With her wide eyes upon him, he stood at the middle of the room, his -right arm raised to put out the electric light. He pulled at the cord, -and the room went dark. He felt his way to the door then, and went out -with a last affectionate good-night which Phœbe answered cheerily -enough. - -But when the sound of his footsteps died away in the hall, she stared -into the blackness, seeing him still there at the room’s center with his -arm upraised. And her loneliness and loss she told silently to that -picture of her father which still remained under the swinging globe in -the blackness. - -“I want Mother,” she said, over and over. “Oh, Daddy, I want to go back -to New York, to Mother. Oh, Daddy, don’t leave me here without Mother.” -Then, “Oh, Mother, if I could only be with you! Oh, dear, dear Mother!” - -The tears came then,—tears of weariness as well as grief. And Phœbe, -curled up in the wide bed, her face buried in the curve of an arm, -sobbed herself to sleep. - - - - - CHAPTER III - - -A fairy bell was tinkling. The clear tones were part of a dream so -sweet, though afterwards not remembered, that Phœbe smiled in her sleep. -The tinkling grew steadily louder. Phœbe waked, saw where she was, and -raised her head to listen. The bell was outside. Persistent and musical, -its ringing called Phœbe from her bed to a window. She peered down -through a gap in the storm shutters. - -A messenger boy on a bicycle was coming up the curving drive that led -from the front gate to the house. The rain was over. The sun glinted on -the metal of his wheel. He disappeared from Phœbe’s view under a square, -flat roof that was one story below her window. - -She ran to put on her shoes and stockings. She splashed her face with -the icy water in the flowered bowl, and dressed at top speed. A -messenger boy conveyed only one thing to her: a telegram from her -mother. - -She was right. When she came racing down to ask, her father was standing -by the front door in the big hall, the telegram open in his hand. - -He did not permit Phœbe to read the wire, but put it away in the leather -case that held his paper money. And he did not reply to it by another -telegram when the messenger boy reminded him that there was an answer. - -“I’ll write your mother,” he explained to Phœbe. - -After breakfast he sat down to write. That first day at Grandma’s, Phœbe -learned that during each week-day morning the library was sacred to -Uncle John. So Phœbe’s father wrote at Grandma’s desk in the -sitting-room, with Phœbe writing at the sewing-table close by. - -Her father’s letter was short. His face was stern as he wrote it. Then -he paced the floor. Phœbe had often seen him like that in New York. She -understood that he was frequently worried over business. And she -understood business worries, because she had seen several worried -business men in the “movies.” Usually they stood over curious machines -out of which ran a long narrow strip of paper. And as a rule they ended -by committing suicide with a pistol. Phœbe stole anxious glances toward -her father as she wrote. - -“_Darling, darling Mother_,” ran her letter, “_I did as you said. But I -hope you’re going to tell me to come home right away. It’s nice here, -only I want you, and I hope I’ll be back before Saturday. Your loving -daughter, Phœbe._” - - -It was a short letter, since it occurred to Phœbe that perhaps a little -of her father’s pacing might be due to impatience. She was not a rapid -penman. - -Her letter finished and folded, she took it to him. “Put this in with -yours, Daddy?” she asked. - -He stared down at her, not answering for a moment. Then, “Yes,” he said, -“of course.” He added her letter to his, but he did not seal the -envelope. - -When he was gone, Phœbe sat down to wait. There were things to be seen -outside—a barn to explore, and a chicken-coop. Also, Grandma had -promised to show Phœbe over the house. But Phœbe was not especially -interested. What she wanted most was the return of her father, that she -might hear the hour of her return to New York. - -Sophie came in to set the living-room to rights. On better acquaintance, -there was something exceedingly attractive about Sophie. Her hair was so -bright, her eyes were roguish. She had dimples. In the matter of dress, -however, she entirely lacked that black-and-white smartness which Sally, -Mother’s colored maid, possessed. Remembering Sally gave Phœbe a happy -thought: Here was the one, of all those in the big house, who would be a -pleasant companion to the local “movies.” - -“Is there a moving-picture theatre in this town?” she asked. - -“Is there!” cried Sophie. “I should say! Many as nine, I guess.” - -“Oh, I’m so glad!” - -“Mm.” Sophie looked doubtful, somehow. But she kept her own counsel. “I -seen a grand picture last night,” she confided. - -“Did you! Oh, tell me about it!” - -First, for some reason, Sophie went to the door and looked out into the -hall. Then, launching into her story, she dropped her voice. “It was all -about awful rich folks,” she began. “There was a girl, and you seen her -at the start in her papa’s viller. He’s so rich that his hired men wear -knee pants.” - -The story grew. With it mounted Phœbe’s interest and Sophie’s -enthusiasm. And when Sophie was done, Phœbe in turn remembered a picture -full of high adventure and love that put danger to scorn. - -“The horse jumped off a fast train,” she related. “And the brave young -cow-boy fell to the water below. But horses can swim. This horse made -for shore, and the cow-boy swam along beside him. The waves were high—it -must have been the ocean. Now you saw him, now you didn’t. But he got -closer and closer to land. Pretty soon the horse touched bottom. You saw -the cow-boy was safe. When there, on the beach, stood the villain—with a -gun in his hands!” - -“Phœbe.” Her father had entered. He was frowning at Sophie. - -“Daddy!” Phœbe ran to him. “Oh, there are nine movie theatres in this -town, Sophie says. Oh Daddy, I’d like to go to one this afternoon.” - -“But, Uncle John, Phœbe,” said her father. - -She did not understand. “Couldn’t Sophie take me?” - -“Phœbe, your Uncle John is a clergyman,” explained her father, his voice -grave. “If his niece goes to the movies, that looks as if he approves of -them. And he doesn’t.” - -Phœbe stared, aghast. “But Mother took me hundreds of times,” she -reminded. - -“Not in this town, dear.” - -“But can’t I even see travel pictures?” - -“I’m sorry.” - -Phœbe sat down, dumbfounded. Sophie went out quietly, without lifting -those roguish eyes. - -Phœbe’s father came over to his daughter, and rested a gentle hand on -her shoulder. “In this house,” he said, speaking very low, “the less my -little girl says about the movies the better.” - -“Yes, sir,” answered Phœbe, dutifully. - -But rebellion came into her heart that first morning. And thereafter her -Uncle John, rector of the town’s most exclusive church, and undeniably a -most devout man, was to play the rôle of villain in the drama which -Phœbe felt that she was living. - -The subject of moving-pictures was forgotten temporarily when more fairy -tinklings announced the arrival, about noon, of a second messenger boy. -He had still another telegram from Phœbe’s mother. And this time he -waited while Phœbe’s father wrote out an answer. Then he went tinkling -away. - -“Is Mother anxious about us, Daddy?” Phœbe wanted to know. - -“Yes, darling. But we’re all right here, aren’t we?—for a little while.” - -“I guess so,” said Phœbe, without enthusiasm. - -A third telegram came later on in the day, and a fourth that evening. -The day following brought others. More arrived the day after that. -Phœbe’s father answered some of them in kind, others by letter. After -the arrival of the first one he had taken on something of a resigned, -almost cheerful, air, and had explained each message to Phœbe, declaring -laughingly that her mother would burn up the telegraph wires; while -Phœbe, with her numerous letters, would put a terrible strain on the -local post-office. - -Yet for all his gaiety, Phœbe sensed that there was something about it -all which she did not understand. For one thing, why did her mother not -write to her? - -“Has Mother written you?” she asked her father. - -“Yes.” But though he searched his pockets and the desk, he failed to -locate the letter. Also he was not able to remember much that the letter -contained. - -“Of course,” conceded Phœbe, “Mother isn’t a very good letter-writer. -Whenever you were away, she’d say, ‘You write to Daddy.’ And I would. -Darling Mother! She never liked to sit down and go at it. She just seems -to hate ink.” - -“That’s why she wires,” declared Phœbe’s father. “It’s easy to get off a -telegram.—Oh, well.” - -But Phœbe kept on puzzling over it all. When the telegrams stopped, her -father admitted that letters kept on arriving. But he never showed any -of them to Phœbe, or read to her from them. He explained that they were -about very private matters. “What?” Phœbe asked herself. - -Yes, there was something about all this telegraphing and letter-writing -which she did not understand. - - - - - CHAPTER IV - - -There was something else which Phœbe did not understand. Walking, -mittened and warmly clad, over the snow-crusted half-acre of Grandma’s -garden, she gave herself up to conjecture. Or in the sitting-room, with -Grandma seated nearby, sewing, she puzzled her small head. And when she -drove with Uncle Bob into the country, through lanes of naked trees that -edged bare fields, she studied his big, good-natured face and wished -that she might open her heart and ask him all about it. - -That something else which she did not understand was this: a strict -watch was being kept upon her—almost as if in fear! - -Why? Did they, her father, and her uncles and grandmother, think that, -missing her mother, she might run away to New York? Or was it that they -guessed how terribly she longed for her mother, and made sure that she -should never be left alone? But—if they were sparing her loneliness, why -was she not sent to school every day, like other children whom she saw -clattering along the sidewalk that ran just outside the high hedge? Or -why were children not asked into the big Blair garden to play with her? -And why did Daddy, who for years had been so busy with his work that he -could seldom give her more than a very occasional afternoon, why was he -putting aside all work now in order to stay there with her—particularly -since Mother, ill and alone, assuredly needed him if she could not have -Phœbe? - -There were other curious things. She was never permitted to go downtown -unless her father accompanied her. She was never allowed to drive alone -with Grandma. She might not go to Sunday school or church with Uncle -John. And at last she was able to see that a certain iron rule obtained -concerning her movements: she could not play in the garden unless Uncle -Bob or Daddy was home; and she could not leave Grandma’s to walk or -drive unless her father or an uncle was in the surrey. - -It was all very puzzling. - -When people called, Phœbe did not meet them. Sophie, suddenly grown -enthusiastic over some ordinary household matter, hurried her upstairs, -or down cellar, as the case might be; or took her egg-hunting to the -tall frame chicken-house standing in the back lot. - -If the attic received them, Sophie kept a watch upon the garden from the -tiny attic window; and as soon as the visitors took their leave, -Sophie’s interest in the top of the house promptly melted, and Phœbe was -coaxed away from the fascinating boxes and barrels that filled the room, -and led down to the sitting-room and Grandma. If on the approach of -callers Sophie found pressing reasons for going down into the cellar, -and taking Phœbe along, the watch that was set on the attic window was -transferred to the ceiling of the cellar. For Sophie kept turning her -face up at it inquiringly, kept an ear cocked toward that corner of it -which was under the wide entrance hall. And when a dull thump announced -the shutting of the front door, Sophie invariably found herself ready -and eager to leave the cellar for other duties higher up. - -“Why don’t I ever meet anybody?” Phœbe pondered. - -Her mind dwelt on certain dark, dramatic possibilities. In New York, how -freely had she tasted of that—to her—most perfect of all joys—the -moving-pictures. She went to some temple of the silent play three or -four times every week—sometimes with her mother, but more often with her -mother’s black maid. Oh, the never lessening lure of the film dramas! -The grip of them! The beauty of their heroines! The masterful, handsome -heroes in them! The villains always foiled! The maidens consistently -saved! Oh, Dustin Farnum! Oh, lovely, dainty Marguerite Clark! Oh, -gun-handling, stern and adorable William S. Hart! - -And now, her imagination trained, Phœbe, as she considered conditions as -she saw them, asked herself if, perhaps, Daddy and the others were not -in fear of enemies! of kidnappers! of Mexican bandits! And this new -hazard soon came to seem the logical, then the probable, then the true -thing. - -From a cautious attitude, she changed to actual fear. She began each day -with a careful look from her windows, scanning the grounds, the hedges. -Once in the open, she looked for foot-prints on the walks leading up to -the house. She was always on the alert. And a new look came into the -gray-blue eyes—a look of anxious questioning. - -It was bad enough in the daytime. But at night she suffered, and dreaded -the going-down of the sun. Toward evening she set herself one task: the -lowering of her curtains, but more particularly the curtains of the -sitting-room—against the peering in of faces! As twilight came, it -seemed to her that the big house gathered into itself more dwellers than -just the half-dozen of which she was one. They were up in the attic, -these strange visitors, or down in the cellar, or in the closet under -the stairs. In her own room at bedtime, having glanced under her -four-poster, she locked her clothes-closet against Something which she -felt was lurking therein. While before she fell asleep, or if she waked -in the still hours, she held her breath and listened—listened. Sometimes -there were snappings; sometimes softer sounds came to her, like the -creeping of stealthy feet. In the blackness, white shapes sprang up -before even her tight-closed eyes—sprang up, wavered, swelled, melted. -She covered her head. Never was one small hand left free, lest it be -taken by one unknown and clammy! - -How she longed to find out about it all, to tell some one all her -terrors. Often at night she determined to go boldly to her father the -very next morning. Just as often the light of the new day withered her -resolution. “If only Mother were here,” she told herself. It was easy to -confide anything to Mother. But she shrank from opening her heart to her -father. What she wanted to know he knew, and could tell her if he wanted -her to know. - -Then she thought of Sophie. Uncle Bob was not a remote possibility, but -Sophie was even more approachable. Phœbe broached her subject -diplomatically. “I don’t see many people here, do I?” she inquired. - -It was so casual that Sophie had no inkling of what lay beneath the -innocent question. “You don’t lose much, neither,” was the grunted -rejoinder. (Sophie held local society in high disdain.) - -“I knew lots of ladies and gentlemen in New York,” Phœbe went on. -“Because Mother has so many friends—beautiful ladies, that wear -beautiful clothes. And gentlemen who are rich, and have cars, and bring -me candy and things.” - -Sophie was keenly interested. They were in Phœbe’s own room on this -particular occasion (Phœbe feeling instinctively that she could get -better results on her own territory), and Sophie was so eager to hear -about New York, and the apartment, and the ladies, and the men, that she -sat down, and asked many questions, only stopping, now and then, to go -to the door to look out. - -And Phœbe, nothing loath, answered every question—and more. So that -Sophie was given a very fair and truthful account of life in the -metropolitan apartment—that is, of the life that Phœbe saw between her -early waking and her early bedtime. - -At the end of this long talk, Sophie was summoned downstairs by -Grandma’s hand-bell, a round, squat affair, like a school-teacher’s -bell, which stood on a little table at the foot of the stairs. And a few -minutes later, Phœbe, who had trailed down after the maid, came upon her -in the library. Sophie was standing close to Grandma, and talking very -low; and when Phœbe entered, the two moved apart, somewhat hastily, and -Sophie smiled a conscious smile, and looked a little guilty, and began -to talk more loudly than was necessary about her duties. - -In that moment, Phœbe realized herself cut off from the one being in -that big house of grown-ups with whom she had been making ready to share -her little confidences. For now it was plain that Sophie could not be -trusted. - -One thought did not come to Phœbe, namely, that the strict watch kept -upon her had anything to do with her mother. - -If the thought had occurred, whom could she have asked? From the very -first night of her arrival Phœbe had discovered that Grandma—dear, -gentle Grandma, with her mild old eyes and her trembling head—did not -care to talk to Phœbe about Mother. Neither did Uncle Bob, who was -always so ready to chatter boyishly about all other matters that seemed -of interest to his niece. As for Uncle John, she never considered -mentioning Mother to him. For one day she had left Mother’s photograph -on the mantelpiece in the sitting-room, and coming for it, she had seen -Uncle John with the picture in his hand. When he discovered Phœbe beside -him, he stared down at her, and the look in his eyes was not good to -see. His lips were drawn back from his shut teeth, too,—as if he were -enraged at the photograph. He almost flung it down, and went out with no -word. - -Phœbe understood. Mother had never liked these three who belonged to -Daddy. Naturally, these three did not like Mother. Even for a girl of -fourteen that was simple enough. - -And Daddy—Phœbe understood that if she mentioned her mother to her -father, the smile on his face, the light in his eyes, went instantly. -And understanding that, she had come to speak seldom to him of the one -whose absence was a constant hurt, an ache, a burden. - -And now Sophie might not be taken into her confidence. For Sophie, voice -lowered and tousled head bobbing close to Grandma’s, had been telling -over all that Phœbe had told to her. Yes, telling it all over—and what -else? For Grandma’s face, as Phœbe caught sight of it, was pale and -stern, and her eyes were wide open and angry behind the round panes of -her gold-rimmed spectacles. - -Thereafter Phœbe drew more and more into herself. And what she had to -confide, she confided to the big old doll that had come with her from -New York, packed between two middy-blouses in the suit-case. The big old -doll slept with her, too, in the wide bed. And for added comfort, Phœbe -put the photograph under her pillow of nights. When the light was out -and the covers over her head, she drew the photograph forth and laid her -cheek upon it. Cool it was, and smooth, like the open palm of her -mother’s hand. And held close, thus, it gave forth a faint perfume—a -perfume which Mother had used—which brought Mother near in the dark of -the big room—which brought the tears, too, the wearisome sobbing that at -last, in turn, brought sleep; and sleep brought dreams—dear dreams of -that loved, perfumed presence that now, at times, seemed scarcely more -than the figure in a dream. - -Phœbe had left New York just after the Christmas holidays—holidays -packed with joys as they had never before been packed. For apart from -the usual tree with the usual gifts, there had been other things—a -horseback ride on a horse that belonged to one of Mother’s men friends; -a score of drives in a wonderful limousine that was all blue without and -a soft sand-color within, and ran as if shod with velvet, though with -the strength, Mother said, of eighty horses! And there was a symphony -concert, too, in Carnegie Hall, to which whole flocks of children came, -and to which Phœbe wore her very best of all white dresses; and there -was an afternoon at the Opera, where Mother had wonderful seats in a box -which Phœbe understood cost a fortune, and Phœbe saw a great curtain -lift to display castles, and forests, soldiers, knights and princesses. -And, of course, there was that supremest of joys—the “movies.” In the -holidays the “movies” were an everyday delight. - -How she longed for them! - -However, in the big house she spoke of them only to Sophie, and then in -undertones. But in this matter, as in her separation from her mother, -she was not to any degree submissive. Her silence indicated that she -was; but she was merely biding her time. - -It was in January that Phœbe came to the big house. And the something -which she did not understand—that being watched, and passed from hand to -hand, and kept apart from other children, and out of school—obtained -through all the rest of the first month of the new year, and through -February and into March. - -Then, one day, a sudden change! A quick, bewildering, inexplicable, -happy change! - -First of all, to herald it, Uncle John telephoned a Miss Simpson, who -conducted a school for young ladies, and held a long and animated -conversation with that lady—a conversation in which “my niece” and -“Phœbe” figured frequently. Next, Daddy appeared with an unclouded face, -and sat down at the cottage-organ in Grandma’s sitting-room and played a -little, and sang a song or two, Uncle Bob joining in. Next, wonder of -wonders, Phœbe was sent to the nearest drug-store two blocks away, to -get something for Grandma—and she was allowed to go by herself! - -What had happened? - -She did not find out. - -This important news, however, she gleaned from her father: Mother was -now in New York no longer; she had gone West. - -“Isn’t Mother any better, Daddy?” she asked anxiously. - -“We hope she will be,” he answered. - -“Did you have a letter?” Phœbe wanted to know. - -“Yes, I got the news in a letter.” - -A wave of scarlet swept up Phœbe’s young throat and bathed the earnest -little face. News of Mother—from Mother! It choked her, it was all so -wonderful. For had not Mother, for a long time, failed to send any word -to her and Daddy? - -“Oh, a letter?” breathed Phœbe, and there was sweet entreaty in the -young eyes. - -Her father began to thrust his hands into his pockets, as if searching, -just as he had done on occasions before. Finding no letter, he slapped -each pocket with the flat of a hand. He had colored, too. And his -forehead was puckered, and he blinked. - -“Can’t you find it?” breathed Phœbe. - -“Well!—Thought I had it. Mm! Sorry. Must’ve laid it down somewhere.” - -He did not find the letter. But Phœbe was comforted by knowing it had -come. Mother was West, in a city built high above the sea. There she -would improve—speedily. So the best thing to do was to wait patiently. -And while she waited—go to school! - -The school was Miss Simpson’s. It was not a school, really, as Phœbe -discovered the first day. It was a house—a house very like Grandma’s. - -Of course there were differences. At Miss Simpson’s, for instance, the -cellar held a great iron monster-thing with which Phœbe felt on friendly -terms. This monster was the boiler, which sent steam-heat to all the -various rooms. - -There was no boiler in Grandma’s cellar, which was broad and high, -brick-floored, and walled with cobble-stones. It contained, of course, a -coal-bin. And there were other bins that Miss Simpson’s cellar could not -boast—bins for potatoes, and turnips. And Miss Simpson had no shelves -full of pickles and preserves, and shining cans of lard, no beams from -which hung corn and onions and peppers, and hams in their sacking, and -smoked bacon in a wrapping of paraffine-paper. She had no pumpkins piled -yellowly in one corner, with green cabbages close beside. And where were -her pork barrels ranged in a row, topped by tubs holding the eggs that -had been “put down,” and the winter supply of butter? - -But Miss Simpson’s cellar was much nicer than Grandma’s. For it was just -like a New York basement! - -Elsewhere, too, Phœbe felt the school to be infinitely more attractive -than the Blair home. It was new, it was (Miss Simpson herself said it) -modern, and it was built all of brick. Genevieve Finnegan, a girl of -Phœbe’s own age, declared that Miss Simpson’s house was stylish; while a -teacher, touching on architecture one day, proudly catalogued it as -“very English.” - -Phœbe did not understand in just what way the school was “very English,” -but she did come to realize, through Genevieve, that whatever very -English might be, it was something much to be desired for any house. As -for Grandma’s residence, well, Genevieve was politely scornful. - -Phœbe readily understood why. - -The Blair house had gone up when Uncle John was a baby, and was typical, -in its architecture, of the best suburban houses of those remote times. -It had towers—two of them—round and shingled, with points that held -lightning-rods. It had fancy cornices, too, and trimmings that were -considered marvels of beauty when they were new. Now Genevieve referred -to them as “ginger bread.” And it had green blinds on its many -windows—blinds that had rattled in all the storms of the passing years, -but were still intact, testifying to the wood and workmanship of that -period of the long-ago. - -But the house was “old-fashioned.” There was no concealing it—everybody -in town knew it. Once, in the days when the Blair house was new, it had -stood all to itself, in the center of what was known as Blair Farm. The -farm had been cut up into lots later on. Then the big, lonely house had, -as it were, drawn the town lovingly to it, and had taken its place as a -sort of landmark, rearing its unfashionable turrets among very -up-to-date structures. Genevieve and her mamma, and her papa, together -with five servants, were dwellers in one of these structures. Genevieve -referred to her home—carelessly—as a “chalet.” - -There was nothing to be said in criticism of Miss Simpson’s—even though -it was not a chalet. Genevieve declared, and other girls upheld her, -that Miss Simpson’s was so unusually splendid in the way of interior -woods, marbled entrance hall, frescoed ceilings and the like that the -man who had put it up had “gone broke.” Genevieve said it boastfully. -How much further, indeed, could any man go who was putting up a house -than to go broke? - -Phœbe was convinced. - -She was quick to admit to herself that, interiorly at least, there was -much to be desired in the way of improvements at Grandma’s. If the big -Blair house was not comparable to Miss Simpson’s, it was also far from -coming up to the standard of apartments in New York. For example, -consider the wall-paper on Grandma’s ceilings, and the colored glass in -certain of Grandma’s doors. Crayon reproductions of family photographs -were not at all “the thing,” Phœbe knew and Genevieve averred. Neither -were wax flowers modish—and Grandma had so many frames of them! And then -there was that little item of lace curtains. Phœbe did not have to be -told that nobody who really knew would, in these later and wiser times, -go out and buy lace curtains. - -Phœbe did not see the upper floors of Miss Simpson’s; but the street -floor was proof of what might be expected at the top of the graceful -stairway. How beautiful the great drawing-room was, with its satin-wood -walls, carved and bracketed for silk-covered shades. How deep the great -rugs were in all the big downstairs rooms! And there were velvet couches -on either side of the library fire, and here, before a glowing hearth, -Miss Simpson gathered her girls of an afternoon for the function of tea. -The maid who served the tea wore a cap. And on no account did she ever -lift her eyes to smile, as Sophie smiled. What was most important, this -maid referred to Miss Simpson as “Madam.” And Phœbe knew this was most -proper and desirable. For Sally had always called Mother “Madam.” If -Phœbe had not known about all this, Genevieve would have been the one to -teach her, Genevieve being a stickler for all that was proper -and—fashionable. - -Phœbe came to look upon the tea-function at Miss Simpson’s as a rare -privilege. This was because only a certain very small group of girls in -town might share the opportunity of attending that daily function. For -Miss Simpson’s School, as Uncle John had said, and as had been borne out -architecturally and otherwise—Miss Simpson’s School was most exclusive. - -Freed from long weeks of loneliness, Phœbe welcomed the School with -delight. She felt it rightful that she should be there, too. For was not -her Uncle John the most fashionable rector in town? Was not her Uncle -Bob a Judge?—that he was Judge of the new Court for Juveniles -subtracting only a little from the honors that were his. And was not her -father, her dear, gallant, handsome father, a mining-engineer? And were -not mining-engineers in the same class, socially, as doctors, and -lawyers, and bankers, and mayors of the city? Genevieve said so. - -So Phœbe, welcomed to the School by Miss Simpson, received into the -exclusive tea circle before that library fire, and made one of a little -“set” of pupils out of well-to-do families—Phœbe began to feel at home -in this small, new city, to fret less for the dear mother who was taking -such a long time to get well, and to put behind her all thoughts of the -something which she had not understood. In fact, Phœbe was coming to be -almost patient, almost happy and contented once more. - -And then, one morning, with the same suddenness that had found her free -of restraint and bewildering conjectures, there came another change. - -How it came she scarcely knew. Why it came, she had no idea. It was -there—all about her—like the air; no, more like an obscuring smoke. She -could not see what was wrong. But she could feel. Phœbe curtsied to Miss -Simpson and that august principal did not smile. And there were other -signs—signs that struck a chill to Phœbe’s tender heart. - -Phœbe did not ask any questions. New Year’s Day had ended a wonderful -life. This new life was baffling; full of cruel blows. “Submit,” -counseled a still, small voice; “submit, and wait for Mother.” - -The hot tears stung the gray-blue eyes. Phœbe blinked them away, opened -her Physical Geography, and smiled bravely at a picture of a chimpanzee -climbing a cocoanut tree. - -Phœbe smiled—but she awaited a new blow. - - - - - CHAPTER V - - -Phœbe was very busy. With the wet half of an old handkerchief, she wiped -off the top of her own desk most painstakingly; next, having dried it -with the bit of worn linen kept in reserve, she cleared out the shelf of -the desk, dusting each book as she did so, and then washed and dried the -shelf. Last of all, she took out her inkwell, cleaned the lid of it, -refilled it carefully from a nearby bottle, and replaced it without the -loss of a purple drop. All the while she hummed a little, and was so -intent upon her work that she seemed not to know that the other girls -were leaving one by one—until no one was left with her in the high room, -which once had been a music-room, save a teacher, seated quietly at her -desk. - -But Phœbe, despite all her earnest washing-up, had only been killing -time. She had not glanced up from her work because she did not care to -meet the eyes, or note the whispers, of the other girls. She would not -pass out with them across the terrace which fronted the big house for -fear they might not walk with her, or call a pleasant good-bye. She was -waiting, busy meanwhile, until she could leave Miss Simpson’s alone. - -The teacher, setting her own desk to rights, cast an inquiring look at -Phœbe every now and then. When the last fellow-pupil was gone, Phœbe -rose and came forward to the platform, a little timidly. In front of the -big desk, she halted. Her cheeks were pink—too pink. Her lips were -pressed together. But her eyes smiled bravely. Back went one brown shoe, -and the slender, stockinged legs bent in a curtsey. - -“Good-night, Miss Fletcher,” said Phœbe, politely. - -“Good-night, dear.” Miss Fletcher’s voice was curiously husky. And as -Phœbe turned to leave, the teacher rose abruptly, banged a ruler upon -the green slope of oil-clothed board in front of her, opened and shut a -drawer noisily, and dabbed at her eyes alternately with the back of a -hand. - -But Phœbe was going cheerily enough. She said her usual good afternoon -to the black-clad, white-aproned maid at the front door, did a hop-skip -across the patterned bricks of the wide terrace, and went trippingly -down the winding steps that led to the gate and the street. - -A limousine was waiting there—a long, gleaming, tawny vehicle with brown -trimmings. Phœbe recognized the motor. It was Genevieve Finnegan’s, and -it called for Genevieve every school afternoon. Phœbe had seen other -cars of the same color flashing hither and thither through the town. The -Finnegans, it was rumored, had five automobiles in their big garage. And -Genevieve had been heard to say, though it was scarcely believable, that -of the five cars one was kept solely for the use of the Finnegan -servants! Servants! And Uncle John still clinging to a surrey and a -horse with no check-rein and a long tail! - -As Phœbe sped down the last half-dozen steps to the sidewalk, she did -not even raise her eyes to the proud countenance of the smartly liveried -Finnegan chauffeur. All day she had been troubled, knowing herself -covertly discussed, and slyly ignored. Now, of a sudden, at sight of -this huge testimony to many dollars and much power, she felt strangely -helpless, alone, poor, and ashamed. - -Her unwonted attention to her desk had made her a quarter of an hour -late. She knew that Uncle John and Grandma were, even now, keeping an -eye on the clock, or peering out of a window to see whether or not she -was coming through the driveway gate. She hurried along, eyes straight -ahead. - -As she walked, her lips moved. Over and over, she was repeating certain -things that she had heard the girls say that day—and certain things that -she had said in reply. For instance, Olive Hayward had spoken of the -graduation exercises, to be held early in June. And when Phœbe had -interposed, but very meekly, to inquire what part the younger pupils -would take, Olive, who was fully as round, Phœbe decided, as Uncle Bob -himself—Olive had said, with a queer glance at the girls grouped with -her, “Oh, do you think you’ll still be here?” “I think I will,” Phœbe -had answered, and the girls had laughed! - -Why? - -And then there were other things. Phœbe revolved around the end of the -home gate, closed it even as she started up the walk, bumped in surprise -against the new screen door put up that day against winged intruders, -sped along the hall, taking off the serge coat as she went, and entered -the living-room, breathless, casting aside her hat with one hand and her -coat with the other. She seized the squat stool upon which Uncle Bob, -when reading, liked to rest his feet, carried it to a high, old mirror -that had, in its time, reflected Grandma in her bridal gown, and stood -upon it. - -“Well, young lady?” It was Uncle Bob, from the far corner where was the -telephone. - -Phœbe was turning herself before the mirror—now this way, now that. -“Excuse me, please,” she begged; “just a minute—something—I must -see—right away—very important—before I change.” - -“I should say!” agreed her uncle, watching her curiously. “What seems to -be the matter?” - -She came about to face him. Her brows were knit. Her eyes were troubled. -“That’s just what—what I don’t know,” she admitted. “My dress is all -right.—_Is_ there anything wrong with my dress?” - -He got up and crossed to her. His underlip was thrust out, as if he were -angry. But he answered lightly enough. “Wrong? Not unless mine eyes -deceive me.” - -Phœbe was turning again more slowly. “I thought maybe my petticoat was -showing.” - -“Not a sign of it.” - -“But, Uncle Bob——!” - -“Yes? What?” - -“Get right behind me,—straight behind.” - -“Here I am.” - -“Oh, Uncle Bob, is there a hole in my stocking?” - -He looked—now at one slim leg, now at the other. “There certainly is -not.” - -She got down, her eyes solemn. “Uncle Bob,” she confided, “I don’t know -what to make of it. But all today, at school, the girls have stared, and -stared, and—and whispered. I was sure something was wrong—with my hair, -or my dress. And they were too—too polite to tell.” - -“Polite, you call ’em!” And Phœbe noted how Uncle Bob’s chest rose, so -that the front edges of his coat drew apart. Just over the top of his -collar, too, his neck grew scarlet. “Staring and whispering! The -ill-bred chits!” - -But Phœbe was not angry—only puzzled. “It’s—it’s another mystery,” she -said, almost under her breath. - -“Say!”—her Uncle came to stand beside her, and he, too, lowered his -voice—“do you know, I don’t believe I like that Simpson School! Suppose -we just cut it out?” - -The light in her eager eyes answered him. She had been wondering just -how she could go on at Miss Simpson’s, with the girls acting so queerly, -and not asking her to walk home with them, or sit with them under the -school arbor during the morning study-hour. “You mean, Uncle Bob,” she -breathed incredulously, “that I won’t have to go to Miss Simpson’s any -more?” - -“Well, something on that order.” The Judge smiled a wide, -tooth-revealing smile. - -But his news was too good to be true. “Has Daddy said so?” she wanted to -know. - -“He hasn’t, but I’ve a strong idea that he will.” - -“Oh, I’m glad!” She took a deep breath. “Because, Uncle Bob, I’ve -felt—well, so queer at school for several days. You know—uneasy.” - -He nodded. “I know.” And more confidentially, leaning down to say it, -“I’ve heard of other girls—oh, extra fine girls—who felt exactly like -you do about Miss Simpson’s.” - -But Phœbe was scarcely listening. A new plan—a wonderful, heart-stirring -plan—had come to her, following on the thought that now her days were -again free. “Oh, Uncle Bob,” she began, “if I don’t have to go to school -again, maybe Daddy will let me go West! To Mother!” - -Her uncle backed a step; his look lifted to the wall behind her. He -slapped one plump hand with the other, pursing his lips thoughtfully. -“Mm—er—yes,” he observed; then turning away, “I’m afraid we haven’t made -things very lively for you here.” - -“It isn’t that,” she protested. “I’ve had Daddy. And I love to be here -with all of you. You’re all so nice to each other—never cross. But—but, -Uncle Bob, I’m beginning to—to miss my Mother.” Her look beseeched him. - -He sat down, holding out his hands to her, and she came to stand at his -knee. “If you have to stay a little longer with us,” he said gently, -“you can be out-doors every one of these sunny Spring days, and you can -plant a garden. And when it rains, well, this isn’t a little, tucked-up -New York apartment—this big house.” - -She looked around, nodding. “It’s terribly big,” she declared. “So many -rooms, and so far up to the ceiling. At first I almost got lost—you -remember? To go anywhere, you have to travel so much.” - -Uncle Bob laughed, and drew her to him. “You blessed!” he said. “Of -course it’s big. Why, there’s room enough here to swing a cat.” - -“Yes,” agreed Phœbe, “but I don’t want to swing a cat.” - -“I mean”—Uncle Bob was shaking precisely like the more substantial -portion of a floating-island pudding!—“that you can stretch yourself.” - -“No.” Phœbe shook her head with decision. “No, Uncle John doesn’t like -me to stretch. He says, ‘Ladies don’t do it’.” - -“Oh, you funny little tyke!” cried Uncle Bob. “Can’t you run, and romp, -and play?” - -“In here?” she asked, swinging an arm. - -“Yes, dumpling!” - -“No,” answered Phœbe, as certain as before. “I’d bother Uncle John when -he’s writing a sermon. So Saturdays, when I’m here, I just stand at a -window if I can’t play out in the yard. I just stand and look out. But I -can’t see much—even upstairs. Because this house is so awfully low down, -next the ground.” - -“Low down!” ejaculated her uncle, amazed. - -“Yes. In New York, our apartment was ’way high up in the building, and -we could look over the tops of houses to the River. And the other -direction, oh, there was a wonderful moving-picture theatre, and——” She -stopped, suddenly remembering. - -But her Uncle Bob smiled at her kindly. “And what about that theatre?” - -“I went lots of evenings, before Mother was so sick—just Mother and I -went, or Sally took me. My! but I love the movies!” Then, fearing he -might misjudge her, “I loved the nights we stayed at home, too. They -were so cosy. Daddy would be gone, or busy, or just downtown. So Mother -would sit at the window in her room, in a big chair, and I’d sit on her -knees. Of course, my legs are long, and they hung over. So we just put a -stool close by to hold up my feet, and then—then Mother would sing to -me.” Her lips trembled. - -“Darling!” said Uncle Bob, tenderly. There were tears in her eyes, but -she was smiling through them bravely at this uncle who seemed always to -understand her. Whereupon he smiled, too, and kissed her. “Maybe Grandma -can hold you like that, in a big chair, sometimes.” - -“I’m afraid she isn’t strong enough,” answered Phœbe. “And then, maybe -she wouldn’t know just how to sing.” - -“I see.” He pondered the problem a moment. “Well, of course, I can hold -you. But about the singing—just what was it that Mother sang?” - -“Oh, she just made it up as she went along—to suit the occasion.” - -He put his arms about her then, and held her close. And there was a long -pause. - -Her eyes were brimming. And presently, with a long sigh, she spoke -again: “Oh, how I like my mother to hold me!”—it was scarcely more than -a whisper. “I like her arms, and the place just here on her shoulder.” -The coat under her cheek was checked. She touched a black square with a -finger. “And she uses perfumery on her hair. Oh, Uncle Bob, I love her -hair! I—I love my mother!” - -She wept then, without restraint. And the Judge, awkwardly, and puffing -not a little with the effort, gathered her up in his arms and held her, -whispering to her, straining the little figure to his breast. - -“I can’t say anything to Daddy,” she sobbed. “Oh, Uncle Bob! Uncle Bob!” - -He patted her shoulder. He laid a big cheek against her wet, baby-soft -face. He rocked her gently, yearning over her with all the fatherliness -of his big heart. How many times, as Grandma told her, had tearful -little ones cried out to him where he sat in his lofty chambers at the -Court House! How often had his tender sympathy wrapped them about like a -robe—the mistreated, the lonely, the children that lacked love! But -here, calling upon him for help in her suffering, was one dearer than -all others, of his own blood. And what would he do to help her? - -“When can I see Mother?” she asked. “When?” - -“Give us all time,” he pleaded. “I know how it is, but try to bear -it—try to wait. It’ll all come out right somehow—it’s got to, Phœbe. Oh, -it’s got to!” - -She felt that he understood, that he grieved with her, that her -heartache was his own. - - - - - CHAPTER VI - - -The blow she awaited fell—twenty-four hours later. - -Phœbe spent much of that twenty-four hours in conjectures. And the final -and pathetic conclusion to which she came was that she had done -something wrong, something “awful bad,” though what it was she could not -guess. But whatever it was, it was so terrible that the girls at Miss -Simpson’s had turned against her. - -And what about Miss Simpson herself? Phœbe understood that Miss Simpson -was a personage in the community. Though her school was not the only one -of its kind in the place, it was the only one that counted. To be, or -not to be, a “Simpson girl” meant, on the one hand, membership in that -exclusive very young crowd; on the other, almost complete ostracism from -it. Miss Simpson had in her hands (everybody knew it) the social future -of the town’s growing girls. - -Phœbe’s cry over, Uncle Bob had gone to join his two brothers in the -library. A conference began there, Phœbe felt sure; she was certain, -too, that she was the subject of it. As she paused at the foot of the -stairs—this just outside the library door—she heard Grandma’s voice, -too. Grandma was weeping! - -Phœbe went up to her room. She stole up, on tiptoe, guiltily. Her brows -were puckered, her eyes wide, her lips pursed. She forbore to steady -herself by a hand on the banisters, lest they creak. - -As she went, she made a resolve. It had to do with Sophie. In a way, of -course, Sophie could not be trusted. For though on occasions Sophie -seemed to belong on Phœbe’s side—in a dividing of the household which -existed only in Phœbe’s mind—at other times the maid swung over to the -clique of grown-ups, and Phœbe was left, as it were, on the defence, -alone. Yet Phœbe had discovered that now and again it was possible to -get information from Sophie. Phœbe’s resolve was to “pump” Sophie. - -Arrived in her room, she gave herself up, a second time, to a close -scrutiny of herself in the glass. First, she looked at her clothes, -feeling that, after all, there was some fault in them (and Uncle Bob, -though a Judge, was only a man, after all, and could not competently -pass on the matter of a girl’s dress). Having satisfied herself that -there was nothing glaringly faulty in her dress, Phœbe took her -hand-mirror and went to a window; and seating herself, examined her -face, hair and throat—critically, unsparingly. - -Once she had asked her mother if she was pretty. And Mother—herself so -beautiful!—had answered, with a kiss, “Of course _I_ think so.” But now, -Phœbe asked herself, was this quota of hair, features and slender neck -considered attractive in the eyes of those who did not love her? - -Every freckle and flaw stood out alarmingly in the afternoon light. -Phœbe concluded that in point of good looks she brought nothing to Miss -Simpson’s School. And as she had no money, like Genevieve Finnegan—— - -She put down the mirror and went to the closet. In the daytime, she was -never afraid to open the door of the closet. That nameless, terrifying -Thing which made the place dreaded at night, went higher, after sun-up, -so Phœbe believed, to lurk in the cave-like storage places that, sloping -of roof, opened off the attic. - -She had not many dresses in the closet. She touched each in turn. Then -she stood for a few minutes on the threshold of the closet to get a -general and comprehensive idea of her little wardrobe. After which, -hunting her old doll, she went back to the window to think. - -Grandma, weeping—that seemed, to her, the thing most significant. Why -was Grandma weeping? “No,” said Phœbe, solemnly, to the doll, “it isn’t -my face, and it isn’t my clothes.” For, after all, when it came to -looks, Phœbe felt herself to be better looking than, say, Genevieve. And -there were two or three other girls at Miss Simpson’s who were, if -proud, quite plain. As for clothes, Grandma had no need to feel badly -about them; all she had to do was order more! - -It was, indeed, a mystery. Phœbe tried to remember any story that -resembled hers among all the moving-pictures she had ever seen. She -could remember a little girl who stole jam, and another little girl who -stole watermelons. But she had taken nothing, had done no wrong -wilfully. At that, the tears of self-pity flowed. She hid her face -against the doll. - -Then—of a sudden—she felt she knew! Prayers! That was it! The girls had -discovered, somehow, that Phœbe had only recently learned to pray! She -stood up, dropping the doll to the floor. - -Mother had never taught her to pray. And once when Phœbe had asked about -prayers (having seen two children kneeling beside their father’s chair -in a moving-picture), Mother had answered, rather sharply, “I don’t -believe in teaching innocent little tots that they’re full of sin. It’s -wicked.” But Grandma—when she found that Phœbe did not know “Now I lay -me”—Grandma had knelt down beside Phœbe (they were in Phœbe’s room) and -implored God to touch Phœbe’s heart, and claim Phœbe’s love. And a day -or two later, Uncle John had called Phœbe into the library, where Phœbe -had learned “Now I lay me,” and the Lord’s Prayer, and had listened to a -very great deal that Uncle John said, the sum and substance of which was -that Phœbe’s ignorance in the matter of prayers was so shocking as to be -beyond even Uncle John’s power to express. Phœbe gathered further, -though her uncle was discreet when it came to naming anyone who should -be blamed, that Mother, yes, and Daddy, were equally culpable, and that -Phœbe had virtually been snatched from the burning. - -So—Phœbe decided—it was the prayers. True, she had prayed faithfully for -the past two or three months. But the girls had discovered about the -unlucky thirteen years and more that went before! - -Something pounded in Phœbe’s throat. And there by the window, one knee -on the forgotten doll, she bowed herself.... - -Later, when she went down to supper, she felt more certain than ever -that she was right. It was the prayers! For as she entered the -dining-room, guiltily, wistfully, on slow foot, and with lowered look, -nobody greeted her cheerily. Her father kissed her, but absent-mindedly. -He ate without speaking. Uncle John was silent, too—and stern. Uncle Bob -made one or two pathetic attempts to start conversation, but Phœbe could -see that even jolly Uncle Bob——! And Grandma, pressing dainties upon -Phœbe, and smiling tenderly (with swollen eyes), was plainly anxious and -disturbed. - -So was Sophie! True, she winked at Phœbe once during the course of the -meal. But it was a solemn wink. Her manner was subdued. She moved -carefully, rattling no dishes. Phœbe caught the girl’s eyes upon her -more than once. Phœbe understood the look—it was all examination, and -curiosity. - -“Can Sophie take me upstairs?” asked Phœbe, at bedtime. The uncles were -back in the library once more, and Phœbe’s father was with them. But -there was no sound of argument. - -“Are you—lonesome?” returned Grandma. And her head shook very much. - -“I’d like to have Sophie go up with me,” Phœbe answered. - -But when she and Sophie were upstairs, alone, and the latter had -finished her pillow-beating, Phœbe asked no questions. She feared to; -and she knew that Sophie would not go without some word, some hint. - -It came. “Miss Simpson was in to see your Grammaw this afternoon,”—this -casually, with a quick look; then, “Did you know it?” - -Phœbe was equally adroit. “She was?” she asked indifferently. - -“Yop. I don’t like that woman.” - -Sophie went. And Phœbe, left behind in the dark, lay thinking. Miss -Simpson had called! Uncle Bob had not mentioned it. Why? And why had -Miss Simpson called? What had she told or asked? Phœbe knew that it was -this visit which had made Uncle Bob decide against Phœbe’s continuing at -the school. - -If the five grown men and women in the big rooms below could have known -how grievously Phœbe’s ignorance of any part of the real truth was -torturing the child, then each, and all, would have hastened up the -stairs to that little figure, turning and tossing, as the bewildered -brain strove to arrive at facts. For though the facts were bad enough, -Phœbe’s guesses were far more terrible. She did not pray, or weep. She -lay and planned how she would run away—to Mother. - -But she was quite herself in the morning. When she awoke, the sight of -branches against her windows—lovely, green, tree-top branches, of -sunlight streaming in, the songs of birds coming faintly, and loud -cock-crows, all these drove away magically the fear and ache and -loneliness of the night. - -She remembered that she did not have to go to school—and was glad! Why, -it was quite like a Saturday! Freedom, no sermons, no admonitions to be -quiet of foot and voice! And had she not heard about some little new -ducks that were about to hatch? - -She sprang up. She kissed her mother’s photograph with a smiling kiss. -She sang over her dressing. She showed a sunny face at the -breakfast-table, where Uncle John ate silently, and Uncle Bob sat behind -his paper. The night before, what a sense of guilt was hers! It was -gone. Her good-morning was merry. She winked back saucily at Sophie’s -wink, and ate her oatmeal with good appetite. Grief and fourteen, how -short was their stay together! For she was entirely overlooking the fact -that this was the day she was intending to run away! - -“And what’s my little daughter figuring on doing this morning?” her -father asked; “—lucky Phœbe, who doesn’t have to be shut up in school!” - -Phœbe thought perhaps the ducks were hatched by now. - -“Hatched and swimming in Uncle Bob’s pool,” announced Grandma. “And the -poor mother-hen is so worried——!” - -At that, Uncle Bob came out from behind his paper—came out like the sun -from behind a cloud. And he had another cup of coffee, and threw a -violet across the table to Phœbe, and pretended to be shocked at the -conduct of the ducks. So that Phœbe laughed, and Grandma and Daddy -smiled—yes, even Uncle John smiled. Breakfast was cheerful. - -Gray eyes thoughtful, Phœbe fell to contrasting it with breakfasts in -New York; the contrast was the sharper when each of Grandma’s three sons -pushed back his chair in turn and gave his mother a hearty kiss. What a -lot of kissing went on at Uncle Bob’s! Everyone kissed Grandma -good-morning and good-night. In New York, Daddy kissed Phœbe, and Mother -kissed Phœbe: each other they did not kiss. - -Phœbe thought of this again later in the day, when Genevieve came. For -it was Genevieve who delivered the blow! - - - - - CHAPTER VII - - -Genevieve was Phœbe’s own age, but stockily built, with an up-turning -Irish nose, reddish corkscrew curls, and freckles. She had a proud, -conscious mouth, and her teeth were large. Her eyes were almost as red -as her hair, and small. Around them the skin crinkled up when she -laughed, shutting them away completely. When she had something important -to say, she had a trick of throwing her head back with a toss of the -curls. Phœbe had noted the trick. Once or twice she had even practiced -it in front of her mirror! - -Genevieve was more overdressed than usual for her call on Phœbe. She had -a well wrapped package under one arm, and she wasted no time in -delivering it. - -“I’ve brought back your books,” she explained, and proffered the -package. - -Phœbe stared. “My books?” - -“From Miss Simpson’s.” Genevieve laid them on the sitting-room table and -sat, arranging her skirt grandly. - -Phœbe still stared. It was as if she had unexpectedly been struck. Of -course, if she was not to continue at the school—— And yet to have her -books sent after her——! - -“When my motor called for me,” went on Genevieve, “I had my chauffeur -put them in the car,”—this with a graceful wave of the hand toward the -package. “‘It’s no trouble,’ I said to Miss Simpson, ‘as long as I have -my own motor, and my chauffeur.’ And Miss Simpson said, ‘Thank you, my -dear. Then Phœbe won’t have to come back’.” - -Phœbe’s slender body stiffened. “_She_ said I won’t have to?” she -demanded. “You mean my Uncle Bob said it.” Then as Genevieve’s brows and -shoulders lifted simultaneously, “Oh, Genevieve, all the girls have -acted so funny. What’s the matter? Do you know?” - -Genevieve smoothed the crisp folds of her taffeta dress. “I’d rather not -say,” she declared, importantly evasive. - -But Phœbe was not to be put off. “Oh, please, Genevieve!” she entreated. -“Tell me! Have I done anything?” - -“N-n-n-no.” Then, raising her eyes to Phœbe’s anxious face, “You—you -haven’t heard anything?” - -Phœbe shook her head. “Is it because we haven’t got an automobile?” she -ventured; “only a horse and a surrey?” - -The reddish eyes disappeared as Genevieve laughed—musically, in the most -approved Simpson manner. “Oh, several of the girls at the School are -awfully poor,” she reminded. “I let them ride in my car. -But”—significantly—“they have fine standing, Miss Simpson says. And -they’ve never had any scandal.” - -Vaguely Phœbe caught the inference. “Oh, yes; scandal,” she said, almost -under her breath. “That would be awful.” - -Genevieve reached to touch Phœbe’s arm condescendingly. “Don’t you -care,” she counseled, “because I like you just the same.” - -Phœbe fell back. Her face paled; her heart pounded. Scandal! and she was -on the verge of knowing just what was meant. She thought of the prayers. -She longed to know the worse. “Genevieve,” she whispered, “have I—what -scandal?” - -“It’s funny you don’t know,” marveled Genevieve. - -“Oh, what is it? Please! _Please!_” Phœbe’s lips were trembling. - -Genevieve, having postponed her informing to her own complete -satisfaction, now saw that the moment was ripe for her climax. “Phœbe,” -she began solemnly, “Miss Simpson doesn’t want you at our school because -your mother’s in Reno.” - -“Reno?” repeated Phœbe. Her face lighted joyously. Mother was in Reno! -And if she were to carry out that plan to run away——! And after all, it -was not the prayers! - -“Nevada,” added Genevieve, with finality. The other’s relief irritated. - -It was Phœbe’s turn to toss her head. “Nevada is good for my mother’s -cough,” she declared. - -“Yes?” said Genevieve. “Well, everybody says your mother’s gone -West—hm!—for another reason.” - -“She’s sick,” returned Phœbe, quietly. “And it’s smart—Mother said so—to -go to Florida or West when you’re sick.” - -Once more Genevieve shrugged. “Of course, you ought to know about your -own mother. But anyhow there was something in the papers—the New York -papers. It was a printed telegram from Nevada.” - -“Certainly there was,” Phœbe agreed. “Because my mother’s a New Yorker, -and so the newspapers print that she’s out there. They’d be sure to. -She’s so beautiful.” - -Genevieve rose abruptly. “Oh, all right!” she retorted. “But beautiful -or not, all the same you can’t blame Miss Simpson. She doesn’t want a -girl in her school that’s got a mother that’s divorced.” - -“_Di-vorced!_” - -Genevieve’s eyes shone. It was the effect she wanted. She moved toward -the door. “Well, I must be going,” she announced. - -Phœbe led the way. In the hall, she turned up the stairs without even a -glance toward her departing visitor. Her throat ached. There was a -sinking feeling under the high, wide belt of her gingham dress. She -longed for the seclusion of her room—_no_, for the darkness of the -clothes-closet. She gained it, going unsteadily. She closed the door. -Then she sank beside the suit-case and laid her head upon it. - -Divorce! She knew what that meant. Over and over she had seen it all in -the “movies”. Her father would no longer be married to her mother: The -two might not live in the same house: Her mother would not even dare to -come to Grandma’s! - -Something seemed to seize her then, to press upon her from all sides, to -crush and smother her. With head lowered, and face down, the blood came -charging up her throat, so that she went dizzy, and felt nauseated. A -chill shook her as she lay. She thought of death, and prayed for it. - -“If I died, they’d both be sorry,” she told herself, “and maybe then -they wouldn’t be divorced.” - -Next, overwhelmingly, came a longing to see her mother. “I’ll go,” she -determined. - -She sat up. And in the dark of the closet, with the door shut, and as -noiselessly as possible, she packed the suit-case. - - - - - CHAPTER VIII - - -The suit-case packed, Phœbe sat down upon it—to think. She had known -even as she took down and folded her dresses that she could not really -run away. But the packing had served as a physical relief to her mental -anguish. Also, she had hoped in her secret heart that she might be -discovered at her packing!—discovered and comforted; more: the ready -suit-case, the threatened departure by night, alone, might bring her -father and her uncles to believe that the wisest thing they could do -would be to send her to her mother. Oh, how she longed for her mother! - -The tears came then, and she wept, her head bowed upon her knees. -Divorce! Never again the dear apartment with mother and Daddy—the -beloved home-nest, with its ivory woodwork and rose hangings, its -perfumed warmth, and beauty and cosiness. Her mother and father were to -be forever apart—forever! - -Sorrow broke over her like a wave. “Forever!” she wept. “Forever!” There -was something almost delicious about the very force and keenness of her -grief. She was going through a crisis such as she had seen pictured upon -the screen. And the very word Forever augmented her suffering and that -sense of curious gratification in the undergoing of such agony. - -So again and again she went back over the cause of her weeping. Divorce! -They were to be separated during all the coming years, those two whom -she loved so dearly. Never again might she have them together, with her, -one at each hand. Always now there would be the pain of having Mother -gone if she, Phœbe, was with Daddy; of having Daddy gone if she was with -Mother. Always it would be like that—like now. - -And then her resentment rose against those two loved ones. “Oh, what’s -the matter with them! What’s the matter with them!” she burst out. That -father who seemed so gallant and fine—how could her mother bear to be -away from him? And Mother, beautiful, sweet, altogether adorable—what -more did her father ask? They were through with each other! Oh, why? And -then, melting once more, Oh, how could she bear it! Oh, Mother! -Mother!—Oh, dear Daddy! - -Next, of a sudden, a more terrible thought: Would the divorce of her -parents mean that she might not be allowed to see her mother again? - -The very possibility brought her to her feet and out of the closet. “No! -I won’t stand it!” she cried. “I must have Mother! I won’t stay here! I -won’t! I won’t!” - -She was immediately all resolution. She washed her face. Then she took -off the dress she was wearing—her grandmother had bought it—and opening -the suit-case, chose and put on a dress of her mother’s buying. Thus -fortified, as it were, in something that had been touched by hands dear -beyond expression, she descended to the library. She hoped all the -grown-ups would be there on her arrival. She longed to announce -defiantly her plan to leave. - -But—only Uncle John was in the room, leaned, as always, over his papers -and his great flat-topped table. He did not speak; did not even look -up—as Phœbe advanced to a stand before the large map of the United -States which hung above the bookcases at one side of the room. - -Ah, what a great distance lay between! Here, a small dot and small -letters showed the position of the town where she was; there, a larger -dot and larger letters marked the spot where Mother had gone. - -Standing before the map, with face raised, once more anger possessed -her—a fierce anger—against this town in which she was, against everyone -in it. There had been a time when she had fretted because she could not -go about like other girls, and meet people; now she felt she did not -want to go anywhere, did not want to meet anyone, know anyone, make any -friends! - -They did not like her mother? They talked against her mother? Very well. -They need not like her, either. They could talk against her if they -wanted to! - -Her resentment demanded action. There was a drug-store down the street, -two blocks away. To reach it from the Blair front gate, one had to pass -a dozen houses. There were always people on the porches of those houses, -or on the lawns. Phœbe went upstairs for her New York hat, and for her -purse. There was ice-cream soda to be had at the drug-store, and sundaes -of every description. Phœbe liked them. But they were not, just then, -first in her thoughts. Did Genevieve Finnegan, and others like her, -expect Phœbe Shaw Blair to hide herself away in Grandma’s big house? To -weep alone at slights? “From such small-town people?” raged Phœbe, as -she slammed the front door. Did they think she would act as if she were -ashamed of her mother? - -Her hat on the back of her head, her head in the air, Phœbe let herself -out of the front gate and started for the drug-store. And on the way, -she passed every one of those dozen houses without so much as a glance! - -It was a pleasure to do that. She arrived at the drug-store in great -good humor. She felt that she had done something for Mother! - -She was in a reckless mood. She enjoyed one soda and two ice-creams. She -ignored the pretty young woman who waited upon her. When she started -homeward, she went with a light step and a high chin. She wished she had -a dog to lead. Not that she cared for dogs—she was afraid of them. But -if she were leading a dog, he would be an excuse for running, and -calling out happily. That was what she most wished to do—call out -happily, and skip—just to show all those gaping neighbors how little she -cared! - -She compromised on a rubber ball. It was an inspiration! The moment she -stepped upon the front porch, here was Uncle Bob, dragging the -lawn-mower behind him. She explained that she had spent every cent she -had at the drug-store. At any other time she would have hesitated to -confess that even to Uncle Bob. But now she was suddenly indifferent -even about what he thought. - -And Uncle Bob, seeing her cheeks so pink and her eyes so full of fire, -dropped the handle of the lawn-mower as if it were red-hot, and emptied -one pocket of its silver. “God bless me!” he cried. “A rubber ball’s a -great idea! And if you see anything else you like——” - -Phœbe took the silver and was off like a shot. She knew the store that -carried toys. She went without a pause to the toy-counter. There were -other things that she liked,—as Uncle Bob had suggested—plenty of them. -But for them she had no time. She bought the ball,—a large, gun-metal -affair with a ridge around it like an Equator. She paid for it with a -proud air, not even deigning to look at the clerk. No, she did not care -to have it wrapped. And even while the man was sending away to make -change for the half dollar she had given him, she proceeded to bounce -the ball. - -She bounced it all the way home, not taking her eyes from it. She ran; -she skipped. For her purpose, the ball was precisely as good as the best -dog would have been. As she played, she knew people were passing her on -the sidewalk; or from porch or lawn were watching her pass. But she was -completely absorbed. - -After that, every day for many days she went at least once to the -drug-store. And she bounced the ball both ways! - - - - - CHAPTER IX - - -Now came the beginning of what was like a new era of life for Phœbe—an -era in which, more keenly than ever before, she was to understand, -and—to suffer. Up to now she had not by any means been indifferent to -the things that touched her own existence. And how she had loved and -hated, joyed and sorrowed, with her enthralling favorites of the screen! -But the time was come when she was to awaken to depths and heights of -feeling—depths and heights all the more strikingly contrasted because -her imagination was film-trained; she was to regard herself as the -central figure in a heart drama that seemed countless reels long. - -And about her, who—with her mother away—who was to take counsel with -her, to sympathize, even to guess one small part of all that which -surged through her young heart? - -It was the great pipe-organ in Uncle John’s church that had most to do -with her sudden emotional awakening, with her realization that something -really momentous had come into her life. Weeks before she had started to -school at Miss Simpson’s, the church organ had moved her. In New York, -at one of the great temples dedicated to moving-pictures, she had often -listened to the boom of just such a glorious instrument—listened with -calm interest and pleasure, her hand clasped lovingly in her mother’s. -And the church organ had not failed to recall to her the theatre, and -those sweet hours that, alas, she had never fully appreciated. - -But the first Sunday following Genevieve Finnegan’s visit! The -pipe-organ stirred her cruelly. It spoke her own tragedy—it told the -story of her broken, bankrupt home. - -She had gone to church meaning to sit up proudly in the Blair pew, to -keep her chin high, and her lips smiling; to stand and sit and kneel -with the greatest poise, so that those who cared to look would -see!—particularly those who might be sitting directly behind her. But -when the organ broke forth, filling the high, dim spaces, there swept -over her a realization of the sadness and the finality of the ending of -that New York life which had been so sweetly happy. And the young head -drooped, the lashes glistened, the lips trembled pitifully. - -Standing, she kept her look lowered. Kneeling, she prayed—but not “Oh, -dear God” (as Uncle John had taught her); instinctively her silent -prayer was addressed to her mother. “Oh, darling, darling!” she -implored, her forehead against the backs of her small gloved hands. With -inward sight she beheld the loved features, the yearned for arms, the -comforting breast. - -Then—remorse. Behind the adored figure, what was that other? The Christ? -Yes. She had seen Him once. It was in a war picture. A soldier was -dying, alone, in No Man’s Land. And suddenly, there by the side of the -dying had appeared the One whose look of love and compassion had brought -a smile to the face of the prostrate boy. She must not pray to her -mother. She must pray to Him. “Oh, dear Jesus,” she plead, “give me back -my mother! Oh, please give me my mother!” - -Grandma, shifting upon her old knees, came nearer to Phœbe by a hand’s -breadth. Grandma’s dress, of wool, and black, with pipings of grosgrain, -had been made for her two years before. Faintly it smelled of -moth-balls. - -Phœbe shrank away. - -That morning Uncle John’s sermon failed to bore her as usual. She had -her thoughts. Only at first were they miserably unhappy. As Uncle John -progressed, she fell to thinking of a plan: it had to do with her return -to New York. The dear apartment was still there, even if Mother was -West. Perhaps—undoubtedly!—Sally was still on hand, black and bland, -devoted as ever, and full of her accustomed gaiety. Why should Phœbe -stay in a town that treated her unkindly and gossiped about her mother? -Why not go back to New York, the dear home, the fond servant and the -enchanting “movies”? - -But how could it be managed? She determined to ask her father. - -“I will go! I will go! I will!” she promised herself. “I won’t stay -here! I hate it! I hate it!” - -She went out of the church with a face so pale that the blue veins stood -forth on her white skin like tracings of ink. She remembered how screen -actresses bore themselves when they were suffering—how wistful was their -expression, how far-away was the look in their beautiful eyes. Phœbe -bore herself like them, walking slowly, with uplifted countenance. And -her pain was real. - -In a way, Uncle Bob and her father spoiled the beauty of her keen pain. -Arriving home, she found them on the sunny side of the house, tinkering -with fish-lines. Her father had a can of worms, and he was adding to -them by turning back the winter banking of sod from the clapboards. They -welcomed her joyously, and coaxed little shrieks from her by holding out -the worm-can. She changed her dress, and spent the long afternoon at her -father’s heels. The paleness left her face. She consented to carry the -worms, and a shoe-box filled with sandwiches. - -But night brought back something of the sweet grief of the morning. Her -father held her for an hour after supper, seated in a big chair by the -sitting-room hearth. Her cheek against his breast, she longed to talk to -him of her mother—of the plan that had occurred to her that morning; yet -she dared not. He was not like Uncle Bob, plump and smiling and full of -invitations to confidences: he was so quiet, and thoughtful, so -sombre-eyed, even mysterious. She felt his mysteriousness most when she -looked at his tight-closed lips, his set jaws. And she asked herself, -Was he grieving as she was grieving, and was it about Mother? - -She sat up in bed that night and read “St. Elmo”, thrilling over the -portions that were full of expressions of love. For her heart was hungry -for affection. When had she lacked protestations of it, with Mother -near? And Sally had never failed to tell her that she was dear. Her -father was not demonstrative—never had been. And now all these others! -With the single exception of Uncle Bob did they ever say kind and tender -things? - -When her light was out, she lay thinking of “St. Elmo” and of -moving-pictures in which children, or young and beautiful heroines, had -been held dear beyond words. She repeated lines from the screen that -seemed very sweet to her—one in particular: “_Across the world he went, -seeking her._” - -She felt her life a failure—her fate unspeakably sad. She wept, her head -in her arms. All sorts of pictures flashed themselves upon her brain. -And she repeated certain Biblical lines and passages that she had heard -of late, both at home and at Miss Simpson’s. Somehow just to say them -over exalted her strangely. One was, “Whither thou goest I will go”; -another, “He that watcheth over Israel neither slumbers nor sleeps.” - -She slept at last, the tears on her cheeks. The pipe-organ had done it -all—that and the slowly advancing vested choir. It had even made her -forget, temporarily, her childish fear of the dark. For that particular -Sunday night was the first night that she had ever gone to sleep without -looking under the bed and into the clothes-closet. - -The next morning, waking late, she wanted to stay where she was, with -the shades drawn, and read “St. Elmo”, and think of sad things, and say -beautiful lines, and enjoy more hours of sweet unhappiness. But voices -called to her from below—Sophie’s, her father’s, Uncle Bob’s. She kissed -her mother’s picture over and over while putting on her shoes and her -dress, and combing her hair. When she went down to breakfast she was -curiously unable to eat. - -Doubtless one of the household’s grown-ups, or, perhaps, all of them, -saw that something was wrong, for that morning, promptly on the stroke -of nine, Phœbe had her first lesson at home. It was Uncle John who acted -as tutor. He had her read to him, choosing “The Vicar of Wakefield”. As -she went along, haltingly, he asked her the meaning of words, and had -her shut the book on her forefinger while she spelled them. He gave her -several sums to do, also, using the arithmetic that Genevieve Finnegan -had brought home from Miss Simpson’s; and they spent an hour over the -globe, revolving it, and hunting countries and oceans and -mountain-chains. Phœbe knew far more about the world, and what it looked -like, here and there, and its peoples, and animals, than she dared to -admit to Uncle John. She knew because she had seen so many “travel -pictures”. - -That afternoon she spent in the vegetable garden with Sophie. The garden -was at a far corner of the Blair grounds, well away from any house. And -Phœbe saw that here was an opportunity to ask Sophie a few questions—the -questions she shrank from asking anyone else. - -“I know why Miss Simpson didn’t want me at school any more,” she said, -by way of a beginning. - -Sophie was pulling radishes. “Do y’?” she inquired. “Wasn’t -it—er—because your father wasn’t payin’ her enough money?” - -“You know it wasn’t,” declared Phœbe, bluntly. “You know she wanted me -out because my mother is West, getting a divorce from my father.” - -“My land!” marveled Sophie, sitting back and staring up. “How’d you ever -guess?—Phœbe, you been listenin’!” - -“Genevieve Finnegan,” said Phœbe, laconically. - -“Oh, that little imp!” - -“_You_ knew all the time?” - -Sophie went back to her garnering. “Oh, yes,” she admitted proudly. “I -showed Miss Royal Highness Simpson in. And your Uncle John, he tried to -bluff her—told her your mamma wasn’t well, and so forth. But she didn’t -bluff.” - -“She knew,” put in Phœbe, “because there was a piece in a New York -paper.” - -“Right y’ are! Well, she didn’t want talk in her school, she said; -didn’t want _her_ little girls, the angels, to even know there was such -a thing as divorce in the whole world!” - -“It’s in the movies,” reminded Phœbe. “The girls all know.” - -“Course they do! And when she had somethin’ to say to the Judge, you -betcha _he_ told her what’s what!” - -“Good for Uncle Bob!” - -“He says to her, ‘Miss Simpson, Phœbe will not remain at your precious -school’. And I showed her out the front door,”—this with a flourish of -her arms, both hands coming to rest on her hips while she gave a toss of -the tousled head. - -Phœbe touched Sophie on the shoulder. “Is—is divorce why my mother sent -me here?” she asked. - -“Phœbe, if I tell y’ the truth——” - -“But, then, maybe you don’t know either,” added Phœbe, adroitly, since -she had learned that, with Sophie, the best method was to belittle -Sophie’s knowledge, and thus strike at her pride. - -“Maybe I don’t know!” cried Sophie, scornfully. “I guess I knew all -about it before you ever showed up. Your paw brought you, young lady, -without your mamma knowin’ that he planned to. Now!” - -“Sophie!” It was Phœbe’s turn to sit back. She stared, aghast. - -“Yes, ma’am. Your paw just naturally stole you.” - -“But Mother’s telegram! It told me to come.” - -“Yes? Well, your paw sent you that telegram.” - -Phœbe did not speak for a minute. While things began to clear for -her—the swift packing, the sudden departure from New York, the telegrams -that had come, one after another, the fact that she had had no letters, -nor been permitted to read those written her father. Stolen! By her -father, from her mother! - -“Why?” demanded Phœbe, suddenly; then, as Sophie glanced up, “Why did -Daddy steal me?” - -“Didn’t want you out there in a divorce town, I guess.” - -“Oh. And why was I watched so, and never taken anywhere for a long -time?” - -“If I tell y’, you’ll never, never tell?” - -“Never, never, _never_—cross my heart to die!” - -“The folks here was afraid your mamma’d steal you back.” - -Phœbe was appalled. She got up, and stood over Sophie, wavering a -little, too shocked to speak. - -“Phœbe!” comforted Sophie, reaching out her earth-stained hands. “Dear -kiddie!” - -“They—they don’t want me to be with Mother?—again?” - -Quickly Sophie averted her eyes. “I wouldn’t say that,” she declared. -“Why, no! Y’ see, it’s this way: two of ’em here thinks the same about -it, dearie. Your grammaw and the Judge thinks a little girl is always -best off when she’s with her mother. I heard the Judge say so, and his -maw agreed. But your Uncle John——” - -Phœbe drew in a long, trembling breath. Then, “I hate him!” she -declared. “Because he hates my mother.” - -“You spoke the truth that time,” continued Sophie. “He married your -mamma to Mister Jim, but he didn’t like her—never. Oh, he’s _all_ on -your paw’s side.” - -“You mean that Daddy——?” - -“Your daddy don’t say what he thinks,” reminded Sophie. “But I guess -your mamma done somethin’ that made him pretty mad.” - -Phœbe longed to know what, to ask about it. Yet she shrank from having -Sophie tell her anything that might be in the slightest degree against -her mother. - -“I don’t know what it was,” Sophie went on. “But it got so bad between -’em that there just had to be a split-up. Course your Uncle John’s dead -against divorces, bein’ a minister. The ’Piscopal Church is like that. -And I kinda believe your father thinks the same way. But your Uncle Bob -and your grammaw say that if a married couple ain’t happy they oughta -sep’rate, and be done with it, and not quarrel around where there’s a -child.” - -Phœbe knelt, and put a hand under Sophie’s chin. “Tell me:” she begged; -“When Daddy and Mother are divorced, what do you think is going to -happen to me?” - -“We-e-ell,”—Sophie considered the question, pursing her mouth and -blinking. - -“Oh, now!” challenged Phœbe, impatiently. “What do they all say?” - -“What do they know about your mamma’s plans?” Sophie retorted. “Maybe -she’ll marry again.” - -Phœbe threw back her head and laughed. “Marry again!” she cried. “My -mother? She’d _never_ do that! Never! She’ll come back. And I’ll live -with her. I won’t stay here. Not one minute! Not——” - -“Sh! Sh!” warned Sophie. “Don’t talk so loud. And just think over this: -If your Maw _don’t_ marry again, maybe Mister Jim won’t let you go back -to her.” - -“Why not?” - -Sophie shook her head. “I don’t understand it myself,” she admitted. -“Only I know that your Uncle Bob thinks there oughta be what he calls a -reg’lar new home, with a husband in it to take care of your mamma.” - -“Daddy would take care of Mother and me,” declared Phœbe, proudly. “I -know Daddy.” - -“But y’ see, after a divorce, your Daddy might want to be dead sure -everything was right for you, and happy, and—and safe.” - -“Safe!” repeated Phœbe, disdainful. “You don’t know New York. What could -happen to me or Mother in our dear little apartment? Why, the whole -thing—marrying again, and not being safe in New York—it’s just -crazy!—Oh, Sophie, how long will it be before Mother is divorced? Oh, I -hope it’s soon! Then I’ll have her! I’ll have her! Oh, _Sophie_!” - -She gave Sophie a hug, and they promised each other not to breathe one -word of their conversation. - -“Don’t you see how much it’s like a movie?” Phœbe wanted to know. “Daddy -steals me, then Mother tries to steal me back, then Nevada—why, it’s -_exactly_ like a movie. And a _good_ movie!” - -Sophie thought so too. - - - - - CHAPTER X - - -That night, at supper, Phœbe viewed the members of her family with a new -eye—with a fresh understanding. And was thrilled, as well as gratified -in her vanity, by the thought that she knew quite as much about -“everything” as they did. Now and then she stole a wise glance at -Sophie, to which the latter gave no answering sign. - -Other thoughts thrilled Phœbe even more: Daddy had stolen her!—caught -her up and carried her off, precisely like the heroine in a drama! Then -(delicious thought!) dear Mother had sent wire after wire—probably -demanding Phœbe’s return! And had wanted to steal her back! How? Had -Mother actually been here? Close? Right in the town? the neighborhood? -Had she even caught glimpses of Phœbe, perhaps? - -In the hour preceding her going up to bed, as she strolled with her -father to the drug-store and back, she thought of a great many questions -that she meant to ask Sophie the very first chance she had. - -The chance came that evening. As Phœbe was on the point of falling -asleep, her door opened stealthily, there was a cautious whisper to -allay any alarm, then the door closed softly and Sophie turned on the -light. - -“Phœbe,” she began—her face was grave and her voice anxious; “you won’t -say a word about my tellin’ you what I did this afternoon?” - -“I won’t,” declared Phœbe. - -“’Cause if the folks was to find out, they’d fire me.” - -Phœbe took Sophie’s hand and made her sit on the bed. “Oh, there’s more -I want to find out,” she whispered; “—lots more.” - -“If the folks find out you know,” continued Sophie, too concerned over -her own danger to think about what Phœbe was saying, “why, it needn’t be -me they blame. ’Cause almost anybody in town mighta told y’.” - -Phœbe stared. “You mean everybody _knows_?” she demanded. - -“Everybody ’round here, anyhow.” - -“And I—I didn’t know!” - -“I’m sorry I told y’.” Sophie turned away her face. She lifted a corner -of her apron to an eye. - -“Please!” begged Phœbe. “I won’t tell. Honest! Didn’t I promise? Only -I’m—well, I hate to think about it. Everybody knew—but me.” - -Sophie went then. She would answer no more questions, vowing she had -already told everything she knew. She left Phœbe quite cast down. It was -one thing to hear such thrilling things about herself, to realize that -she had been the subject of those long and heated conferences that she -knew had been carried on in the library, to understand that Grandma had -shed tears over her. It was quite another to find out that the whole -town knew. As far as Phœbe was concerned, finding that out simply -spoiled everything. - -And now, every week-day morning, she and Uncle John spent three hours -together in the library. All of the three hours were not spent in actual -study; that is to say, whenever Uncle John got impatient and wanted to -turn to his own work, he permitted Phœbe to make herself comfortable on -the big, old library couch and read whatever she liked. With the -awakening of her emotions, what Phœbe liked to read about was love. She -found some books by “The Duchess”. They were Uncle Bob’s, and they were -full of romance. Phœbe devoured them—while across the room the clergyman -toiled over a sermon that was, perhaps, concerned with Peter’s wife’s -mother. - -And every week-day afternoon Phœbe went driving. With such an unvarying -program, she was able to live up to her determination that she would -never permit herself—in that little, mean, gossiping town—to make a -single friend. And certainly not now, since she knew that the whole town -knew! - -But she had scarcely made up her mind to remain cut off completely from -everyone (she would punish them all!) when she made two friends. And -both—though each was so different from the other—soon became very dear -to her. - -It was on a Saturday afternoon that the first came. Phœbe and Uncle Bob -were just back from a drive, and were busy, concocting a lemonade in the -butler’s pantry, when Sophie came bursting in upon them. The very -momentum of her entrance, the queer, excited look of her (even her hair -seemed to be lifting), told Phœbe that something unusual had happened. - -“Judge!” whispered Sophie. - -He glanced up, half a lemon in each hand, and damp sugar on his face. -Phœbe had pinned one of Sophie’s aprons about him. He looked comical -enough for the “movies”! - -“Miss Ruth,” announced Sophie. - -Uncle Bob stared, as if scarcely comprehending; then dropped the lemon -halves, hastily wiped his face on the apron, which Sophie unfastened, -took Phœbe by the hand and started for the sitting-room. - -“Who is Miss Ruth?” asked Phœbe as they went. - -Uncle Bob smiled down at her. But he did not seem to see her. - -There was a slender young woman with Grandma in the sitting-room. She -had on a dress that fell in soft folds, was mistily gray, wide-tucked, -and cut out squarely at the neck to show a strong round throat. In her -hands the visitor held a sun-hat, black, with a sprinkling of -forget-me-nots. - -“Ruth?” said Uncle Bob in greeting. And the hand that held Phœbe’s -trembled. - -“I’m here with more Court troubles,” explained Miss Ruth. She was -looking at Phœbe. Her eyes were the color of the flowers on her hat. - -“My dear,”—it was Grandma speaking—“this is Jim’s little girl.” - -Phœbe went forward then. Gravely she took Miss Ruth’s hand, and made the -quick dipping curtsey that Mother had taught her. “How do you do,” she -said politely. - -Miss Ruth bent and touched Phœbe’s cheek with her lips. “I’ve wanted to -meet you—often,” she said. Then, as if with sudden feeling, she drew -Phœbe to her, and held her close. - -The welcome tenderness of it, the embracing arms, the soft, fragrant -dress—it was all like Mother to Phœbe. Her eyes swam. She reached up, -clasping her arms about Miss Ruth. “Oh, why haven’t you ever been here -before?” she asked. - -“Ha! ha!” laughed Uncle Bob, triumphantly. “That’s it, Phœbe! Scold her! -Scold her!” - -Miss Ruth seemed embarrassed. “I’m so busy always, dear,” she answered. -“But you’ll come to see me?” Then to Uncle Bob, “Judge, it’s about the -Botts case again.” And to Grandma, “Your son will wish his Probation -Officer didn’t live so close, bothering him of a Saturday like this.” - -“M-m-m!” commented Uncle Bob. He gave her a long, grave look. - -“I’ve just had a telephone message from the Botts’s nearest neighbor,” -went on Miss Ruth. “And I felt sure you’d want to do something about it -before Monday. Judge, Mrs. Botts has been whipping Manila again.” - -“Oh, that woman!” scolded Uncle Bob. - -“She’s a step-mother, isn’t she, Bob?” inquired Grandma. There was a gay -twinkle in her old eyes. - -“She’s a bad step-mother,” he answered. He went over to her, leaned down -and gave her a resounding kiss. “But, you see, a Judge is likely to hear -only of the bad ones.” - -“Mr. Botts isn’t keeping his word,” reminded Miss Ruth. - -“I know,” returned Uncle Bob. “He promised to put a stop to any more -whipping. What do you think we ought to do?” - -“Well,”—Miss Ruth hesitated—“of course, you may not agree, but I’ve been -wondering if Manila wouldn’t like to leave home.” - -“Suppose you ask her, Ruth.” - -“Or if I might send her here to see you.” - -“That’s a good idea. It’ll keep her away from the Court House, poor -youngster.” - -Miss Ruth made as if to go then. But “What do you think of our young -lady?” he wanted to know. - -“Just—just what I hoped she’d be like,” Miss Ruth answered, almost as if -to herself. She held Phœbe away from her a little. “You will come -sometimes to see me, Phœbe?” - -“Oh, yes.” - -“I live very close.” - -“And—and you’ll come to see me?” asked Phœbe, eagerly. What was it about -Miss Ruth that she liked so well? Miss Ruth was grave. Her look was -tender. The hands that held Phœbe’s were firm and cool. - -“If you want me to come——” - -“Oh, I do!” - -“Then I’ll come.” - -Phœbe rose upon tiptoe. “Could you come after supper, maybe?” she asked. -“That’s—that’s always the lonesomest time.” - -Miss Ruth nodded. “And perhaps Grandma will let us have a good talk -together upstairs, before you go to sleep—will you, Mrs. Blair?” - -“Phœbe loves stories,” answered Phœbe’s grandmother. “She misses the -moving-pictures she used to see. And so if you’d tell her a story some -evening, Ruth,——” - -“Or,” put in Phœbe, quickly, “if you know some songs—if you’d sing to -me, like mother used to sing. I—I like that.” - -“I’ll come.” Miss Ruth kissed Phœbe again. “But you’ve Grandma, and -Uncle John, and Uncle Robert, and—and your father——” - -Phœbe raised an eager face. “I’d like to have you, too. Because,”—her -voice faltered—“oh, it takes an awful lot of love to—to make up for my -mother.” - -“I won’t fail to come.” Miss Ruth left then, and Phœbe, with Uncle Bob -beside her, stood at the wide glass door of the sitting-room, watching -the gray dress flutter its way, mistily, across the lawn to the driveway -gate. - -“Well, little Phœbe?” said the Judge. He had her hand, and he squeezed -it. - -Phœbe understood. “Uncle Bob,” she confided, “I like her. And I wish she -lived here right with us.” - -Judge Blair nodded. “Ah, that’s what I’ve been saying,” he answered; -“yes, I’ve been saying that for years, and years—and years.” - - - - - CHAPTER XI - - -Phœbe thought about that, wondering what Uncle Bob meant. Something kept -her from asking him. Was it the strange look on his face as he watched -Miss Ruth go? Or was it the way in which he went out, hands stuffed in -pockets, head down, grave—curiously unlike his usual smiling self? And -how did he want Miss Ruth to live at Grandma’s? As a sort of helper, -like Sophie? That was not likely. Perhaps Miss Ruth boarded nearby, and -Uncle Bob wanted her to board at the Blair house. Phœbe made up her mind -to ask Sophie, source of all confidential information. She stored up -Uncle Bob’s last words so that she could not fail to remember them: -“_Yes, I’ve been saying that for years, and years,—and years._” - -But before her opportunity came to question Sophie, and while she was -still watching out in the direction Miss Ruth had gone, she saw a -strange little figure coming across the grass—coming slowly, in fact -almost sidling, with glances up at the higher windows of the house, and -those formidable gingerbread turrets. - -At first Phœbe was sure that it was a boy, all dressed up grotesquely, -as New York boys dressed themselves every Thanksgiving Day. For surely -(the figure was close now) no young person ever could have _real_ hair -that was so red, or wear a hat, except in fun, that was so queer and -green. And then the dress—too loose, and too long. And the shoes—! So -large! - -Suddenly Phœbe’s heart gave a leap. It was not a dressed-up boy: It was -a girl! “A girl in disguise!” concluded Phœbe, excitedly, with -moving-picture plots springing to her mind. “And she’s flying from the -enemy!” - -The girl halted at a little distance, fearfully. Then Phœbe went out to -meet her, and also halted. The two looked at each other. - -“Won’t you come in?” asked Phœbe at last, politely. - -The girl hung her head. - -“Come on in,” persisted Phœbe. “Nobody’s going to hurt you.” She turned -and led the way, and the girl followed. - -She was about Phœbe’s own age, but pale, and looked ill-fed and unhappy. -Her eyes were so light a gray that they seemed colorless, and milky. Her -under-jaw had a way of dropping. Her hands were soiled, and red. - -“You needn’t be afraid, little girl,” declared Phœbe, when they were in -the sitting-room, and the door to the lawn was shut. “You just tell me -what you want.” - -But the other seemed tongue-tied. Her mouth was open, but not a word -came forth. She fidgeted, and a blush suffused her many freckles, -clothing them from sight. - -“Now, what do you want?” encouraged Phœbe again. “Please. Just say it -right out.” - -“Th’ Judge,”—with not a movement of the lips. - -Phœbe stared. She understood. Uncle Bob, reigning over the local -Juvenile Court, looked after children exclusively. Here, helpless, -homely, and pathetic, was one of his charges. “Have you been a bad -child?” she asked sorrowfully. - -“Naw.” - -“Then what—what have you been?” - -“L-l-licked!” - -“Oh!” Phœbe went to her, taking one of the red hands, and drew her to a -chair. “You poor little girl! Here! Sit down. Now tell me. Who licked -you?” - -The pale eyes became suddenly alive with fear. The drooping mouth -tightened, and trembled. “Step-mother!” - -“Oh!” cried Phœbe again. “You—so you’ve got a step!” - -“Uh-huh.” - -Phœbe sat down and regarded her visitor, marveling at her. A -step-mother—a cruel step-mother who beat and tortured, exactly like the -step-mothers in the movies! “Then you’re Manila Botts,” she declared. - -“Yop.” - -Somehow, Phœbe, hearing the name from Miss Ruth, had thought of Manila -Botts as some one tall and plump—quite a grown person. And here—! “Tell -me about your step-mother,” she bade. - -“She’s a woman,” ventured Manila, helplessly. - -“Well?” - -“And she’s married to my father—but she don’t like him.” - -“I know.” Phœbe nodded sadly. “They sit at the table, and don’t speak, -and don’t kiss each other good-night.” - -“But she spends all Paw’s money,” went on Manila. “And she hits me. -Look!” She drew up a loose sleeve. There on the thin arm was a dark -welt. - -Phœbe gasped. - -Manila, pleased with the effect she had produced, warmed to further -details. “She hits me with a piece of harness. It’s half of a tug. And -once she hurt me so bad that I went to Court.” - -“But doesn’t your daddy help you?” demanded Phœbe. - -“Nope. Just boozes.” She lowered the sleeve resignedly. - -Phœbe gave a quick look around. Then, “It’s almost like a picture I once -saw:” she said; “Her Terrible Sin. There was a woman in it who got -whipped by a man who was tipsy.” - -“Gosh!” breathed Manila. “And what’ll you do if _you_ get a step?” - -Phœbe sat back. “_Me?_” she demanded, and swallowed. - -Manila nodded. - -Phœbe said nothing. She felt her heart swelling; her ears sang. She -wanted to take hold of Manila and pound at her with a fist. She hated -her! She hated——! - -Sophie came in. “The Judge is in the lib’ry, Manila,” she said, somewhat -reprovingly. As Manila rose, Sophie took her by a shoulder and led her -hallward. - -But Phœbe stayed where she was. A storm was raging in her breast. Sophie -had suggested a step-father, and Phœbe had been able to laugh. Did she -not know Mother?—dear, beautiful, devoted Mother, who would no more -think of doing anything that could hurt her small daughter than of—than -of—well, committing the most awful crime: murder, or stealing, or -setting some house on fire. Why, who would think of giving the matter of -a step-father even a second thought? Besides, the “movies” never -pictured wicked, cruel step-fathers. There were, probably, step-fathers -in existence. Even so, whoever heard of their being undesirable? - -But this was different. Soon that father so dear to Phœbe would be -entirely free—it was Mother who was setting him free. (And this gave -Phœbe at once a sense of her mother’s generosity.) Once free——! - -“O-o-oh!” she gasped, and covered her face. - - - - - CHAPTER XII - - -_Her father—hers! And some woman!_ - -It hurt Phœbe cruelly. And the pain was a double one. For she suffered -on her own account, imagining a nebulous figure intrude itself between -her and the father she loved with such a feeling of absolute possession; -and she suffered for her mother. A strange woman in that mother’s -place!—in that dear New York nest, at the dainty, round table in the -cosy dining-room, in Mother’s corner of the davenport before the open -fire of the little drawing-room! The pictures that Manila’s foreboding -called up succeeded one another upon her mind’s eye as if it were the -screen of a moving-picture theatre. - -That was it! She understood all that Manila’s suggestion might mean -because she knew step-mothers so well! Yes, she could even remember -certain ones in the movies, though not clearly. One fact she was sure -of: _All_ step-mothers were cruel! - -Miserable as she was, she did not think of seeking her father, of -telling him what she feared, and how hurt she was. She felt angry toward -him; she resented the way he was acting! Why should he think of another -wife? And Mother away out there alone! - -Phœbe went up to her room. Facing this new, threatening trouble, she -wanted seclusion. But not seclusion to weep. Her eyes were dry, and her -head was up. This was a thing that called for action—action! She must -_do_ something! She must! And what? - -_She_ knew! Standing in the middle of the room, talking to herself under -her breath, suddenly it came to her. She would thwart any plan of her -father’s to marry again! Did not people always thwart other people’s -plans in the moving-pictures? Well, then, _she_ would thwart. - -From that hour forward she began to watch her father, secretly, -jealously. And she discovered things about him that made her uneasy. Why -did he always have that far-away look in his eyes? Why did he keep his -lips shut so tight, with that knotting in the jaws that told her how -hard his teeth were set together? Why did he walk the dull red carpet of -Grandma’s sitting-room so often and so nervously? She had seen “movie” -heroes act like that. _Were all these signs that Daddy was in love?_ - -She made up her mind to hunt Manila, and ask her just how _her_ father -had acted before he married that awful step-mother. - -Meanwhile, seeing these things which at least conveyed worry, she came -to forget herself in concern over her father. He was unhappy. Yet not -about Mother, for it was clear that he did not care for Mother. Then of -course he was suffering about someone else. She must try to distract his -thoughts to herself. She would redouble her tenderness toward him. She -would spend more time with him, kiss him oftener. - -During the days that immediately followed, there came into her face and -voice and manner a sweet concern toward him. She took to little -attentions, such as finding his hat for him when he left the house, or -hanging it up when he came in; she lighted his cigarettes; she searched -for bits of lint, or small lengths of thread, on his coat. In other -words, young and slim-legged as she was,—a baby still in most ways—she -yet was assuming toward her father the rôle of little mother: she was -yearning over him. Oh, her Daddy! Her dear, dear Daddy! - -After a time, her worry about him lessened somewhat. Few women came to -the house, and these were mostly elderly. And her father went out -scarcely at all—never in the evenings. If he and she walked together, he -often met women whom he knew, and bowed to them, smiling. If he seemed -inclined to stop for a chat, Phœbe was quick to urge him on—first of all -because she would not let herself be cordial to anyone in the town, and, -second, because any woman might be _the_ woman. - -But her father never cared to linger when she pulled a little at his -arm. Hopefully she had to admit that he did not seem to like any -particular person. - -Then one day real fear came to her—with a definite object for her -jealousy. By chance she and her father stopped at the drug-store down -the street—the drug-store to which she loved to hop and skip, the while -she nonchalantly bounced the rubber ball. This day when she called for -her ice-cream soda, the pretty young woman came forward as usual to wait -on her. The pretty young woman seemed to know Phœbe’s father well—very -well indeed—almost too well! She smiled across the counter at him: she -said, “How are you?” familiarly: she even called him “Jim”. - -Phœbe ate her ice-cream soda with a troubled heart. Her father did not -eat anything. He talked with the pretty young woman. And the latter -urged more ice-cream upon Phœbe when the tall glass was half empty. That -aroused Phœbe’s suspicions. She declined a second helping. She -understood the purpose behind a second helping! “She wants to get in -with me,” Phœbe thought. “That’s because she likes Daddy.” - -She left some of her soda in order to get him out of the store and away. -And she came to hate the drug-store young woman. Once at the table she -made fun of her—of her teeth. Her father said nothing, even seemed not -to hear. Grandma said “Darling!” reprovingly. But Phœbe cared nothing -about the reproof. There was something at stake—something terribly -important. She determined never to go near that drug-store again. - -This was more than mere thwarting; already the budding woman was -plotting against a rival! - -Next, she made a practice, when her father went down town, to go with -him as far as that drug-store and see him well past it! And when she had -kissed him good-bye at some corner, she returned with no glance toward -that counter which had always yielded such generous sodas and sundaes. - -One day Phœbe got a fright. The drug-store young woman ran out to them, -to intercept them. Doctor Blair, she said, wanted to speak to Phœbe’s -father on the drug-store telephone. Phœbe was forced to accompany her -father into the place. But she went warily, and she declined to have a -soda. She came away with fear. And when she was home once more she wrote -her father a note. - -“_Dear Daddy_,” it ran, “_I don’t like the girl at the drug-store. You -know what I mean. I hate her, I hate her, I hate her. Her grammar is -bad. She says don’t instead of doesn’t, like Sophie. Darling, darling -Daddy._” - -She did not give him the note. It was fortunate that she did not. For -the very next day, as she came homeward after seeing her father safe -beyond that dangerous corner, here came the object of her hate. The girl -was pushing before her a white perambulator. In the carriage was a big -rosy baby. - -Phœbe would have passed girl and baby without a look. But the former -halted her. “Oh, Phœbe, you’ve never seen my little son,” she said. - -Phœbe halted, wide of eyes and mouth. Son? That meant marriage—a -husband! - -“My mother-in-law takes care of him,” explained the drug-store girl. -(But of course she was a girl no longer. She was a grown woman—if she -was married and had a baby.) - -“He’s nice,” said Phœbe; “—like you.” - -After that she often went with her father to have ice-cream sodas at the -drug-store. And always, in his hearing, she asked after the baby and -after the baby’s father, and she rather prided herself on having carried -out this particular case of thwarting very well indeed. - -But with the young drug-store woman out of the way, she still had no -peace of mind. For now there rose up in her day-dreams the vision of a -wholly imaginary step-mother. The visionary figure was no longer -nebulous. And it was forbidding. Friends of her own age, school-life, -even the sympathetic companionship of a woman she could have trusted, -would have driven the vision from her thoughts. But in that adult -household, where all of her little confidences were given to no one, her -morbidity grew until the figure she had imagined came to seem to be -alive. - -It met her at quick, dim turns in the big lower hall, or on the dark -stair-landing. It lurked in her clothes-closet, usurping the place of -the Other Thing, which now disappeared. Worst of all, she could imagine -the figure in her father’s room! - -Curiously enough, it bore no likeness to any of the screen step-mothers -Phœbe had seen. This imaginary step-mother was tall, bony, -heavy-shouldered and long-armed, with sullen eyes and graying brown hair -combed straight back to show a wrinkled brow. What the rest of the face -was like, Phœbe never imagined. It was always the brow and the eyes that -caught her fleet glance as she hurried by. - -That her father would scarcely choose such a woman to be his second -wife, somehow never occurred to Phœbe. Had not Botts, poor -liquor-soddened, but kindly, soul, acquired Mrs. Botts when -unquestionably he did not want her? Such things happened to widowers and -divorced men. They were matrimonially helpless. And the vision that -Phœbe’s fear called up was of all things formidable, and overbearing, -yet silent—with the silence that means power. - -Phœbe trembled when she thought of her, and at those certain dim places -where the figure met her she felt an awful prickling of the skin. - -Her face grew gaunt. Her nose seemed pinched. Her cheeks lost some of -their color. So that Uncle Bob talked about a tonic. - -But Phœbe did not want a tonic. “Mother doesn’t believe in medicine for -children,” she declared. “She’d like it better if I didn’t take any. -Wouldn’t she, Daddy?” - -Her father looked at her keenly. Then he tucked her under his arm. “I -want a talk with my baby,” he declared. They went into Grandma’s room -together. And no one followed them. Evidently her father had something -very particular to say. - -He had. For when he was seated, he drew her to him, and looked up into -her face—anxiously! “I’ve got something important to tell you,” he said. - -“About Mother?” she asked eagerly. - -“N-n-ot exactly.” - -As he looked away, plainly embarrassed, a great fear came to her. What -Manila had said was coming true—and he was about to confess it! A -step-mother! - -She longed then to kneel beside him, to beg him to promise her that he -would never marry, to tell him she could not bear it. But she held back. - -“No, it’s just that I have to take quite a trip,” her father went on. - -“West?” she cried. She turned his face. Her eyes were shining. - -“To South America—Peru,” he answered. - -“Oh.” She backed a little, trying to adjust herself to the news. Once -she had seen him go on such trips with little or no concern. Now the -thought of his leaving hurt keenly. - -“I sha’n’t be gone long,” he said comfortingly. And kissed her. - -“Daddy,—while you’re gone—may I go West? To Mother?” - -“I’m afraid—not—just right away.” - -“But if you go—to tell Mother good-bye.” She was pressing the point. For -one thing she wanted to know before he went the truth from him about the -divorce. - -“I—I sha’n’t be going.” - -Her eyes stared into his. “Daddy! You and Mother _are_ divorced!” - -“Phœbe!” he gasped, plainly astounded. - -“_Did_ you steal me away from Mother?” she demanded. - -“Has someone told you that?” - -She nodded. - -He shook his head. “Oh, my little girl!” he said sadly. - -“Daddy! It isn’t true!” Now she knelt, looking up at him, imploring. - -“All your life, Phœbe,” he began, “I’ve kept one thought in front of me -always: your happiness. I want you to believe that——” - -“I do!” - -“Whatever I’ve done—even if it doesn’t turn out right—remember that I -never considered myself, only my daughter. I brought you here, where you -miss your Mother, when I knew your little heart would ache. Oh, -Phœbe,”—he bent toward her lovingly—“you used to notice, didn’t you, -that in New York, when Daddy left the apartment, he kissed only you -good-bye?” - -“Yes.” - -“And for a long time you haven’t seen Daddy and Mother go anywhere -together.” - -“Daddy,” she whispered, with a quick look beyond him, lest she be -overheard, “don’t you like my mother?” - -“Ah, Phœbe!” He shook his head again, sighing. “Ah, if I could only -spare my little girl!” - -“Daddy!” she cried, her arms suddenly about him. “Dear, dear Daddy!” - -“Phœbe, you must try to understand,” he counseled; “and take it all just -like the little woman you are. Then you and I will decide what’s -best—nobody else. It’s your happiness I’ll think of—just you!” - -She felt now that she was to hear the truth. She was ready to confide in -him all her fears of a step-mother—even her jealousy; ready to say if, -above all things, he wanted her happiness, then he could give her that -by putting no new wife in her mother’s place. - -But her father got no further with what he plainly intended to say to -her. And Phœbe was not able to open her young heart to him. For their -conference was broken in upon by Sophie, who entered, smiling, telegram -in hand. - -“Boy wants a’ answer, Mr. Jim,” she announced. - -Phœbe’s father took the yellow envelope with a trace of irritation at -being interrupted. - -“Oh, Daddy, is it from Mother?” Phœbe questioned. - -He did not answer. The telegram was open in his hand. He was reading it, -and his hand was shaking. - -“Wait!” he bade, as Sophie turned to go. - -“Is it?—Oh, Daddy!” pleaded Phœbe. She saw with alarm that his face had -gone suddenly white. - -He rose, crushing the wire and thrusting it into a pocket “Where is my -mother?” he asked the girl. - -“In the dinin’-room.” - -In obedience to his gesture, Sophie went out. He turned to Phœbe. “I -must see Uncle Bob,” he said quietly. Then, leaning to lift her to her -feet, “And you go into the garden for a little while, till Daddy wants -you.” He kissed her. - -Phœbe asked no other question. She was used to mystery, to being -bewildered. But she knew something had happened—something out of the -ordinary. It was no business telegram that could drive the color from -her father’s face and set his fingers to trembling. As she walked over -the lawn she reflected that, after all, everyday life very closely -resembled the “movies”. - - - - - CHAPTER XIII - - -It was Grandma who came for Phœbe. And the latter saw that there was no -smile on the kind old face, and that Grandma’s head was shaking very -hard. Hand in hand, silently, the two went into the library. - -Uncle John was there, leaning against the mantel. Though his look was -lowered, Phœbe knew that he was angry. Uncle Bob stood nearby, hands in -pockets. He nodded Phœbe a greeting. Phœbe’s father was not there. And -Phœbe wondered. - -“Little old dumpling,” said Uncle Bob. She came to him, and he looked -down at her with a tender smile. - -“Yes?” There was more curiosity than concern in her voice. - -“A telegram has just come from—from Nevada,” went on Uncle Bob. - -Her face lighted. Up came her hands, to reach toward him joyously. -“Mother!” she breathed. - -He shook his head. “The telegram is from a Doctor,” he answered. “Your -mother is—is pretty sick. She has asked your daddy to come.” - -“Oh!—but—but you think Mother will get well?” - -“Of course she will,” declared Uncle Bob stoutly. - -The next moment, here came Phœbe’s father, a suit-case in one hand, his -hat in the other. Behind him was Sophie, carrying his overcoat. He said -nothing, only put down the suit-case, crossed to Phœbe, and took her -hand. - -She lifted a beaming face to his. “Oh, Daddy,” she said tremulously. -“Now I know you and Mother are _not_ divorced!” - -He smiled at her. The others moved—started, rather. Phœbe saw them and -heard them, and realized that she had shocked. She reddened. - -“My little Phœbe!” said her father, tenderly. - -She strove to explain herself, to lessen the bad effect she felt she had -made on the others. “I knew you weren’t,” she apologized. “I didn’t -believe it, Daddy. I’m sorry I said it to you!—Oh, Daddy, take me with -you!” - -Her father turned to his mother. But it was Dr. Blair who spoke. “No, -Jim!” he cried. - -“What do you think, Bob?” asked Phœbe’s father. - -Uncle Bob shrugged. “How can I judge Helen’s feelings?” he answered, -with a trace of bitterness. “I have no child.” - -“Oh, I understand you, Bob,” retorted his eldest brother, angrily. “But -you know”—significantly—“there are occasions not proper for a child.” - -Phœbe did not understand what Uncle John meant. Evidently her father -did; furthermore, it seemed to decide him. “Give me a message for -Mother,” he said to Phœbe, and drew her to him. - -She took her disappointment bravely. “Tell her I love her, Daddy. And -tell her to come back to me.” Then, imploringly, “Oh, promise you’ll -bring my mother back!” - -“I will bring her back, darling,” he promised. “When Mother is better, -we’ll all try to be happy again—for your sake.” He kissed her, turned, -kissed his mother, took up the suit-case, and was gone. - -Uncle Bob followed. In one hand he had a roll of bills that Uncle John -had given him; with the other he searched a trouser pocket. - -When the door shut behind Uncle Bob, Phœbe sat down, not helplessly, but -she felt a trifle weak, as if some sort of a prop had been taken out -from under her. - -Her Uncle John was suddenly anxious. “Now, you won’t cry, will you, my -child?” he asked. - -“Cry?” she repeated, with a touch of pride. “Oh, no. I’m just saying to -myself, over and over, ‘Daddy isn’t divorced from my mother. And he’ll -bring her back! He’ll bring her back!’ That makes me so happy.” She -gulped. Tears swam in the gray-blue eyes, but she smiled through them. -The happiest thought of all she could not mention: that she might now -dismiss forever the possibility of having a step-mother! She would have -her own mother again, and the dear New York home, and her father, and -Sally, the maid, yes, and the goldfish, and—the “movies”! “I—I wish I -had my old doll,” she added, aloud, but as if to herself. - -“Your doll, darling?” questioned Grandma. - -“Isn’t our little woman pretty big for a doll?”—this from Uncle John. - -“It’s just—I—I want something to—to hold, and love,” Phœbe explained. - -“Won’t you come to me, darling?” asked Grandma. - -“I’m—all right,” Phœbe declared reassuringly. - -“Uncle John loves you, Phœbe,”—it was Uncle John again, and he was -actually referring to himself in precisely the way that Uncle Bob and -her father always did. “Uncle John never had a little girl, so his love -goes out to you.” - -“Thank you,” said Phœbe. - -Uncle Bob had come in while his brother was speaking. He grinned at -Phœbe across the room. “How about the fat old Judge?” he demanded. “Is -he any comfort?” - -She nodded vigorously. - -“Oh, we all love you, dear,” quavered Grandma. - -“I know,” acknowledged Phœbe. - -“Don’t you love anybody but Daddy and Mother?” asked Uncle Bob. - -“Oh, yes.” - -“I thought so! Grandma, and Uncle John, and a wee bit of love for yours -truly——” - -“And I love Miss Ruth.” - -Uncle Bob sobered. He looked down, thoughtfully. “Miss Ruth,” he -repeated. “Ah, yes. Who doesn’t love Miss Ruth.” - -“Manila loves her,” confided Phœbe. “Sophie told me all about it. Miss -Ruth has been so good to Manila. She calls Miss Ruth ‘Angel’.” - -“But you—why, you hardly know Miss Ruth.” There was a strange expression -on Uncle Bob’s face. He was looking at Phœbe, but he seemed to be -thinking of something far away. “Why do you love her?” - -Phœbe put her head on one side. “I don’t exactly know why,” she -admitted. In her heart, she knew this was not strictly true. There was a -reason for liking Miss Ruth. It had to do with Phœbe’s jealousy about a -step-mother. Phœbe had noticed that of all the women whom her father -knew, Miss Ruth, alone, never stopped when he met her, to smile and make -herself agreeable, but only bowed pleasantly and passed on. In other -words, Phœbe had no reason to fear Miss Ruth. “She’s nice,” she -supplemented now. “And I—I just do.” - -“I understand,” said Uncle Bob. - -There was a moment of silence then, of constrained silence. Phœbe felt -that constraint, and glanced at her grandmother—just in time to see a -finger lifted in warning at Uncle John, and a shake of the head that was -intentional. - -Phœbe wondered if something was wrong about Miss Ruth. She made up her -mind to ask Sophie. - -She thought of Sophie because the girl had just entered, abruptly. She -had a yellow envelope in her hand. “Here’s another telegram, Judge,” she -announced. - -Phœbe rose. “Mother?” she asked, as Uncle Bob tore at the envelope. - -“Bob!” said Grandma. She laid an anxious hand on his arm. - -From the near distance sounded the long-drawn whistle of a train. - -“Listen!” said Uncle John. - -“Read the wire,” urged Grandma. “Quick! We can telephone the depot.” - -Uncle Bob shook his head. “No, Mother,” he answered. “If this is from -Helen, no matter what it says it’s best that Jim should go.” He spread -the telegram out. - -Afterwards, for the rest of her life, Phœbe was destined never to forget -that minute, or the hours and the days that immediately followed. For -the minute was to bring a great crisis into her life, and the hours and -the days were to be filled with sorrow. - -Uncle Bob read the wire. He took, Phœbe thought, a good while to read -it. And he made a curious face at it, a grimace that seemed half -comical, half sad. Then he handed the paper to Grandma, and turned to -lean on the high, leather-covered back of the couch. - -Grandma read the telegram and—let it slip from her fingers to the floor. - -Ordinarily Phœbe would have sprung to pick up anything that Grandma -might drop. What held her back now? She could not have forced herself -even to touch that rectangle of paper! She only stared down at it. - -“Precious little girl,” faltered Grandma. She sank to a chair—feebly. - -“What——?” began Phœbe. “My—my mother——?” - -“Phœbe,” said Uncle John, more tenderly than he had ever spoken to her -in all the past months. “Phœbe, your mother is—in Heaven.” - -Phœbe understood. The blood went out of her face. Something drove -through her body from head to foot, like a stroke of lightning. But -though she swayed a little, she kept her foothold. Hers was a staunch -little soul. - -“She’s all Blair,” Uncle Bob had once said of her. Now as she set her -teeth together, and clenched her fingers on her palms, she was taking -her blow in true Blair fashion. - -Uncle Bob came round to the front of the couch. That big, moon-like face -of his was working as he, too, strove for control. He sat down, and held -out his arms. “Phœbe!” he whispered. “Little, little Phœbe!” - -She lifted a hand to her face, brushed at a cheek, tried to straighten, -swallowed—then made toward him unsteadily, and stumbled against his -breast. - - - - - CHAPTER XIV - - -Phœbe knew a great deal about death. Had she not seen it thousands of -times on the screen, and in nearly every conceivable form?—by fire and -water, by famine, by the knife of the assassin, the cup of the poisoner, -the burglar’s automatic, the soldier’s bayonet. Comfortably seated -beside her mother or Sally, before a great curtain that sprang into life -as the theatre darkened, she had even watched the waging of the Great -War! - -So it was easy for her, with her imagination thus trained and -stimulated, to call up—once she knew of her mother’s death—such pictures -in her mind as could augment to the point of torture the natural grief -of her fourteen years. She saw her mother die alone, weeping out her -last moments; or she saw a nurse and a priest watching beside that -distant bed. She saw other things that made her shudder, and cover her -eyes, or cling to whomever was nearest for the comfort and sympathy that -could drive away such terrible visions. - -That first week was a week of poignant suffering. She was not left alone -one moment. By day she was passed, as it were, from hand to hand in the -household, taking her turn with Sophie in the kitchen of a morning, -spending the early afternoon with Grandma, the later hours with Uncle -Bob. By night she slept only if someone sat beside her, in her high, big -room, and held her hand. Sometimes Grandma stayed the first half of the -night, or Sophie. After midnight it was Uncle Bob who took his place at -her pillow. - -There was something particularly sweet and comforting to Phœbe about -that companionship through the night. If she started from troubled -dreams, and cried out, always there was an answering voice, low and -loving, to soothe her; and there were tender kisses, and in the dark a -hand would caress her cheek or smooth her hair. Then she would murmur a -little, brokenly, and sleep again. - -She found that a bereavement was not without its compensations! For one -thing, the local newspapers had short, but kind, notices of the death, -in the Far West, of Mrs. James Blair. And there were references to “the -little daughter, Phœbe, now residing with her grandmother, Mrs. John G. -Blair”. Never before had Phœbe seen her own name in print. She liked the -notices. They made her cry, but they also interested her strangely. - -Then there were the black bands which Grandma sewed on the left sleeves -of Phœbe’s Sunday and second-best dresses. Uncle John had opposed the -bands strongly, and in Phœbe’s presence. He did not approve of the -wearing of mourning by children. But Uncle Bob thought otherwise. “It’s -the least we can do,” he said firmly. Grandma agreed. Sophie thought a -black band was “awful swell”. And as for Phœbe, a band on her sleeve -seemed to set her apart, somehow, to single her out particularly. And -she liked to wear it. She was almost proud of it! - -There were other compensations. People sent her flowers, and candy, and -Miss Simpson wrote her a note of condolence—a most polite note, which -Phœbe tore up! And there was another letter, a “Round Robin” from eight -of the girls at Miss Simpson’s. Phœbe was so happy when it came—happy in -a triumphant way. This letter she also destroyed. And she refused to -answer either. - -“They didn’t like me when my mother was alive,” she declared. “And they -said things about Mother.” - -“Good for you, old dumpling!” commended Uncle Bob. “There’s spunk for -you!” - -“Don’t encourage Phœbe in that sort of thing!” begged Uncle John. - -“They’re a lot of hypocrites,” declared his brother. “And this -youngster’s got sense enough to know it. Why didn’t they show some -sympathy over the other thing?” - -“True,” agreed Uncle John. “For that was worse than death.” - -“Exactly. But now, they begin their writing. They were thinking of -themselves when they—when I took Phœbe away from there. And now whom are -they thinking about?—that Simpson woman’s pocket-book! Confound them!” - -Phœbe gave some reflection to that short passage between her uncles. -What was worse than death? She knew: scandal! - -But the most gratifying thing that happened to her was a surprise. One -night she wakened to find her hand in the clasp of a hand smaller than -Uncle Bob’s, softer than Sophie’s, firmer than Grandma’s. And without -being told who it was, she instantly guessed. “Miss Ruth!” she -whispered. - -“It is Miss Ruth, Phœbe,” came the whisper back. Velvet lips touched her -forehead and her hair. An arm went round her, to pat the slender -shoulders and tuck in the covers. - -“I love you,” sighed Phœbe, contented, and slept again. - -After that Miss Ruth continued to come. Often in the darkness, if Phœbe -was wakeful, Miss Ruth would tell her stories—wonderful stories, about -princesses and knights, goblins and dwarfs and fairies. These were all -new to Phœbe, who knew best the more modern stories of the films. - -“Why didn’t you ever come to see us before?” Phœbe wanted to know. - -“You like me, don’t you, dear?” Miss Ruth returned happily. It was early -morning, and Phœbe had just wakened. Already the room was lightening -with the dawn. Miss Ruth leaned down and cupped Phœbe’s cheek in the -palm of a hand. “And you’re like your father,” she added with a tender -smile. - -Soon there came a time when Phœbe slept through the nights without -waking, when watchers were no longer needed beside her bed. She did not -understand how it was, but she had come to feel two things: First, it -did not seem true that her mother was dead, and having had no letters -from her mother since leaving New York, there was not even the cutting -off of messages to bring home to Phœbe her loss; second, her mother’s -death settled finally a question that had vexed Phœbe sorely, the -troublesome question of what was going to happen once the divorce was -granted. Now Phœbe knew. She had only Daddy! She would go with Daddy. - -And as this fact was borne in upon her, she remembered the matter that -Manila had broached. She recollected, too, the decision she herself had -made—to thwart. “And I must get at it,” she declared. “Because now, with -Mother gone it’s likely——” - -She wrote her father. From Nevada he had gone on directly southward, and -his address was such a very strange one that Phœbe had her Uncle Bob -direct her envelope. But no one saw what she wrote. Though what she -wrote was not what she had fully intended to say. At first she had -determined to tell him frankly that she could never, never bear to have -a step-mother, who would hate her, and beat her with part of a tug, and -turn her father against her. She ended by sending him four cheerful, -newsy pages; only at the end did she allow herself to touch remotely -upon what was uppermost in her mind. - -“_Darling Daddy_,” ran her final paragraph, “_you don’t like anybody but -me, do you? Oh, dear Daddy, say you don’t._” - -When the letter was gone (she posted it herself), she realized that now, -with Mother dead, it would be harder than ever for her if her father -were to marry a second time. She saw that she must have counsel from -someone. And who knew more about the whole thing than Manila? She -determined to see Manila. - -During those first weeks following Phœbe’s arrival from New York, how -anxious the family had been that she should meet and talk to no one. But -now, as during Phœbe’s attendance at Miss Simpson’s, her uncles and her -grandmother were more than anxious that she should have company—and -plenty of it, so that her thoughts would not dwell too much upon her -loss. - -“Aren’t there some little girls that you’d like to have come?” Grandma -often wanted to know. - -This gave Phœbe her opportunity! “I’d like to see Manila,” she announced -one day. - -And so it came about that Manila paid Phœbe a second visit, and the two -went out to the summerhouse, taking along Phœbe’s old doll, and Phœbe -told Manila all about Mother, and wept, her head on Manila’s knee, and -confessed her fears and her intention to thwart. - -Manila was practical. “Well, if he comes back with a Peru wife you can’t -do nothin’,” she argued. (So monosyllabic as a rule, Manila, when it -came to the subject of step-mothers, could be even talkative!) “But if -he comes back alone, why——” - -“What?” asked Phœbe. “Because if he went to the movies, he’d _know_ -step-mothers are bad. But he doesn’t. And I can’t think how to show him. -I just can’t.” - -“I know.” Manila nodded solemnly. - -“How?” - -“We’ll show him _mine_.” - -“Oh, Manila!” Phœbe was overjoyed. “That’s a wonderful plan! Daddy’ll -see her, and he’ll hate her. But how can you get him to see her?” - -Manila laughed. “Easy!” she declared. “I’ll fix it so’s she’ll foller me -here.” - -Phœbe looked at her with awe—and respect. “Suppose she was to try to -kill you!” she ventured. “Step-mothers are awful bad in the movies.” - -“Let her kill me,” answered Manila, philosophically. “Then the Judge’d -have her hung.” - -“Say, what does your step-mother look like?” Phœbe wanted to know. - -Manila thought. “She’s like a rat most,” she concluded finally. “She’s -slim, and she goes around so’s you don’t hear her comin’. She has black -eyes, and slick hair, and a sniffy nose.” - -“Ugh!” breathed Phœbe. (After that the imaginary step-mother that lurked -in the big Blair house whenever the light was dim, took on a ratlike -personality—slenderness, stealthiness, small black eyes and sniffy -nose.) - -Phœbe visualized the lady under discussion. “The Hanging of the -Rat-Woman,” she mused. “That would be a wonderful title.” - -Manila thought so too. - -“I wish I was a big cat,” she confided, “I’d wait behind somethin’, and -when Mrs. Botts come by, I’d jump at her, and break her back.” Manila’s -face was pale with the thrill of it, and with hate. Phœbe regarded her -more respectfully than ever. - -“I run away today,” went on Manila. “I don’t never ask Mrs. Botts what I -can do, and Paw was downtown. Miss Ruth telephoned, and when she said -you wanted to see me, over I come.” - -“But when you get home—?” It was Phœbe’s time to go white. - -Manila’s eyes narrowed. “If she licks me, I’ll tell the Judge on her,” -she threatened. “And he’ll have her in Court, and shame her like he did -once before. And a lickin’ don’t hurt long.” - -Manila waited about that afternoon long past the time when, in the -natural order of events, Phœbe thought her visitor should have gone. For -suppertime approached, and yet Manila lingered. - -“Are you afraid?” Phœbe wanted to know. - -“Uh-uh,” denied Manila. “I’m waitin’ till I’m sure Paw is back. If Mrs. -Botts licks me I want him to see. Then I yell hard, and the folks on -either side call Paw up on the phone.” - -When Manila went, Phœbe experienced real terror. At the supper-table, -not being able to eat, she confided her fears to Grandma and her uncles. -Whereupon Uncle Bob promptly called the Botts home up on the telephone. -Mrs. Botts answered. She seemed as quiet as possible, he said. - -“But she’ll bide her time, the vixen!” he added. “And Manila oughtn’t to -leave home like that. I have my hands full enough as it is.” - -Phœbe said nothing. What if he knew that she and Manila had planned, -when the time should be ripe, so to tantalize Mrs. Botts that the latter -would invade the Blair house, there to serve to Phœbe’s father as a -horrible example of a real step-mother? - -“Just let the mean old thing keep away from here,” said Phœbe, by way of -tactfully turning Uncle Bob from even a suspicion of that plan. - -“My dear niece!” chided Uncle John. - - - - - CHAPTER XV - - -At once lessons were resumed, filling the morning hours of each -week-day. And a strict program of driving was followed out each -afternoon that the weather permitted. In consequence of which Phœbe had -little time to herself, and none for Manila. - -“They don’t want me to have even one friend,” Phœbe concluded -resentfully. “And Uncle John wants me to forget Mother.” - -He was leading Phœbe from chapter to chapter of “A Child’s History of -England,” each chapter, to her mind, being dryer and more tiresome than -the last. She determined that no one should make her forget her mother, -and lengthened her prayers, therefore, saying the first one reverently -to God, but always, the portrait before her, making her final, and -longer one, to her mother. - -Also she spoke to Uncle Bob about the History. “It doesn’t seem like -anything for a child,” she complained. - -“Pretty dry—after the movies?” he suggested. - -Phœbe assented. “I’m used to something exciting.” - -“I understand,” he said gently. “But, little old dumpling, later on, -when you’re older, you’ll be mighty sorry if you don’t read all these -things. The movies are all right—as entertainment. They’re like the -dessert at the end of dinner. But don’t fail to know about the -substantial things. The day is past when girls need only to be pretty -and fluffy. We don’t want fluffy women, either. Great things have just -happened on this earth. You must know about them, and you must know -about the things that went before them. Uncle Bob wants you to be fine, -and good, and wise, and womanly, like—like Miss Ruth, for instance.” - -Phœbe remembered that she wanted to ask Sophie about Miss Ruth. Sophie -had afternoons off; not Thursday afternoons, like Sally, but occasional -ones, when, in her very best coat-suit, with a hat upon which were -brick-red plumes, she set forth to shop, or make calls or see a matinée. - -Phœbe, going promptly to find and question her, found her descending the -back stairs, drawing on, as she went, white gloves that were half a size -too small. Her face was shining from a vigorous soaping, as well as with -expectancy. Phœbe joined her, and went as far as the gate, bouncing the -rubber ball on the way. - -“Sophie, what’s a probation officer?” she wanted to know. - -“It’s a party that keeps a’ eye on another party,” Sophie declared; “to -see if they’re behavin’. Miss Ruth Shepard is one. Your Uncle Bob tells -her who to watch, and it’s always some kid.” - -Phœbe looked back at the house, and lowered her voice confidentially. -“Why did Uncle Bob say he wished Miss Ruth lived at our house?” she -asked. “He said he’d been saying she ought to for years and years and -years.” - -At first Sophie did not answer. But when they reached the gate, past -which Phœbe was not to go, Sophie put it between them, then turned to -lean upon it. - -“If I tell you, you’ll tell,” she charged. - -“Cross my heart to die!” vowed Phœbe. - -“Well, y’ see, the fact is the Judge just worships Miss Ruth.” - -“O-o-oh.” - -“Yes, he’s in love with her.—Now, don’t you dare say I told you, because -I’d lose my job.—But he’s been in love with her since before you was -born.” - -“I don’t blame him,” declared Phœbe. “She’s dear, and she’s pretty. And -I love her.” - -A strange look came into Sophie’s eyes—a searching look. “Say! You let -everybody see you love her, will y’?” she asked. - -“Of course! Because I do.” - -“You show your grammaw how y’ feel, and your uncles, and also your -papa.” - -“I will.” - -“Because Miss Ruth is good,” Sophie went on. She was oddly grave, for -some reason. “Don’t forget that, Phœbe. She’s the nicest woman in this -town. But—she’s never been happy.” Sophie sighed. “Things’ve never gone -right for Miss Ruth, some way.” - -“And she doesn’t love Uncle Bob?” persisted Phœbe. - -Sophie drew back. “You know all you oughta know about it,” she said, -laughing. “Now run home, dearie, to Grammaw.” - -“Uncle Bob isn’t handsome,” conceded Phœbe. “He’s too short, and he’s -bald, and a little old, too——” - -“Miss Ruth ain’t a girl no more,” reminded Sophie. “She looks awful -young. But she was nineteen the year your daddy got married, and so she -must be about thirty-three or so.” - -“My!” marveled Phœbe. “I thought she was twenty-five, maybe.” - -“Bein’ a probation officer don’t take it out of you like housework,” -reminded Sophie. - -“But she doesn’t _hate_ Uncle Bob, does she?” went on Phœbe. - -“Naw! Don’t they see each other every day at the Court House?” - -“But she doesn’t come here any more. Why?” - -Far down the street a man could be seen, slowly approaching. “Well, I’ve -got to be trottin’,” said Sophie, fixing her hair and giving a touch to -hat and dress. - -“If Uncle Bob likes her, and I like her, and you like her,” argued -Phœbe, “why doesn’t she come?” - -“Maybe she’s tired at night. You know she works all day.” - -“She sat up with me after—Mother died. She wasn’t tired then.” - -“Well, now, I’ll tell you what’s the matter. Everybody in town knows it, -anyway. But you didn’t hear it from me, mind y’, if you happen to let it -out——” - -“I’ll remember.” - -“Your Uncle Bob loves Miss Ruth, and he’d marry her if certain things -wasn’t a fact.” - -“What things?” - -“Never mind. But this much I can tell y’: Miss Ruth don’t love your -Uncle Bob, and she’ll never marry him, for the plain and simple reason -that she loves somebody else.” - -“Oh!—Who, Sophie?” - -“Somebody that went and married somebody else,” Sophie answered glumly. -“And so Miss Ruth stayed single. And folks say her heart is broke——” - -“Just like in the moving-pictures, Sophie!” - -“Only it’s a lot harder when it’s real, and not make-believe.” - -“Some day maybe that man’ll get free and come back to Miss Ruth,” -suggested Phœbe. “And then she’ll marry him, and they’ll be happy for -the rest of their lives.” - -“No.” Sophie shook her head with finality. “It won’t end that way. You -see, the man Miss Ruth loves has got a brother that also happens to be -in love with her.” - -“My, what a lot of gentlemen love Miss Ruth,” marveled Phœbe. “Doesn’t -that make three?” - -“Maybe. But the trouble is that the one brother just won’t ever take her -from the other brother, and so neither’ll marry her. And I’m afraid the -picture’s goin’ to end sad.” - -She started away. And presently Phœbe, watching, saw Sophie meet that -man who had been slowly approaching in the distance. The man turned with -Sophie, and the two disappeared down the long, tree-shaded street. The -man, then, was Sophie’s beau! - -Phœbe turned houseward. The world was just full, she reflected, of good -moving-pictures that no one seemed to be using. - - - - - CHAPTER XVI - - -To Phœbe, Uncle Bob took on a new and intense interest. Heretofore, he -had been just Uncle Bob, stout and jolly and loving, with certain -unknown duties at the Court House, and his various homely pastimes at -home, such as gardening and puttering about the stable, and hunting -worms. But now all at once he seemed different. And Phœbe forgot his -stoutness and his baldness in remembering that he was the adoring, yet -unhappy, lover. And just as she had watched her father’s face for signs -of suffering, she now watched this uncle, discovering sadness in his -smiling blue eyes, and yearning even in his whistled tunes as he -hammered away at the chicken-coop. - -“He loves Miss Ruth,” she pondered. She was doubly tender to him, -knowing his secret. And just as she had vowed to thwart any plan of her -father’s to marry a second wife, she now gave time to a plot that would -bring Miss Ruth to Grandma’s. - -Sophie discouraged the idea. “You can’t make Miss Ruth love your Uncle -if she don’t,” she asserted. “And—she don’t.” - -“I’m going to pray about it,” resolved Phœbe, stoutly. - -It meant a new ending to her bedside devotions. First there was that -general plea to her Maker, which, she felt, kept her right in her own -conscience and in the sight of her fellow-beings. Next came her -whispered appeal to her mother, bringing that dear presence poignantly -near. The final prayer was as simple as it was heartfelt: “Oh, God, -please help Miss Ruth to love my Uncle Bob!” - -Yet she never dared broach the matter to her uncle. Other things they -discussed most confidentially; for instance, Uncle John. - -“When I get educated,” Phœbe wanted to know, “like Uncle John is, will I -talk to people like he does, and make them sleepy?” - -Uncle Bob roared with laughter, and slapped his knee. “That’s a good -one!” he cried. “And down at the Court House, sometimes when I talk a -good deal _I_ can put a lawyer to sleep.” - -“Lawyers are not nice people,” Phœbe declared. “At least they’re never -very nice on the screen.” - -She asked him quite frankly about her program of work. “Public school is -out, and so is Miss Simpson’s,” she reminded him; “and here I am at -lessons every morning.” - -“You’ll be just so much ahead of everybody else,” returned Uncle Bob. -“And why waste the time? Pile up the good work while Daddy’s gone. Now! -now! What’s that? A little tear?” - -Phœbe nodded. “Lately, when I shut my eyes, I can’t see Daddy’s face any -more. He seems such a long way off. Just see where Peru is on the map!” - -“I know, darling. It’s hard.” - -She looked around—to make sure they were alone. “If—if I only had my -mother,” she whispered. “Uncle Bob, are there a lot of girls in the -world without mothers?” - -He nodded. “Too many.” - -“Sometimes it seems as if I can’t stand it,” she confessed. “My throat -twists up,—right here—and it aches. I wake in the night, and I pretend -that she’s close to me——” - -“Maybe she is.” - -“No; because I hold out my arms.” - -Uncle Bob drew her close. “Ah, you’re lonely!” - -“I want my mother,” whispered Phœbe. “Oh, Uncle Bob, I want my mother!” - -“There! There!” he comforted. - -“She died out there alone! Did you all hate her?” - -“No! No!” - -“What did my mother do that was so bad?” - -He made her stand in front of him. “Phœbe,” he began solemnly, “shall I -tell you the truth?” - -“I want to know.” - -“And if I tell you the truth, you’ll never worry about it again?” - -“No, I won’t, Uncle Bob.” - -“The truth is this:”—looking at her squarely—“your mother just -_couldn’t_ do wrong.” - -“I love you,” faltered Phœbe, glad and grateful and on the verge of -tears—all at the same time. - -“If I could only give you back your mother!” went on Uncle Bob, huskily. -“To make you happy, there isn’t anything I wouldn’t do—not anything.” - -His big chin rested upon his tie. He lost himself in thought, his eyes -on the carpet,—they were in the library—his arm about Phœbe. - -And then she was reminded all at once of that which could make him -happy. For Sophie burst in, her over-curled hair lifting with the speed -of her coming, and her eyes dancing with something like mischief. - -“Miss Shepard’s callin’, Judge,” she announced. - -“Ah!” Uncle Bob sprang up. - -“Miss Ruth!” cried Phœbe, joyously. - -“Ask Miss Shepard in here, Sophie,” bade Uncle Bob. Then, as Sophie -swung herself out, “You love Miss Ruth very much, don’t you, Phœbe?” - -“Yes,” answered Phœbe. And then, before she could stop the words, for -she was thinking aloud, “So do you.” - -“Wha-a-at?” exclaimed Uncle Bob. - -“People say so,” defended Phœbe, a little frightened at her own -temerity. - -Uncle Bob’s face grew suddenly stern. “That’s gossip,” he said shortly. - -“I’m sorry.” - -He strode to Uncle John’s table and back; then, “That’s all right, old -dumpling. Now you go in to Grandma. And remember that Uncle Bob’s going -to try to do something that’ll make his dear Phœbe happy. He’s going to -try right away—soon—today. For he’s got a plan—a wonderful plan——” - -It was Miss Ruth who cut him short. She entered quickly, a little out of -breath. And she was pale. “Judge, I’m sorry to trouble you——” - -“You never trouble me.” How deep Uncle Bob’s voice could be! Phœbe was -standing beside Miss Ruth, her hand in a firm, cool, loving clasp. She -watched her uncle narrowly, seeing that what Sophie had told her was -true. - -“Judge, it’s Manila,” announced Miss Ruth. - -“What’s wrong?” asked Uncle Bob. - -“Mr. Botts is drinking again. And so—well, you know my neighbor on the -other side? She’s very close to the Botts’s. And they’ve got that child -locked up, in a room on this side——” - -Phœbe drew away from Miss Ruth, and stared up at her. “In prison!” she -murmured. Here was another drama, more startling even than this one -which concerned Miss Ruth and Uncle Bob’s unrequited love. - -Miss Ruth was appealing to Uncle Bob. “My neighbors can hear Manila -crying—they heard her in the night, and this morning, too, while it was -still dark. Oh, Judge, they say there’s no bed in that room——” - -Uncle Bob straightened determinedly. “We’ve got to take that child,” he -declared. - -“Oh, I’m so glad to hear you say that!” cried Miss Ruth. “Poor, -unhappy——” - -But Phœbe heard no more. For an idea had come to her, and she had -decided to act upon it. Manila was locked up by her cruel -step-mother—exactly like some unfortunate waif in a moving-picture -story! Uncle Bob meant that Manila should be set free. - -“And I’m going to do it,” vowed Phœbe. - -She made for the hall door. - - - - - CHAPTER XVII - - -All the moving-picture heroines that Phœbe loved were responsible for -her resolve to rescue Manila. The plan seemed an inspiration; and not in -the least degree blameworthy—on the contrary. When had she seen one of -her screen favorites do anything, however startling, that had brought -disaster, or punishment—even displeasure? Quite naturally, therefore, -Phœbe apprehended only success in her venture, happiness for Manila, and -praise for herself. - -She thrilled with the excitement of the venture as she set off from the -Blair side-porch. Here was a real heart drama! - -As she trotted across the lawn and through the garden, Phœbe made up her -mind as to how she would carry out her design. Once, in a book she had -read, a boy had stealthily attracted the attention of another boy by -throwing pebbles against a window. She determined to throw pebbles -against Manila’s window. - -She knew which was the Botts house by beginning at the Shepard residence -and counting three. Manila’s home was of brick, with white trimmings and -green blinds. The window toward Miss Ruth’s was not high from the -ground, and it was just above a recently spaded flower-bed. When Phœbe -reached the fence that skirted the flower-bed, she gathered a handful of -small gravel, tossed it against the window-panes, and then crouched in -the lee of the fence. Her heart was pounding against her middy -blouse—pounding wildly. She was glad of it. In a matter of this kind -that was precisely what a moving-picture heroine’s heart should do! - -More small gravel. Then a face appeared at the window—Manila’s face. And -Manila’s pale eyes looked out, and roved inquiringly. But only for a -moment. She had something in her hands—a pair of scissors; also some -paper. She was busy with these. - -Phœbe felt disappointment. Manila was not living up to expectations, to -the possibilities of the drama. She should have come flinging against -the glass, glad and thankful of a rescuer. Her face should have been -very wan, and tear-stained. Her hair should have been free about her -shoulders. There should have been a long purple welt across one poor, -pitiful cheek. - -Instead, Manila’s hair was braided, but very mussy. It stood up around -her forehead like a fiery fringe. Phœbe was reminded of savage girls -that she had seen at the showing of the Roosevelt South American -pictures. - -“St! St!” she hissed. She stood up, but stooped. She was determined that -she, at least, would do _her_ share toward carrying out the whole thing -properly, to make it like a real picture. - -Manila saw her, and hoisted the window. “Hullo,” she greeted, with one -eye on the work in her hands. “What’re you doin’ out there?” - -“Manila Botts,” cried Phœbe, crossly, “I have come to save you!” - -Manila, hanging upon the window-sill, thrust out her under lip -rebelliously. “But I’m cutting paper dolls,” she protested. - -“Manila Botts!” scolded Phœbe, with a stamp of her foot. “Uncle Bob -means to take you away from your step-mother, and I’ve come to get you. -Now, are you going to act like this?” - -Patiently Manila dropped scissors and paper. Then she disposed herself -sidewise, face down, upon the sill, let one leg drop over it leisurely, -next, another, and slipped quietly to the ground. A moment later Phœbe -drew her through a gap in the fence. - -Manila seemed not only indifferent, but even reluctant, about being -rescued. As for gratitude, there was not a trace of it. As the two made -off together along the tradesmen’s dirt road that ran behind the row of -houses, she pointed out now one thing, and now another, in a way that -made Phœbe more irritated than ever. - -“But haven’t you been locked up?” Phœbe wanted to know; “and in a room -without a bed?” - -“Aw, well,” returned Manila, philosophically, “you betcha I wouldn’t let -Mrs. Botts know I cared.” - -When the rear gate leading to the Blair house was reached, Manila began -to hang back. “Wisht I didn’t come,” she declared. - -“Wha-a-at?” Phœbe stopped short. - -“I’m scairt,” confided Manila. - -“Scared nothing!” Phœbe said stoutly, slamming the gate behind them. -“You’re with us now.” - -“Mrs. Botts told me, ‘Don’t you budge’.” - -“You don’t have to mind her any more. After this you mind just me.” - -“She won’t let me.” - -“She can’t help herself. Because I’m going to adopt you. You’re going to -be—let me see! I don’t know which, my sister or my daughter.” - -Manila halted and pulled back. “Phœbe, she’ll come after me.” - -“Don’t you worry. I’ve seen lots worse than her.” - -“_Worse’n_ her?” repeated Manila, incredulous. - -“In the pictures. And I’ve noticed that the hero or the heroine always -comes out ahead.” - -Manila allowed herself to be led across the rear lawn toward the Blair -house, but she was not convinced. “This ain’t no movie,” she reminded. - -“It’s better than a movie,” asserted Phœbe, “because it’s -honest-to-goodness true!” - -Manila looked back over a shoulder. Her concern was growing fast. “But -what if she seen us run away?” - -Phœbe was turning a corner on her way to the library windows. The -library windows were low of sill. At this season of the year they were -wide open. Of course all the outer doors of the house were open, too,—at -least they were not locked. But Phœbe had no intention of entering her -home in any prosaic fashion. No, indeed. Heroines of the screen always -made their exits and entrances romantically. She meant to carry out this -drama in true moving-picture fashion. - -She lowered her voice. “Who cares?” she demanded scornfully. “It was all -just perfect. There was the window, and the ladder——” - -“Ladder?” challenged Manila. - -“Well, what was better, you threw yourself out. You are the prisoner, -Manila, and I’m the heroine.—My, if only somebody could’ve come by with -a kodak!” - -They crept along by the wall. Manila was sniffing. Phœbe eyed her -approvingly. This was better—the proper spirit. - -“Sh! Sh!” cautioned Phœbe. - -They arrived, bent over, under a window. Phœbe slowly straightened and -spied out the ground. The library was empty. Good! She gave a hop, -landed on mid-torso across the sill, gave a wriggle, and stood safely -within. “Now!” she whispered cautiously, putting forth a hand. - -Manila was weeping in good earnest. “She told me, ‘Don’t you budge’.” -But she took Phœbe’s hand. - -When the two were side by side once more, Phœbe was all tender sympathy. -She felt that Manila was really acting very well. At first the latter -had given the impression that, after all, Mrs. Botts was not so bad as -she had been painted. But of course she was! And this drama was -promising excitement. - -Manila sought the nearest chair. “Wa-a-ah,” she wept. - -“Poor little girl!” said Phœbe, stroking the red hair. “If only we had -our mothers—both of us. Manila, do you suppose our mothers are together -in Heaven?” Then with a glance at the woebegone figure, “Well, perhaps -not exactly together, but close by. Perhaps my mother is in a mansion -all of precious stones, and your mother—your mother is walking along the -streets of gold.” - -Manila cast up one eye, the other being hidden under a damp fist. “How -do y’know?” she asked. - -“Uncle John tells me,” condescended Phœbe. “Uncle John’s a clergyman, -and he knows all about Heaven. ‘The twelve gates of the City are twelve -pearls,’ he says. Oh, Manila, if you and I could only go to Heaven to -our mothers!” - -Manila stood up. “Where _is_ Heaven?” she asked hopefully, as one who is -of a mind to set off forthwith. - -“Where? Well, I don’t know exactly. That’s one thing I forgot to ask -Uncle John.” - -Manila’s face fell. And her eyes, roving, lit upon the nearby globe. She -pointed. “Can’t y’ find it on the world?” she suggested. - -“On _that_?” cried Phœbe. - -“Look for it!” - -Phœbe gave Manila’s arm a soothing pat. Then with a shake of the head, -“Poor little girl, don’t you know that Heaven isn’t on the globe? And -I’ve never even seen it in the movies.” - -Manila sat down. - -“I know what’s inside,” confided Phœbe. “That’s the bad place, where we -go if we kill anybody, and if we tell lies. It’s awful hot there, Uncle -John says, and we burn and burn. Oh, Uncle John knows everything -religious.” - -There was something about all this that made Manila’s courage sink, for -once more she fell to weeping. - -“Manila!” pleaded Phœbe. “Everybody says that Heaven is—look!” She -pointed ceiling-ward. - -“Up in your house?” faltered Manila. - -“No! Somewhere in the sky.” - -“How do we get there? Airplanes?” - -“The minute you die, Manila, you’re an angel, and you grow wings.” - -“I don’t wanta die!” - -Phœbe put her arms about the shaking figure. “There! There!” she -comforted. “What you need is mothering. _I_ know. It’s what I want when -I feel blue. Manila, I’m going to mother you.” - -And then—! Up to now Phœbe had felt that from the standpoint of drama -there had been not a little lacking in this rescue of an imprisoned -stepdaughter. She was to feel this no longer. For the exciting now took -place. - -Phœbe never did quite figure out how it happened. But first there was a -quick slamming of doors, and a shrilling of voices—Sophie’s, Grandma’s, -and another, a strange woman’s. Then as Manila leaped from Phœbe’s hold, -the door opened with a fling, so that the window-curtains billowed and -swung, and into the room, stamping and panting, with eyes bulging and -lips puffed out, and a very torrent of threatening cries, came the -Rat-Woman! - -Phœbe knew her instantly, even before Manila cried “Mrs. Botts!” And -Phœbe faced her, bravely, with dislike and reproof in her look. Crouched -behind her was Manila, sobbing wildly. - -“So-o-o!” cried the Rat-Woman, advancing upon Phœbe. “I find out if -someone can come into my house to steal!” - -Uncle Bob had entered behind her. He was smiling, hands in pockets. -“Nonsense!” he retorted. “Who would steal Manila. You’ve been hard on -this poor child again, and she simply took to her heels.” - -“I tell her, ‘Don’t you budge’,” cried Mrs. Botts. (Phœbe noted that -there was an accent, slight, but enough to give what Phœbe thought was -the perfect touch. This was no ordinary villain!) - -“Phœbe,” said Uncle Bob, mildly, “how does Manila happen to be here?” - -“Tell! Yes!” added Mrs. Botts, wrathfully. “I hear about this Phœbe. She -is smart. She knows everything.” - -Phœbe drew herself up. “Well, I know _one_ thing,” she returned coolly. - -“Ye-e-es! And what?” Mrs. Botts folded her arms and hung her weight on -one foot. - -“I know that all step-mothers are cruel.” - -Out leaped Mrs. Botts’s arms. She swept around upon the Judge. “You hear -it?” she demanded. “You hear it? She is permitted to insult me!” - -It was not to be denied that Mrs. Botts was doing her part to make the -whole thing really dramatic. Phœbe had to give her credit for that. - -“Phœbe?”—Uncle Bob was as mild as ever. - -Phœbe wished that she might have had a different tale to tell. If only -she had thought to gag Manila, and tie her hands! If only she could tell -of, say, a kidnapping plot, of a great, black limousine, and Mexicans -with knives! But—— - -“Well, Uncle Bob,” she began calmly, “I did go over and get her. Miss -Ruth told us she was crying. Well, she wasn’t. She was cutting paper -dolls. Anyhow, I stole her, and she’s cried a lot since. Uncle John says -I’m too big for dolls, so I intend to adopt her.” - -“Adopt her!” exploded Uncle Bob. - -“Oh, just look at her!” implored Phœbe. “She’s had _such_ bad luck!—a -step-mother, and the awful name of Botts, and she’s red-haired, and -freckled, and she’s got adenoids!” - -Mrs. Botts sprang forward. “So-o-o!” she answered. “She is like that. -But she can mind her own business. And she does not talk too much. She -might be worse—as bad as you!” - -“Phœbe,” said Uncle Bob. He crossed to her, anxiously Phœbe thought. - -“You are a little thief!” Mrs. Botts stuck a fist close to Phœbe’s nose. -“And I will have you arrested! The whole town knows about you. Miss -Simpson, she——” - -Uncle Bob put a hand over each of Phœbe’s ears then, shutting out that -shrill voice. Once Phœbe heard “school,” and twice she heard “your -mother.” Then Mrs. Botts flung herself away and out. - -“What did she say, Uncle Bob?” asked Phœbe. “What did you cover my ears -for? What did she say?” - -Uncle Bob did not reply. He was white with rage. He went to the door and -looked through. “Sophie, put that vixen out!” he ordered. - -Now that Mrs. Botts was gone, Manila was tearless once more. “My -goodness!” she mourned, “now we’ve done it!” - -“What?” asked Phœbe. - -“Why, don’t y’ see? The Rat-Woman come too soon.” - -“Sure enough!” Phœbe agreed. “Oh, that’s too bad!” - -“And your paw don’t git to see her,” Manila added. - -“Phœbe, why did you want your daddy to see her?” asked Uncle Bob. - -“Oh, just be-because,” Phœbe frowned at Manila, warning her to silence. - -Uncle Bob sat down upon the couch. “Come here, old dumpling,” he bade. -And when Phœbe had gone to him, “Now, because why?” - -“I don’t want to tell you,” she confessed frankly. - -“But I’d really like to know.” - -She hesitated. “If I tell you, you won’t laugh?” she asked. - -“I won’t laugh,” promised Uncle Bob, gravely. - -“Because I want Daddy to see how mean and terrible step-mothers are,” -explained Phœbe. “We were going to show him Mrs. Botts. And now the -whole plot is spoiled.” - -“So you think step-mothers are mean and terrible,” said Uncle Bob. And -there was not even a glimmer of a smile in his eyes. On the contrary—he -looked actually troubled! - -All that she had longed to say to her father now surged to Phœbe’s lips. -She dropped beside her uncle, and clung to him. “Oh, I don’t want a -step-mother!” she cried. “Oh, Uncle Bob, help me! Keep Daddy from -getting married again! You will, won’t you? A step-mother would whip me, -and wear Mother’s clothes, and make Daddy hate me! Oh, Uncle Bob, you -_don’t_ think Daddy will bring one home?” - -“Darling baby,” he said tenderly, “I know your Daddy won’t bring one -home.” - -“Oh, not a Peru woman!” pleaded Phœbe. “I don’t want one!” - -“Don’t you worry. No Peru woman is going to get him.” - -“But I don’t want _any_body,” she persisted. “Oh, Uncle Bob!” - - -That was all. Except that when Phœbe had gone to Miss Ruth’s with -Manila, and was nearing home again, Grandma came out to meet her. And -Grandma was particularly tender to her, for some reason, and that very -evening sat beside Phœbe’s bed for a little while, and chatted. - -And from then on—Phœbe could not help but notice it—Grandma seemed to -take great interest in Phœbe, to be with her often, to make her little -presents, and buy her little things, and say so much to her that was -sweet. For which reason Phœbe came to understand Grandma better, and -daily their love for each other grew. - - - - - CHAPTER XVIII - - -“You can’t tell anything by the way a day starts,” philosophized Phœbe, -as she unlaced her shoes preparatory to going to bed; “because a -wonderful day starts exactly like an ordinary one.” - -The day had indeed started ordinarily enough—with the usual routine: -breakfast, twenty minutes in the open air, then an hour equally divided -between spelling and sums. Next Uncle John “heard” the spelling, and -looked over the sums; after which, settling himself in a big, -comfortable chair by a window,—his back to Phœbe—he listened while she -read aloud from Dickens’s “Child’s History of England.” - -Phœbe liked the reading aloud best. Because she had discovered that if -she would read quietly, and in one tone, Uncle John could be counted -upon to fall asleep during the first ten minutes. Whereupon Phœbe, with -“Little Women” handy, or “Sara Crewe,” or, better still, something by -“The Duchess”, was able to change from the History to a story without in -any way disturbing Uncle John. - -When Uncle John was finished with his after-breakfast sleep (Sophie -confided to Phœbe that it was his liver), he invariably wakened with a -start, pretending that he had not been dozing at all, said “Yes, yes, -yes,” as he got up, and “Very well, dear child,” as he crossed to the -table and his work, and Phœbe was then at liberty either to go on -reading from the book of her choice or betake herself elsewhere. - -But this was to be a wonderful day. For no sooner was Phœbe engrossed in -her book, as her clergyman uncle was in his sermon, than Sophie -appeared, looking flushed and important. She made toward the big table -with a swish of her starched skirts. She bent to whisper something. -Whereat Dr. Blair sprang up with a joyful exclamation and strode out. - -It so happened that Phœbe was reading “Airy, Fairy Lillian”. On -Sophie’s entrance she had quickly closed that fascinating volume and -slipped it between her back and the chair, then folded her hands -thoughtfully in her lap; not that she feared to let Sophie know what -she was reading—as a matter of fact it was Sophie who had recommended -“The Duchess” books, and pointed out the place of their hiding. But -Phœbe knew that whenever Uncle John was roused out of the strange, -dazed—almost cataleptic!—condition into which he fell when he worked, -he was more likely than not to take stock of everything about him. And -Phœbe did not care to have him see “Airy, Fairy Lillian”. - -Uncle John gone, Sophie did a hop-skip to Phœbe’s chair. “What d’ y’ -think!” she exclaimed excitedly. - -Phœbe looked up languidly. Secretly she was annoyed at Sophie’s -interruption, for the exquisite _Lillian_ (a sort of novelized -Marguerite Clark) had just sprained her slender, silken-covered ankle, -and a lover fully as handsome as Dustin Farnum was about to take -_Lillian_ up in his strong young arms. - -“What?” she inquired politely. - -Sophie bent, put a hand on each knee, and beamed into Phœbe’s eyes. -“Comp’ny,” she announced. - -“Company? Who?” Phœbe was more than interested. - -“Genevieve Finnegan.” - -Phœbe made a wry face. “Her!” she said, and flushed. - -“I pretended I didn’t know her,” chuckled Sophie. - -Phœbe was suspicious. “What do you think she’s come for?” she asked. - -“Can’t say.” Sophie straightened and shrugged. - -“Maybe she’s going to tell me they’re all sorry for putting me out of -school,” suggested Phœbe. - -“You’re right! Because Miss Simpson come with her.” - -“Miss—Simpson!” gasped Phœbe, staring. - -“In the sittin’-room with Grammaw and Dr. Blair.” - -Phœbe stood up. The bow on the front of her middy-blouse rose and fell. -Her eyes swam. It was all very well to be independent, to say she did -not want friends or acquaintances. But she had lived through scores of -dull days—days that were all the harder to endure because she was a -product of a metropolis. She had not even seen as much of Manila as she -would have liked. Miss Ruth, too, came only when she had to. And when -Uncle Bob had suggested asking little girls in, Phœbe had proudly said -no—but said it with a bursting heart. - -But now the time was come when she could stand out against her -loneliness no longer. “Oh, Sophie! Sophie!” she cried, clasping her -hands. “It’s just splendid! No more tutoring with Uncle John! Oh, how I -hate it! No more Dickens’s ‘Child’s History of England,’ or these awful -classics! Miss Simpson’s come to ask me——” - -She paused. It was the look on Sophie’s face that made her pause. -Resentment was written large on that countenance framed by the tousled -hair. Phœbe understood the resentment. She shared it. “But she didn’t -want me when my mother was—West,” she said. - -Sophie’s arms were folded. “Now, you’re talkin’!” she replied -admiringly. “When you _needed_ these fine ladies, they didn’t stand by -y’.” - -Phœbe nodded. “I know. I’ve thought about it lots since my mother died. -And I know there was something the matter.” She looked down at the -carpet, restraining herself from questioning Sophie. What was it that -Mrs. Botts had said—while Uncle Bob covered Phœbe’s ears? Something very -ugly, Phœbe was sure. And Phœbe would have liked to ask now, yet shrank -as ever from discussing her mother with a servant. But Uncle Bob had -said that Mother could not do wrong—— - -“Sophie!” she whispered. “_I_ hadn’t done anything, had I? And Miss -Simpson sent home my books!” Her voice broke. She sank to the chair. - -“Phœbe,” said Sophie, gently. Then to rouse her, “Keep your chin up, -Kiddie! Don’t you let that Finnegan girl see that you care!” - -“I don’t care,” protested Phœbe, with spirit. “You just watch me! Go -on—bring her in. I’m ready!” She caught up a volume of Scott from where -she had deposited it when _Lillian_ had proved the more enthralling. - -“Ha-ha-a-a-a!” chortled Sophie, proudly. With a toss of her head, she -went out. - -Phœbe opened her book at random. Perhaps it was even upside down—she -scarcely knew. However it was, she became intensely engrossed in it, so -that she did not even glance up when the door to the hall opened and -Sophie returned. - -“I found her, Miss Finnegan,” announced Sophie, in her best receiving -manner. - -“Phœbe!” gushed Miss Finnegan. She burst past Sophie. “Phœbe! You -_darling_! Oh, I’m so glad to see you!” - -Phœbe let her book drop, still open, to her knees. Very carefully she -put one forefinger on the line she was supposed to be reading. Then she -raised eyes that had in them mild surprise, and just a trace of sweet -bewilderment. - -“Oh! How do you do,” she answered politely; and got up. “Please excuse -me. I—I get so interested in my books. This is ‘Kenilworth,’ by Sir -Walter Scott. Of course you’ve read it.” - -“‘Kenilworth’?” said Genevieve. “Why, no.” - -“You haven’t?” returned Phœbe, shocked. “Oh, my, that’s too bad. After a -while, when you’re grown up, you’ll wish you’d read it. A girl can’t be -just fluffy. And a woman mustn’t be fluffy. We must know things, and we -must be wise and—and as much like Miss Ruth Shepard as we can possibly -be.” - -Genevieve blinked, trying to comprehend this onrush of ideas. - -Phœbe put her head on one side and smiled. “Oh, I _do_ so enjoy the -classics,” she declared. - -It was Genevieve’s turn to be bewildered. “The—classics?” she echoed. -“What are the classics?” - -Phœbe knit her brows. “Why, they’re—they’re—well, just the most -important thing. My Uncle John says ‘The classics are the foundation of -culture’.” - -“Is that so!” pondered Genevieve. “Well, I’d better put ’em down. What -did you call ’em? ‘Kenilworth’?” She drew a handsome leather notebook -from the richly embroidered handbag on her arm. “Because Mamma says, -‘Germans or no Germans, with our name we just got to have culture’.” She -touched her tongue with the tip of a slender gold pencil and wrote. - -Sophie, backed against the hall door, shook with silent laughter. As -Phœbe glanced her way, roguishly, Sophie noiselessly applauded, and -signalled Phœbe to continue her tactics. - -Phœbe assumed the grand air. “I suppose you’ve heard about my father?” -she began again. - -“In Peru, ain’t he—isn’t he?” asked Genevieve. - -“It’s South America,” said Phœbe. “Only a few people ever go there. -Daddy is such a wonderful mining-engineer that they just had to have -him.” - -Genevieve put away her notes. “Well, I suppose now, the first thing you -know, your father’ll be getting married.” - -Phœbe turned white. All the grand air went, leaving her staring almost -wildly. “Married!” she breathed. “My—father——” - -Genevieve smiled with gratification. Her shot had gone home. “Mamma -says,” she went on blandly, “that since this war, with so many men -killed off, why, a man that ain’t—I should say isn’t—married don’t stand -a chance.” - -Phœbe flung “Kenilworth” down. “Oh, but he wouldn’t!” she cried. “No! I -don’t want to lose him!” - -Sophie was at her side in an instant. “Darlin’, don’t you believe it! He -loves you, and just nobody else.” Then marching up to Genevieve, -angrily, with hands on hips, “Say! What did you come here today for, -anyhow?” - -Genevieve lifted her shoulders with disdain. “Mamma says,” she returned -calmly, “that you can tell whether people are nice or not by their -servants.” - -“Y’ can!” taunted Sophie. “Well, ‘Mammaw’ sure oughta know. Because -Bridget Finnegan was oncet a servant.” - -Genevieve’s face darkened. Her neck appeared to swell. “Well, I can tell -you this much,” she answered hotly. “There are some things my mother -_wasn’t_. People have never said that she——” - -“Here!” stormed Sophie. She caught Genevieve by a shoulder. - -“Sophie!” gasped Phœbe, appalled. - -But Sophie did not hear. “Now, you run along,” she ordered, showing -Genevieve toward the door. “Do y’ understand?” - -Genevieve went haughtily. “I wouldn’t stay for anything,” she declared. -“I’ll wait for Miss Simpson in my motor.” - -“When y’ got your motor,” sneered Sophie, “what a _pity_ y’ didn’t get -some manners!” - -Genevieve ignored her. “Good-bye, Phœbe,” she said, from the door. “I -don’t believe us Simpson girls will see you again at school.” - -“I’m dead sure you won’t!” cried Sophie, and slammed the door in -Genevieve’s face. - -Phœbe sighed. “Now, she’ll make Miss Simpson hate me,” she said sadly. -“And so will all the girls, and they won’t take me back——” - -“Take you back!” raged Sophie. “After they sent you packin’ home that -time? Where’s your pride? If it was me, I just wouldn’t _go_ back. And -your uncles and your paw won’t let y’ when they hear what I tell -’em!—Phœbe, you show Miss Simpson that you don’t want her old school. -You turn _her_ down—first!” - -Phœbe rallied herself. She realized that Sophie was speaking the truth. -The quarrel with Genevieve—and especially what Genevieve had just said -(Phœbe was aware of an inference there), made her see that the last -bridge was burned between her and the Simpson School. So she might as -well show indifference to the visiting Principal, whose voice, even now, -could be heard from the direction of the sitting-room. - -“All right, Sophie,” she whispered bravely. “Don’t you worry.” - -She caught up “Kenilworth” once more, tucked herself into a corner of -the big couch, rested her head in a scholarly pose upon one hand, and -lost herself between the pages of Sir Walter Scott. - - - - - CHAPTER XIX - - -“Darling Phœbe,” gushed Miss Simpson, “how do you do!” - -“How do you do,” responded Phœbe, rising politely. - -“It’s so _nice_ to see you again,” went on the Principal. “Oh, my dear, -we’ve missed you so much!” - -“Thank you.” - -Such straight looking out of those frank eyes, and such cool poise, was -most disconcerting. Miss Simpson, with a smile that was wholly muscular, -changed the subject by bending down to Phœbe’s book. “‘Kenilworth’?” she -cried in delighted surprise. “Do you enjoy it, Phœbe?” - -“I love it,” answered Phœbe, with quiet sincerity. “Every day I read it -with Uncle John—Sir Walter Scott in twelve volumes.” - -Miss Simpson turned to Grandma, waiting and smiling and nodding her -white head at the far end of the library table. “Dr. Blair must be such -a great help to Phœbe,” she declared. - -“Oh, he is.” Phœbe did not wait for Grandma. “Uncle John is my tutor, -and I like having a tutor.” - -Miss Simpson fell back a step, as at some new and disconcerting thought. -“Do you, dear?” she murmured, and sank, still staring at Phœbe, to a -convenient chair. - -“I do,” returned Phœbe. “You know princesses always have governesses and -tutors. I’ve seen them in the movies.” - -“The movies!” exclaimed Miss Simpson. - -“But Phœbe doesn’t go to them,” said Grandma, quickly. “Dear Phœbe, you -know you don’t.” - -Phœbe remembered what Sophie had said about keeping one’s chin up. She -raised hers now. “I used to,” she reminded. “So I know. And Uncle John -and I are reading Dickens’s ‘Child’s History of England’—it’s a -wonderful book. Oh, we’ve got a whole year’s work planned out.” - -Miss Simpson sat back, swallowed, glanced right and left—then broke -forth in a smile that was meant to be warmly diplomatic. “I see,” she -cooed. “But I’ve come today, Phœbe, because—ah—er—I’m calling on all of -my pupils for the Fall term, and so——” - -Up went Phœbe’s chin another inch. She returned the diplomatic smile. -“But, Miss Simpson,” she protested pleasantly, “I wouldn’t change my -tutor for anything. Uncle Bob says a tutor is ever so much more stylish -than a private school.” - -Miss Simpson’s face set. She rose as if propelled upward by a spring. -“However,” she said icily, “a private school might be of great value to -you. It might help to eradicate the effect of your moving-picture -training, and teach you that nice little girls are never loquacious.” -Now she revolved toward Phœbe’s grandmother. “Where, I wonder, is dear -Genevieve?” she inquired. - -“Grandma,” said Phœbe, “Genevieve didn’t seem to care a bit for this -wonderful ‘Kenilworth’, so she’s outside.” - -“Good afternoon, Mrs. Blair.” Miss Simpson extended a long arm. - -“But you’ll have a cup of tea, won’t you, Miss Simpson?”—Grandma was -following her guest, who was even now at the hall door. “The Judge will -be home, and he’ll be so glad to see you, and——” Miss Simpson was -already in the hall; Grandma went with her, closing the door upon the -straight-standing, angry little figure at the middle of the library -floor. - -“Yes, have a cup of tea, Miss Simpson!” cried Phœbe, wrathful. “The -Judge’ll be home and he _won’t_ be glad to see you! You’ll take me back, -now that my mother’s dead! Well, you won’t! I’ll read the classics -first! Scott!”—she whirled “Kenilworth” to the sofa—“And History! And -anything!” Whereat she flung herself bodily atop the book and the sofa, -buried her face in a cushion and wept. - -“Phœbe!” It was Sophie, come to hear the results of the Simpson visit. -“Whatever is the matter?” - -Phœbe sat up. “Lots of things,” she declared. “This house—it never gets -any smaller. And everybody grown up. And, oh, think of having Uncle John -six days of the week at home and twice at church on Sunday!” - -Sophie laughed. “Don’t blame y’,” she confided. “But I hope you said No -to her.” She jerked her head toward the hall. - -“I did.” Phœbe got up. Rebellion flamed in her cheeks. “But, Sophie, -there’s one thing sure. Something’s got to happen: Public school or the -movies!” - -“Land sakes!” gasped Sophie. “Don’t you know your folks’ll never let you -go to public school?” - -“They won’t?” Phœbe went close to Sophie, and lowered her voice. “Then -it’s the movies,” she declared. “I’m not going to stand things any more. -I’m going to see some pictures and I’m going with you!” - -“Phœbe Blair!” - -“My mother took me. It isn’t wrong.” - -“But the folks! If they ketch us——” Sophie threw up both hands. - -“They won’t. They think I’m asleep at nine o’clock. We can go just -before that, and see a picture when it’s on for the second time. We can -steal down the back stairs—I’ll carry my shoes. Oh, Sophie, will you do -it? Say Yes! I haven’t seen a picture for months!” - -“We-e-ell,”—Sophie was visibly weakening—“I might. Because I think -you’re kept in too close. And that ain’t good for any kid.” - -“Oh, I want to see just one more five-reeler!” pleaded Phœbe. - -“If I take y’ just once?” Sophie held up a finger. - -Phœbe had won. She threw her arms about Sophie, almost smothering her. -“Darling Sophie! Oh, Sophie, you’re a girl, and you understand!—Oh, -Sophie, who’s the star I’ll see tonight?” - -Sophie half turned away. She raised ecstatic eyes to the neighborhood of -Uncle John’s Map of Palestine. She sighed. “William S. Hart,” she half -whispered. - -“William S. Hart,” repeated Phœbe. She echoed the sigh. - -“Oh, he’s grand!” breathed Sophie. - -Phœbe touched Sophie with an anxious hand. “What girl is playing with -him now?” she asked jealously. - -“I don’t remember. But”—enviously—“she’s awful pretty.” - -“Does he—like her?” went on Phœbe. - -“Oh, he’s crazy about her!” - -“Mm!” Phœbe considered the toe of a shoe. Now and again, in the case of -this particular star, she had dreamed dreams. She had looked forward to -a time when her hair would be up and her dresses longer; then, if her -plans worked out satisfactorily, might _she_ not be a moving-picture -actress, and play with her favorite hero? - -“When he told her how he loved her,” mused Sophie, almost as if to -herself, “and asked her to be his bride——” - -Phœbe came back to sad realities. “How did he ask her?” she wanted to -know. - -“She was settin’,” recounted Sophie. “He come close, and looked at her. -She dropped her eyes; so he reached over and took her hand. Next, down -he went on one knee. ‘Dear little woman,’—that’s what it read in -print—‘let us ride into the sunset together!’” Sophie gestured, -indicating a possible sunset. - -“But did she say Yes?” inquired Phœbe, impatiently. - -“Well, not just at first. She kinda hung off——” - -“Goodness!” exclaimed Phœbe, incredulous. She walked to and fro, head -down. - -“But think of it! A gang of Indians come scootin’ up to the Ranch. And -he fought ’em all, and saved her. So she took him, and he kissed her——!” - -Phœbe paused. It seemed to her then as if she were to be penned up -forever in this small town which she so hated; as if she would never -grow up, and be able to say what she would do; as if other girls—this -William S. Hart girl, for instance—simply had everything. In an excess -of resentment she went up to Uncle John’s favorite armchair—and kicked -it! - - - - - CHAPTER XX - - -“Phœbe, dear,” cried Uncle John, “I am the happiest of men!” - -Phœbe was killing time—yet pleasantly, with the aid of “Airy, Fairy -Lillian.” She kept it boldly in her lap as this more formidable of her -uncles paused beside her chair. She was not rebellious now, but she was -determined. Of course Uncle John would be horrified if he were to know -about her plans for the coming evening. So he might just as well be -shocked not so completely by what he would surely regard as a frivolous -book. Well, let him be shocked! - -But he did not look at the book. “Grandma has just told me,” he added. - -“Yes?” encouraged Phœbe, anxious to return to _Lillian_. - -“Oh, it has warmed my heart,” he declared;”—to hear that you really like -my teaching, and the literature that we’ve enjoyed together. And that -you’d rather stay with me than go back to Miss Simpson’s.” - -“Yes, I would.” - -“Blessed little student!” He said it lovingly. And—wonder of wonders!—he -leaned down and kissed Phœbe’s hair! - -After he was gone, Phœbe sat for a long while, thinking. Uncle John had -been unusually kind and tender to her—just at the wrong time! In all the -past months, when had he ever thought to do more than give her an -absent-minded pat? Why then was he being so nice all at once, so that -her conscience hurt her? - -She felt resentment toward Uncle John. - -She considered, too, his hatred of the “movies”. He had his church, in -which he was supreme. He could get up at stated intervals and talk as -much as he liked, and who dared interrupt him? He had music, as well, -and processions. And he was paid for all this (Sophie declared him to be -the best-paid clergyman in town), when, so far as Phœbe could see, he -was thoroughly enjoying himself all the time! Writing a sermon was not -work. Making calls on people was not work. It was all a weird, -not-to-be-understood form of grown-up pleasure. - -Then why should he interfere in what _she_ thought was having a good -time? - -“He sha’n’t,” she said firmly. - -Other things happened that afternoon which made Uncle John’s conduct -seem part of a conspiracy. For here came Grandma, bringing an -apple-turnover. Phœbe particularly liked apple-turnovers. As she munched -this one, letting the flakes of a deliciously rich crust fall upon the -pages of “The Duchess”, she could not help but wonder if Sophie had not, -for some reason, confessed the plot for that night, with the result that -Grandma was resorting to bribery! - -Next, Uncle Bob appeared. He had an oblong box in one hand. The box was -elaborately tied with blue ribbon. It was chocolates, and they followed -the fate of the turnover. No one had a word to say about supper, or -Phœbe’s possible lack of appetite for it. She ate, and she read her -novel openly. And—her conscience hurt more and more! - -But darkness, the love of adventure, and a thirst for her favorite -delight, helped her to feel indifference. Sophie was on the back porch -when Phœbe came stealing down. Not a word was spoken as the latter sat -on the bottom step to put on her shoes. The stars were out, the air was -soft. When finally, hand in hand, they stole toward the back gate, the -perfume of Grandma’s flower-beds gave place to the friendly odors of -chicken-coop and stable, and they knew they were safe. - -“Now,” said Sophie triumphantly, as the gate shut softly behind them. - -“It’s like a regular movie,” whispered Phœbe. She danced up and down. - - -When they reached the theatre, they went warily. They waited in the -foyer till the lights were lowered, after which they fairly stole into -their chairs, in the last row. Here, shoulder to shoulder, with an -occasional anxious glance about them, they sat through the program. - -Just before the end of the last picture, Sophie touched Phœbe, motioning -her to follow. They sought the foyer once more, and saw the end of the -evening story from a position by the door. Then as the audience rose, -out the pair flew, heads down, to the sidewalk. - -Phœbe had not spoken while she was in the theatre. Now and then she had -looked up at Sophie, or squeezed her arm gratefully. She was afraid of -attracting attention to herself. But out in the open air she burst forth -gaily. The gay music, the accustomed entertainment she loved, the -excitement of again being part of a crowd, all combined to make her feel -that she was back once more among the old, happy days. With Sally, she -had been free to come and go. She loved freedom. - -Something curious happened just after she and Sophie left the theatre. -At first, while they were in the more crowded part of the town, Phœbe -did not notice anything—she was too busy chattering. But when they were -farther out toward the Blair Addition, Phœbe realized that a man was -walking rather close behind them, crossing a street when they crossed -it, turning corners when they turned. As they were nearly home the man -suddenly came abreast of them, and greeted Sophie. And he seemed to be a -very good friend of Sophie’s, for he took her arm. - -At the rear gate, Phœbe went on a few steps alone, and then halted to -wait. She was not near enough to catch what the man and Sophie said: she -could hear only the murmur of their voices. Overhead the stars were low -and bright. The trees swayed in the night wind. Yet Phœbe was not -thrilled. She did not feel that romance was in the air—not romance such -as “Airy, Fairy Lillian” held—not by any means the kind of romance that -she had just enjoyed at the theatre. She wished only that Sophie would -not be silly, and would hurry up. It was late. Phœbe dreaded the climb -in the dark to her room. - -But no feeling either of fear or remorse troubled her as she prepared -for bed. She had gained her room without discovery. And as it would -never occur to any one of the family to suspect that she might steal out -of an evening, there was no reason to fret about the next day. She said -her prayers hastily and sleepily. And she did not ask for forgiveness -because she had been to the moving-pictures. They were her right. They -rounded out that all but perfect day that she exclaimed over while she -unlaced her shoes. - - -Two nights later, she and Sophie went again, and again she saw the man. -This time he summoned enough courage to take a seat beside Sophie in the -theatre. And when the lights went down, he held Sophie’s hand. That -Phœbe did not like at all. It was all right on the screen, of -course—holding hands. But with Sophie! And so close! It did not seem -nice. - -“Sally never acted like that,” Phœbe told herself. - -Also at the rear gate, as they were returning, the man grew bolder. So -did Sophie. From a considerate distance, Phœbe saw the two embrace—saw -their faces touch. - -At that, Phœbe turned and walked away. She was angered. - -But when Sophie joined her, giggling and whispering, she made no -comment. Only she resolved that she would not go out at night with -Sophie again if the man was to accompany them home. And before she lay -down in the dark to sleep, she said a little prayer about it, and -promised that she would not break her resolve. - -But a few nights later, a change of program brought the moving-picture -version of a play that she had seen acted in New York by men and women -who spoke their lines. It was a temptation too great to resist. “Just -this once more,” vowed Phœbe. - -The vow was to be kept—so far as this particular theatre, and this town, -was concerned; but not kept in the way Phœbe had meant. - -The picture was wonderful. She had so much to tell Sophie—of the -differences between the play as it was flashed upon the cloth before -them and as it was on the speaking stage. She was joyous and excited. -When the man came, as before, she was even glad, for it was nice to be -able to lean across Sophie and tell him about the differences. No regret -for having broken her resolve troubled her. - -And then something happened—between Part I and Part II of the picture, -when the piano was going merrily, and Phœbe was looking over the -audience. At first, she was conscious of a white face—a woman’s -face—turned her way. Next, with a sinking of the heart, she knew the -face—Mrs. Botts! - -She got up and turned in the other direction. Sophie pulled at her -dress, and said something. Phœbe did not heed her. To get away, that was -her only thought. She fumbled for, and found, her coat, and put on her -hat. And with Sophie trailing behind her as people rose to let them -pass, Phœbe led the way out of the theatre to the sidewalk. - -Mrs. Botts faced them. There was a cruel twist to her thin mouth. Her -eyes were dancing. Her hands were on her hips. Her head was tipped -sidewise. - -“So-o-o!” she triumphed. “This is the good Phœbe! She comes to make -trouble for neighbors. But she goes out at night with servants. She is a -sneak!” - -Phœbe said nothing. She was too frightened, too bewildered. She guessed -what Mrs. Botts would do, and was trying to think how to meet the -inevitable. But she looked at Mrs. Botts calmly enough. - -“A little sneak!” repeated Mrs. Botts. “Pah!” She snapped her fingers, -threw back her head with a laugh, and walked away. - -Phœbe said nothing. She took Sophie’s hand and started home. The man, -for once, did not join them. Phœbe did not even think about him. She was -too miserable. - -Sophie was also speechless, until, with an explosive outburst, as they -neared the back gate, she fell to crying and talking at the same time. -Phœbe patted her arm. - -“It’s too bad,” she said. “You took me, and now they’ll blame you.” - -“What’s done is done,” wept Sophie. - -“To think I did it while Daddy was away!” exclaimed Phœbe. Suddenly she -felt amazed at the enormity of her own conduct. “How could I? Oh, -Sophie!” - -“That’s just why y’ could,” retorted Sophie, with a show of spirit. -“Your maw’s gone, and your papa’s away, and you’re heart-broke. So, -instead of lettin’ you cry your eyes out, I took you to the movies, and -helped y’ forget. But none of them will understand.” She halted by the -chicken-coop to look up at the house, dimly outlined against the sky. - -Phœbe looked up too. Sophie’s last night! That was her thought. Her only -comfort was to be taken from her. With new help at Grandma’s, what kind -of a place would it be? - -“Oh, Sophie,” she whispered, “let me go to Grandma’s room right now, and -tell her, and ask her to forgive us both!” - -“Tell! Oh, my goodness!” - -“Or I’ll wake up Uncle Bob, Sophie! Oh, I can’t stand it!” - -“Do you want me to be fired?” - -They walked on a little. Phœbe’s head was down, her step lagged. She -thought of Miss Ruth. If she could only turn aside to the Shepard house, -standing white and temple-like in the starlight. There, so close, was -one who would understand. - -Sophie began to whisper again: “Don’t peep, darlin’. ’Cause we’re safe. -I’ll watch the phone. If Mrs. Botts calls up, I’ll know what to say. If -she writes, I’ll burn the letter. And if she dares show her ugly -face——!” - -They went up the back stairs like shadows. Usually Sophie did not see -Phœbe into the latter’s room on late returnings from the theatre; but -this time she entered, put on the light, turned down the bed, and said a -fond good-night. - -“I wish I could tell somebody,” Phœbe insisted. “Because I—I feel -awfully bad. I think it’s my conscience.” - -But Sophie shook her head. “If they find out about us,” she argued, -“just remember this: They can’t fire _you_. So don’t you worry.” - -“I won’t,” answered Phœbe. But her face was pale with apprehension. -“And, anyhow, I’ve seen three wonderful five-reelers.” - -But when she was alone, and the light was out, she, too, broke down. “I -deserve to be punished,” she confessed. “I said I wouldn’t go again, and -I broke my word.” She dropped to her knees beside the bed. - -She prayed for her mother to ask God to take her. “I’m discouraged,” she -complained. “Oh, Mother, I want to come to you. Everything I like to do -is bad in this house!” She recalled a day when Uncle John had been most -displeased with her because, with an eye to harmonious color, she had -rearranged the books in the library, putting the green-backed ones on -one shelf, the red-backed ones on another. - -Now, so real was her contrition and her fear, that not once as she knelt -did it occur to her that what she had done, and what she was suffering, -was in any way like a “movie”. - -She lay down at last, but with eyes wide and staring into the dark. It -was one thing to steal away at night to the movies with Sophie, shoes in -hand till the back steps were gained, giggles restrained till the rear -gate was left behind, spirits high because of what the theatre promised -of dear delight, the whole thing a thrilling adventure: it was another -matter to face out the escapade in the full light of morning. - -Oh, the dread of it! For of course Mrs. Botts would tell. Then, what? -There would be bitter blame on the part of Uncle John. He would blame -Sophie most (which was a comforting thought!). But Sophie was grown. -Sophie was free. Sophie could be saucy, if she wanted to, and could pack -up, and leave, her earnings in her purse. But Phœbe would have to stay; -to face it out at the table; to live it down in shame. - -“O-o-oh!” breathed Phœbe. She wrestled with despair. - -A clock downstairs rang the hours until three. Then, exhausted, she -slept—and in her sleep fought Mrs. Botts hand to hand. - -When she awoke, she was sitting up. Dawn was at hand. She could tell -that by the thin, white horizontal lines of the shutters. She sprang out -of bed and began to dress. - -Once she had packed to run away. There was no time to pack now. To go, -that was her only thought. She ran a comb through her hair. She threw -her serge coat over her arm, and took her hat in her hand. Then with a -hurried good-bye kiss for her mother’s pictured face, she stole out and -down, bound for New York, and the dear apartment, and faithful Sally. - - - - - CHAPTER XXI - - -It was a glorious morning. The sun was not up yet, so the air was -cool—even crisp; and Phœbe, making her way quietly through the rear gate -and along that road used by the tradesmen, had to slip on her coat. She -halted a moment under some trees that stood, occupying a whole lot, -between the Blair house and the railroad station. And as she settled her -coat, the birds called down at her. They were just awaking! - -Phœbe had no thought of taking a train for New York. In the first place, -she had no money, having spent her last penny at the theatre; in the -second place, the station-agent knew her, and would report her -departure. She did not even go near the station. What she did was to -take her direction from it down the long macadam road that led, straight -and smooth, beside the double line of rails. - -That way lay New York! She would walk till an automobile came by. Then -she would ride as far as possible, perhaps walk some more, sleep at -pleasant farm-houses along the route, take up her journey the following -morning, and thus, by easy stages, reach the loved city and Sally. - -The whole plan seemed so feasible that as she turned into the road at a -point well south of the station, she wondered why she had never thought -of it before. And it was so jolly, trotting along like this! She felt -free, and strong, and happy. And very brave. - -“Mother would want me to leave there,” she told herself. “She never -liked any of them.” - -The sun came up. The birds began their morning songs. Phœbe took off her -coat, then her hat. When she spied an automobile rushing toward her from -the distance, she went aside to crouch in the deep, weed-grown ditch -that stretched between the wagon road and the track, covered her face -with her coat, stayed motionless for a few minutes—then went merrily on. - -It was the first eluding of a car bound town-ward that made her think -how exciting this adventure of hers was. And with that thought came -another—a wonderful one! It made her heart beat fast. She fairly -skipped. Tears of joy sprang to her eyes. She _would_ be a -moving-picture actress! And act with William S. Hart! - -Why had she never thought of leaving before—to carry out the plan? - -She was so happy over her determination that she all but allowed herself -to be seen by an automobile that, with milk-cans rocking and clanking, -shot past on its way out of town. She was not ready yet to ask for a -ride. That would come later, when a village to the south was at her -back, and the chances of her being recognized had lessened. Just now, -with her new idea in mind, she felt so happy and light-footed that she -needed no rides. She knew she could go on walking all day! - -But there was something she had forgotten: breakfast. Very soon she -remembered it—at about the time she was accustomed to having it. And as -she trotted along she thought of her cereal and cream, her three-minute -egg, and the little stack of crisp, hot buttered toast that Sophie -always brought with the egg. - -Phœbe looked on either hand for houses. She had passed quite a few, but -they were set so far back from the highway that she had not feared being -seen from them. But if she was to have even a bite of breakfast, would -it not be necessary to go boldly up to one, and ring the bell, and ask -for food? - -“No,” said Phœbe, aloud. “They’d telephone straight into town. I’ll just -have to stand it till I get farther.” - -Her trot changed to a trudge. The summer sun climbed the sky, and the -coolness went out of the air. She grew thirsty, and forgot her hunger in -her desire for water. What made things harder was the fact that -automobiles or wagons were frequent now, and she had to be on the -lookout constantly, and was constantly compelled to forsake the road for -the deep ditch while travellers went by. - -Then there were the trains—both freight and passenger. She hid from -them. From the north they might carry people who would know that she was -missing; from the south they would take news of a lone little girl -walking toward New York. - -Toward noon she went aside into a clump of trees to rest. Here she found -water—a shallow, unshaded pool of it. But it was not the kind she had -always been accustomed to, cold and limpid and clean; it was warm, and a -thin scum floated upon its surface. Also, there were long-legged, -nervous insects going about upon it jerkily. She had to drive them away -before she could drink. - -Once she had left the New York road, somehow she did not want to return -to it. She was afraid of discovery. As noon came and passed, there were -more automobiles and wagons to elude, and even more trains. Once she saw -a man on foot, with a dog at his heels. She remembered a moving-picture -she had once seen in which dogs had been used to find a murderer. She -wondered if the man and the dog would not soon be hunting for her! - -At that she started off once more, going parallel to track and road, but -keeping well out of sight from both. This meant hard work, for there was -cultivated land to cross, there were fences to climb, and whenever a -house loomed up ahead, it was necessary for Phœbe to make what to her -was a heart-breaking detour. - -By the middle of the afternoon she was exhausted. Ahead of her, in a -field, she saw a hay-stack. She was famished, and more thirsty than -ever. But her knees were failing her. Above all things she needed rest. -She crossed the field, sought the shady side of the stack, gathered -together a little loose hay with which to make a bed, and dropped upon -it, her hat screening her face. - -She awoke with a start, knowing she was not alone, and with a cry of -fear scrambled to her feet. A man was beside her—a young man with a very -brown face, and dark eyes that twinkled. He had curly black hair, and -wore a black slouch hat. - -“Hullo,” said the man, grinning. - -“Goo-good-afternoon,” returned Phœbe, catching up her hat as she backed -away. She did not like the looks of the man. He made her think of -gypsies. - -“What you doin’ out here?” went on the stranger. He looked her over -impudently. - -Phœbe knew that she must give this man a satisfactory answer. And she -felt, she scarcely knew why, that she must not let him think she was -alone. “My father has just gone over to that house,” she answered, -trying to keep her voice even. “I’m very hungry, and my father has gone -to get me something to eat.” - -“Is that so!” The man considered her explanation, and even turned about -to look toward the house she had indicated. “Well, how does it happen -your father and you are hangin’ around this hay-field?” he persisted. - -“Well,”—Phœbe saw that she had partly convinced him—“my father’s -automobile broke down, over there on the road. But I had to have -something to eat before he fixed it, so he’s going to ask for food over -there, and for gasoline.” - -“Say!” resumed the young man, dropping his voice confidentially; “you -stay here, and I’ll go over and meet your father, and help him carry the -things—eh?” - -“All right,” agreed Phœbe, heartily. (Anything to get rid of the -stranger!) “And tell my father please to bring plenty of water.” (This -was a master stroke!) - -“I’ll bring it. Now, you set down, and I’ll be back with water and grub -in no time.” He gave her a final look, then started off quickly. - -It was plain that he only half believed her. He was going to learn for -himself whether or not her father was at the farm-house. He was counting -on her hunger and thirst to hold her there in the strip of shade while -he was gone. Her instinct told her that. - -It told her more. She knew she must get away. But not at once. The shady -side of the stack did not face toward the farm-house. Soon the man, -reaching the fence that skirted the yard, would be out of sight of Phœbe -were she to remain in the shade, for a corner of the hay would hide her. -She waited. - -Presently, peering around that corner, she saw the man climb the fence. -As he stepped on the farther side, she stood boldly in sight. He looked -around toward her, and she swung her hat at him! - -He waved back, and turned away. - -Then she ran—straight in the opposite direction, and as hard as she -could go. Terror gave her strength, terror of she knew not what. She -forgot hunger and thirst and weariness: she thought only of putting -distance between herself and that man. - -Her way led her back to the road. Even as she set foot upon it, an -automobile turned into it from a side lane that ran at right angles to -road and track. The machine was a small, open car, driven by an elderly -man. Phœbe went to the middle of the road and held up her hand. - -“He isn’t from town,” she argued. “Nobody’s told him about me.” - -The elderly man stopped. “Want a ride?” he called down cheerily. - -“Would you mind?” inquired Phœbe. “You see I want to go to town, because -my aunt, who’s camping over here,”—she waved a hand in the direction of -the hay-stack—“feels sort of sick, and wants some medicine.” - -“Climb in,” was the hearty invitation. - -Phœbe climbed. Then, calling upon her imagination, and aided by -moving-picture plots she could recall, she told the elderly man all -about herself and her aunt, and how they came to be camping out behind a -hay-stack in a farmer’s field. And so real was her story, and so genuine -seemed her concern for her aunt, that the elderly man was hugely -interested, and gave Phœbe some plums out of his coat pocket. - -As they spun along, Phœbe fell to wondering what she would do when they -arrived in town. For she feared the man would take her directly to a -drug-store, and there she would have to confess that she had no money. -Of course she could say that, somehow, she had lost it. But suppose the -man not only bought the medicine she would have to ask for, but insisted -on carrying her back to a point on the road nearest that stack! - -Worse! Suppose as they entered the little town that an officer of the -law hailed them, to ask if Phœbe was not the little girl who had run -away that morning! And suppose—— - -But to Phœbe’s intense relief none of the several possibilities she -feared came to pass. For the reason that the man, when he reached the -outskirts of the town, came to a stop and explained that he would have -to turn aside for a mile or so, and would not be able to take Phœbe all -the way into town. - -“Just the same,” he added, “if you’ll be at this spot an hour from now, -I’ll pick you up as I start home.” - -“Oh, thank you!” exclaimed Phœbe, grateful. But she was not thanking him -for his offer. Her gratitude was for the ride and for the almost -miraculous escape from being carried into town. She climbed down, waved -a good-bye, and watched the little open car whirl away in a cloud of -dust down a long dirt road that led under a small bridge. - -That bridge gave her an idea. She had the plums, and she was too tired -to go farther until she had more rest and sleep. “I’ll hide,” she -determined, “and I’ll eat two of the plums, and then I’ll sleep. And -early tomorrow morning, I’ll go round this town before anybody’s up.” - -At one end of the bridge, and under it, where the timbers met the earth, -there was a little scooped-out place, as if some one no larger than -Phœbe had been there before her and hollowed a resting place for her. -She crawled into it, lay on one side with her face toward the macadam -road, ate all of the plums, broke the pits by using two stones that were -at hand, ate the pits and liked them, then covered herself with her -coat, laid her head on her hat, and slept. - -First, however, she said her prayers. She remembered that she had told -lies that afternoon. “I had to tell them,” she pleaded. None the less, -they were lies, and she dared not sleep with them on her conscience. - -When she awoke, it was night, and she was cold. What awoke her was a -train, plunging past her overhead, with shrieks of its whistle, a roar -of wheels, and a clanking as of many chains. - -She smiled to herself in the dark. What would the people on the train -say if they knew that beneath them, as they tore along, was a little -girl who was running away? “Some day, when I’m a famous actress,” she -promised herself, “I’ll write all about this to the newspapers. And then -the people in the train will remember, and be awfully interested.” - -She was strangely unafraid. For one reason, she felt so secure. In the -first place, she must be many miles from home. They would not think of -searching for her at such a distance. If they did, who in the world -would ever dream (if he were to pass that bridge) that she was curled up -snugly under one end of it? “I couldn’t have found a better place,” she -declared, pleased with her own judgment. “Tomorrow night I’ll hunt -another bridge just like this.” - -She tucked her coat more carefully about her, then composed herself for -more sleep. She heard little noises about her, as if a rabbit were out, -or a badger. She felt that rabbits and badgers would add a touch to her -story—that story she would write about herself when she was famous. She -began to word it now. The account merged into something her father was -saying. It was: “She hasn’t gone past here. I feel sure of that. Let’s -take our time——” - - - - - CHAPTER XXII - - -“Let’s take time——” - -Phœbe opened her eyes. It was broad daylight. Another train was passing -overhead, shutting out the sound of the voice. She raised herself a -little, and peered to both sides. - -What she saw was men—two lines of them! Each was a little distance away -from his nearest neighbors. All were walking in the same -direction—toward the little town. The train gone, Phœbe could hear the -men calling to one another. She wondered what it was all about. - -Then she knew! They were hunting her! If they found her, they would drag -her out, all dusty as she was, and carry her back with them. And she -would be laughed at, and talked about, and pointed out, as if she were -wicked, or crazy. - -Once she had told herself that she did not care what the town thought or -said. Now she knew that if she were to return, a culprit, she could not -bear it, could not face anyone again. She had feared to face them -all—Uncle John in particular—after her discovery by Mrs. Botts. But -now—! This was a thousand times worse! - -When Uncle John had told her that her mother was dead, she had not -thought of dying. But now she longed to die. There flashed across her -mind the picture of herself as they would find her. Perhaps she would be -lying, pale and still, on some flowery, sunny slope, where, faint from -lack of food and drink, she had at last sunk down. Or, better still, she -would be washed by the waves toward some shore, and the moon would shine -on her white face, and her hair would float out on the water. - -She heard steps. Farther back against the timbers she crouched, and held -her hat before her face. - -Then the voice began again—“Somebody would’ve seen her, I tell you, if -she’d passed.” She lifted her head, unable to believe her ears. Her -father’s voice! And he was in Peru! - -Then two men moved into sight from the direction of the wide road. One -was a stranger. The other was her father. As they halted under the -bridge, Phœbe gave a great cry, and half crawled, half rolled, from her -hiding-place. Her face was streaked with dirt, her hair tangled, her -dress rumpled. Sobbing, she almost fell down the embankment to her -father’s arms. - -“Daddy! Oh, Daddy! Daddy! Oh, Daddy, forgive me! Forgive——!” - -He caught her to him, and she knew that he was weeping, too. Oh, the joy -of having his arms about her, of feeling herself back in his tender -care! Men were running toward them from both directions, shouting as -they came. Shots were being fired. It was all because she was found. But -she hid her face and clung to heir father. What mattered if only she had -him? - -“Dear baby!” he was saying. “Oh, my precious little girl! Oh, were they -bad to her while Daddy was away? He’ll never go again—he’ll never leave -his darling again——” - -He carried her through the crowd that had gathered, and stepped with her -into the tonneau of an automobile. The car turned slowly. A great cheer -went up. Nearby a church bell began to ring. Then the ride home began. - -Phœbe lay as she had lain that afternoon and evening on the train, her -head pillowed on her father’s shoulder, her feet curled up on the wide -seat. But now her father talked to her, lovingly, soothingly. - -“She wanted to go back to New York, my baby,” he said. - -“Yes,—oh, yes!” - -“Well, she shall! She shall!” - -“Oh, Daddy, do you mean it?” - -“Darling, I was keeping that as a surprise.” - -She threw her arms about him. She drew herself up so that she could -speak, her lips at his ear. The man who was driving them—he must not -hear. “Daddy,” she whispered, “just you and I will go? Nobody else?” - -He was puzzled. “Why—why, who else?” he asked. - -“Oh, nobody, Daddy! Thank you! Thank you!” Contentedly she rested her -cheek once more against his coat. - -“The little apartment is all ready,” he went on; “and Sally is waiting. -And down there not a soul shall ever know——” - -She nodded. “About this.” - -“Not a soul,” he promised. Then to the man, “Speed up!” - -They were nearing town now. The driver fairly tore past the depot, and -along one short street to the gate of the Blair grounds. The gate was -open, and the car whisked through a little group of the curious who were -waiting. Another group, with more boldness, was at the front porch. But -the automobile did not stop here. Taking to the lawn, it circled the -house to the rear entrance. Grandma was there. And Phœbe’s father was -out of the tonneau and up the steps to the kitchen before anyone could -follow them. - -In the rear hall, Phœbe was set upon her feet. Her father knelt beside -her, wiping her face and smoothing her hair. Grandma joined them, -speaking not at all, but shaking her head very hard. There were tears on -her old cheeks. Grandma did not look angry—only glad and sad! Phœbe, -glancing at her, knew that in the future there would never be any -blaming on Grandma’s part. - -But Uncle Bob!—what about him? He was the Children’s Judge, used to -dealing with young wrong-doers. Mrs. Botts had called Phœbe “a little -sneak”. What would Uncle Bob do to a little sneak? - -All nervous and frightened and tired as she was, there flashed across -her brain the picture of herself up before this dearer of her two -uncles—before him at the very bar of his terrible Court, her head -hanging while scores of strangers stared at her, and Uncle Bob passed -judgment! - -Then she heard the door open. It was not Sophie—the step was too slow -and too heavy. The door closed, softly. - -Phœbe knew who it was; she held her breath. - -“Little old dumpling!” - -Phœbe turned. “Oh, Uncle Bob, I’m sorry—and—and I’m ashamed!” - -“I see both sides of this question,” he said gently. - -She held out her arms in a wild, tearful appeal. “Then you won’t arrest -me! You won’t take me to Court!” - -It brought him to her in a rush. He put his arms about her, and gave a -great gulping laugh, and hugged her. - -In Phœbe’s inmost soul there was no real fear of his punishing her -publicly. But the growing woman in her sensed the dramatic, and enjoyed -it. Also, she knew how to touch the big heart of this uncle; the heart -of her father, too! - -“Phœbe!”—Uncle Bob was reproving her lovingly. “Going to the movies -isn’t a State’s Prison offence—not yet!” - -She felt suddenly weak and faint. Someone put a glass to her lips—a -glass of warm milk. It was Grandma. She tried to smile as she drank. -Grandma was smiling at her. - -When the glass was drained, Uncle Bob caught her up. “No, Jim, let me -carry her,” he begged. (Phœbe felt like a real heroine!) - -At that moment, the thing most dreaded came to pass. The dining-room -door opened. Through it came Uncle John. “My dear child,” he began. - -Uncle Bob halted, Phœbe in his arms. “Not a word!” he cried, his voice -trembling with anger. “I won’t have Phœbe picked on. If you’re wise, -you’ll stop fighting the movies and fight _with_ them—fight for better -pictures. Don’t tear down—_improve_!” Then he went on. - -There was a happy surprise awaiting Phœbe when her room was reached. The -surprise was Miss Ruth, with one of Sophie’s big aprons pinned about -her. She received Phœbe from Uncle Bob, and there was no mistaking her -joy. It was Miss Ruth who tended Phœbe, undressed and bathed her, helped -her to bed, and brought her the broth. - -“You won’t go, will you?” whispered Phœbe, lying back among the pillows. -“Please don’t leave me!” - -“I wouldn’t think of it,” declared Miss Ruth. She took a seat beside the -bed. - -Phœbe sighed, snuggled her cheek against Miss Ruth’s hand, and slept. - - - - - CHAPTER XXIII - - -Uncle Bob was exasperated. He was talking to Phœbe’s father. Phœbe could -hear him, from where she lay on the sofa in Grandma’s bedroom. - -“A person would think you’re first-cousin to a mule!” cried Uncle Bob. -“What makes you so stubborn, Jim? Don’t you _see_ what you ought to -do!—Oh, my goodness, the thing is all so simple!” - -Phœbe could hear someone walking, to and fro, to and fro, across Uncle -Bob’s room. Then, “Well, you see, old man, the trouble is there isn’t -anybody,”—and Phœbe’s father laughed. (What were they talking about?) - -“You can’t think of anybody?” scolded Uncle Bob. “Well, I can.” - -“Yes?” - -“I’ve got it all fixed up.” - -The footsteps halted. Again Phœbe’s father laughed. “You’re a wonder!” -he cried. “Well, your Honor, who is it?” - -“You know.” - -There was silence for a moment. Phœbe’s father answered then, but he -spoke very gravely. “No, no,” he said. “I know who you mean. And that -would never do.” - -“What’s the matter with her?” Uncle Bob was impatient. - -“Nothing,”—calmly. Phœbe heard the scratch of a match. - -“You bet your life there’s nothing the matter with her!” (Who was -“her”?) - -“What makes you think she’d fall in with your plans, old brother?” - -“First hand information. She told me that she cared.” - -Phœbe’s father laughed again, but in a curious way. “I don’t believe -it,” he said. - -“It’s true. I made her confess.” (Confess! “Are they talking about me?” -Phœbe asked herself.) - -“Bob!—But that wasn’t fair! not fair to her!” - -“I know,” agreed Uncle Bob, contritely. “But I did it for the sake of -the child.—Oh, Jim, before you go——” - -“Before I go,” returned Phœbe’s father, quietly, “I won’t do something -unworthy.” - -“Unworthy? What do you mean?” - -“Along with the rest, Bob, I happen to know that _you_ care.” - -“_I?_—Say!” Now Uncle Bob laughed. “Who on earth’s been telling you fish -stories?” - -“Bob, you’re a wise old bird. But you don’t fool me.” - -“Jim, you’ve been listening to one of Phœbe’s moving-picture yarns!” -(Phœbe sat up. They _did_ mean her!) - -“Judge,” said Phœbe’s father, “I can beat you at golf.” - -It was then that, suddenly, Uncle Bob seemed completely to change. He -grew more earnest, his voice rose. “Oh, listen, Jim!” he begged. “I’ve -taken her around a little——” - -“No, Bob,—no! no! no!” - -Phœbe leaned back, completely at a loss to understand any of it. Fish -stories? Moving-pictures? Golf? And that “her” again! - -“Yes, I tell you!” insisted Uncle Bob. “You ought to have done this -fifteen years ago.” - -“Is that so!” retorted Phœbe’s father, sarcastically. “Well, fifteen -years ago I wouldn’t step in your way.” - -“I!” Uncle Bob laughed, but not pleasantly. “Old, and fat, and bald.” - -“I will not do it,” said Phœbe’s father. - -“And I won’t be a dog in the manger!” Uncle Bob struck a hard surface -with his fist. - -“Bob, _please_ drop it.” - -“You’re a nice father!” taunted Uncle Bob. “You’re a peach! Letting me -or anyone else come before Phœbe.” (“It _is_ about me,” declared Phœbe. -“I’m ‘her,’ after all.”) “My life’s half over, Jim: Hers is just -beginning.” - -“You’re a blessed old brother,”—and Phœbe could tell that her father -felt deeply as he spoke, for his voice shook. “But listen to me, Bob: -When we went tramping, as boys, if I got tired you always dragged me -along by the hand. And how you always shared everything with me! Well, -you’re my old side partner, and I won’t do this thing—I won’t!” - -“Jim, I’m a poor pill if I can’t practice what I’m always preaching from -the Bench: The child comes first.” - -“Listen!” insisted Phœbe’s father, gently. “I had my chance at -happiness, Bob, and I made a mess of it. But—I’ve got Phœbe, and you——” - -“Forget me! I’m out of it. And why should you cheat yourself? And her?” - -“Sh!” - -Phœbe’s father was standing in the door of Grandma’s room, staring down -at the figure on the sofa. “Have you been here all the time?” he asked. - -“Yes, Daddy.” - -“Mm. Haven’t been asleep, I suppose?” - -“No, sir.” - -“Well, do you think you can stand some very good news?” He came to her. - -“Oh,—not back!—not New York!—_oh!_” Phœbe sprang up, holding out both -arms. “When?” - -He drew her to him. “Tomorrow. So get all the rest that you can today, -little girl. Tomorrow at this time we’ll be whirling along.” - -Uncle Bob was watching them. “You mean it?” he asked Phœbe’s father. -“You’re going to leave? And not say a word?—Oh, it’s all wrong, Jim! -It’s all wrong!” - - - - - CHAPTER XXIV - - -What was all wrong? What word did Uncle Bob want Daddy to say? And to -whom? In particular, what was it that Uncle Bob wanted Daddy to do? And -who, oh, who, was “_her_”? - -She longed to go down to the kitchen and ask Sophie. But she knew there -was no use—Sophie would tell her nothing. Just now Sophie was on her -best behavior, and was taking a distinctly grown-up attitude toward -Phœbe. She had come close to being dismissed. And she had not been -independent about it. For what she had done was, by the very nature of -the case, known throughout the town, which meant that other families -might not care to hire a girl who had stolen out in the evening to a -theatre, taking with her a child. Uncle John had pointed this out to -Sophie, adding that he would make it his business to see she did not -deceive any other employer. - -Uncle John and Sophie had had what Phœbe guessed was a most exciting -interview. Phœbe was almost sorry to have missed it. While Uncle Bob and -Phœbe’s father were out and away, searching, Uncle John had attended to -Sophie. - -Grandma told Phœbe (in a whisper!) that Sophie had knelt in front of -Uncle John, weeping grievously over Phœbe’s disappearance, blaming -herself bitterly, and pleading for forgiveness. Uncle John had been -sternness itself. At first, he had declared for one course: Sophie must -go. Later, when Sophie vowed that she would give up moving-pictures, he -had softened a little. Still later, she brought down to him all the -photographs she owned of “movie” stars—forty-seven in all. She had -thrown them into the fireplace in the library, and put a match to them. -Then Uncle John had relented. - -So Sophie was being a new Sophie—quiet of foot and tongue, and quiet of -dress. For two days she had not even curled her hair! - -“There’s no use asking her,” concluded Phœbe, feeling somewhat injured. -That man, too, was responsible for the blame heaped on Sophie—that man -who had tagged them home from the theatre, and sat with them twice. -Phœbe was angry with him, too. - -She was still puzzling her head over what Uncle Bob and her father had -to say to each other, when here came the former—almost stealthily, with -glances over his shoulder. His face was red; his eyes were solemn. Once -inside the door of Grandma’s room, he locked it! - -“That’s all right,” he whispered. “Grandma knows.” He came to sit beside -the sofa. - -For a long moment he did not speak. He patted her shoulder -absent-mindedly, and the small hand she had reached out to him—this dear -uncle whom she was so soon to leave! All the while he looked past her, -out of the window. And his lips, tight-pressed, worked in the way they -had when he was framing something important. - -When he finally spoke, it was with great gentleness. “Of course, I wish -you hadn’t gone to that theatre without permission,” he began. “But I -wish more that you’d been so happy here at home that even a movie -wouldn’t have tempted you. But you haven’t been happy. You’ve been shut -up like a bird in a cage. No chums, no fun, no school—though Uncle John -has tried to do his best.” He stroked her cheek. - -Phœbe nodded. “He’s talked about my soul,” she reminded. “But—I guess it -hasn’t helped.” - -Another wait, with no patting of her shoulder, nor stroking of her -cheek. Then with a sudden move he fairly lifted Phœbe from the sofa and -held her at arm’s length. His face—Phœbe had never before seen it with -this expression. It was white now, and his eyes stared into hers. His -lips were trembling. He breathed like a man who is gathering himself for -a leap. - -“Phœbe,” he began again, “if Uncle John failed, it’s because he couldn’t -help it. You see, only mothers understand little souls. Dear old -dumpling, let Uncle Bob tell you what’s wrong! You’ve got just about -everything that any small girl could ask for—good food, and a roof, and -clothes, and relatives, and a wonderful daddy. But the most important -thing——” - -She understood. “My mother.” - -“You’ve been so brave. Oh, Uncle Bob has watched, and understood how -you’ve grieved since your mother went. She can’t come back to you—you -realize that. And—and wouldn’t it be best if—if you—that is, certain -care and companionship and love are coming to a girl your size—you need -it, and so——” - -He was floundering, he was stammering, and he was getting very red -again. Phœbe regarded him with grave eyes. - -“What do you mean, Uncle Bob?” she asked bluntly. - -He took both her hands in a firm grasp. “I mean just this:” he answered -firmly enough; “you need a new mother.” - -She stood up, and drew away from him. “A step?” - -“A step.” - -“Oh, Daddy has promised that we’re to be alone together—with Sally.” - -He nodded. “Suppose he has! How about getting a step-mother yourself?” - -“But I don’t _want_ one!” she protested. “I just want my real -mother—like other girls have!” And then, in a quavering remonstrance -against Fate, and with breast heaving, and clenched fists, “Oh, _why_ -haven’t I my mother! Even the kittens have a mother, and the little -ducks have a mother!” - -“Ah!” cried Uncle Bob, triumphantly, “you’ve made my point for me, young -lady!” - -“Point? What?” - -“The little ducks have a step-mother!” - -“M-m-mm!” That was a new thought. Phœbe sat down. - -“That Plymouth Rock,” went on Uncle Bob, “is a mighty good little hen.” - -“I never thought,” agreed Phœbe. “Of course that hen _is_ a step.” - -“Nice, kind little step! You see, my dear, some step-mothers are -bad—like Mrs. Botts. And then some are just peaches—like Grandma.” - -Phœbe leaned closer. “Grandma?” she repeated. “You mean——?” - -“Darling, we never told you. At first, for no reason, except that we -boys—your daddy and Uncle John and I—have never used the word to each -other, much less to anyone else. Afterwards, when I found you hated -step-mothers—when Manila helped you to think them all bad—we still -didn’t tell you. We wanted you to learn to love Grandma dearly.” - -“I do.” (Grandma! She of the gentle look and gentler voice, who did not -know how to be cross or unkind, she was a step-mother!) “Then of -course,” she added, “Grandma has never—er—whipped you.” - -He burst into laughter, throwing back his big head and slapping his -knees. “Whipped!” he repeated. “Whipped! Oh, Phœbe!” Then, gravely, -“That sweet mother-woman? Why, I couldn’t love Grandma better if she -were my own mother.” - -“You couldn’t?” - -“I never knew the difference,” he declared earnestly. “She’s been so -wonderfully dear. And—you wouldn’t either, Phœbe. No; very soon, you -wouldn’t either.” - -“I wonder,” commented Phœbe. She was thinking aloud. - -“Take your daddy,” went on Uncle Bob. “He was just a little shaver when -Grandma came to us. He wasn’t strong—he didn’t sleep. She spent night -after night carrying him, mothering him. Grandma saved your daddy’s -life.” - -“Then Grandma _is_ a good step,” asserted Phœbe. Her eyes grew moist -with quick gratitude. - -“There are thousands of good steps,” declared Uncle Bob. - -“But Manila—see what Manila got!” - -He smiled knowingly, mysteriously. “Manila’s own fault,” he said. - -“No!” - -“Yes. She made the mistake of not picking her own step.” - -“Manila’s father picked Mrs. Botts,” confided Phœbe. - -“Mrs. Botts picked him,” contradicted Uncle Bob. “Oh, Phœbe, I want you -to trust me, to believe me!” - -“Of course!” she cried. - -“Phœbe,”—he rested a hand on either shoulder—“you need a good step. But -you mustn’t make Manila’s mistake. You must not trust to your father’s -judgment. You—must—pick—that—step—_yourself_.” - -Phœbe gasped. “Myself?” - -“Yourself—or you won’t get one.” - -“But—but,” she protested, trying to rise from beneath his hold. - -He would not let her go. “Phœbe! Oh, Phœbe, listen to me! Your father -guesses that you don’t want him to marry. And so he won’t. For that very -reason _you_ must choose your mother. And you must choose her before you -go!” - -“Before tomorrow?” - -“This very afternoon!” - -At that they both rose. There was that set look about Uncle Bob’s jaw -which Phœbe, learning the moods of men, recognized as a sign of -determination. Before that big, glowing countenance and those clenched -teeth, Phœbe weakened. - -He saw that. “Oh, Phœbe,” he pleaded, “there’s so much that you must -know for your own safety and happiness. My little girl, you didn’t even -realize what dangers lay along the Valley Road as you went! Think of it! -It makes my heart sick when _I_ think of it. Well, there must be someone -beside you—some dear woman who will love you, someone you can trust and -love!” - -“But—but who—?” she faltered. - -He drew back. “Mm,—yes, that’s so. Now, who?” He took one of his -characteristic turns, hands behind back, knuckles of one tapping the -palm of the other. “Now who? Of course, it must be somebody nice.” - -She stared. “I should think so!” - -“Well,”—Uncle Bob came about, suave and smiling once more—“there are any -number of charming ladies about. Now let’s just think. Mm! Who? For -instance.” - -“We-e-ell.” Phœbe gave him a sidewise look. Certain “movie” stars (she -could think of two whom she adored!) had loomed first in her mind’s eye. -But considering what had so recently transpired, _could_ she venture to -mention these young goddesses to Uncle Bob? She felt she could not. And -besides might not her father, if he were to marry one of them, find her -so attractive that his little daughter—— - -Staunchly she put jealousy out of her heart. Once Mother had told her -that there are different kinds of love, and one could not subtract from -another. So if Daddy were to care for a new wife, it did not follow that -he would care a whit less for his daughter. And so Phœbe met the problem -at its nearest point—the drug-store. - -“There’s a new young lady down at Fletcher’s,” she informed Uncle Bob. -“And she likes me better than the one did who has the baby. Because as -soon as my ice-cream soda is gone, she asks me to have another. Now, -wouldn’t she do?” - -Uncle Bob looked dubious. “It can’t be somebody who will just ‘do’.” - -“I suppose not.” - -“And there’s Daddy. You know—in a way—we’ll have to please him.” - -At that she felt more jealous than before; but she fought it. “Yes,” she -answered steadily, “we’ll have to pick somebody that Daddy likes.—I’ll -think again.” - -Uncle Bob was thinking, for he was scratching his head as he walked. -“Let me see,” he mused. “Let me see.” He gave a quick glance at Phœbe -from under lowered lids. - -“I can’t seem to remember another good one,” she announced -apologetically. - -Her uncle halted—abruptly. He brought his two fists up in front of him. -He smiled, showing all of his teeth. - -“Phœbe!” he cried. - -“Yes?” Her eyes were a little fearful. - -“Just the one!” He came to sit beside her. - -“Who?” She sat very straight. - -“Phœbe,”—he took her face between his hands; his kind blue eyes searched -hers, shining upon her with infinite love; “Phœbe, how about Miss Ruth?” - -She started. “Miss Ruth!” And that moment a strange thing happened to -Phœbe. The forbidding step-mother figure which had haunted her so -long—the tall, bony, heavy-shouldered woman whose arms were like the -arms of a gorilla that Phœbe had once seen at the Zoo in Bronx Park, in -New York; that gray-haired, sullen-eyed, formidable, silent creature -made out of childish imaginings—now stepped backward, as it were, out of -Phœbe’s brain; and to take the place that was left, there came forward -Ruth Shepard, a tender smile lighting her eyes and curving her -mouth—Ruth Shepard, with hands outstretched. - -Phœbe drew a sobbing breath of relief. “She’d be perfect!” she declared. -“She loves me, and I love her. And—and Daddy——” - -“Phœbe,” went on Uncle Bob, “your daddy loves Miss Ruth.” - -Phœbe blinked, trying to understand. “_Daddy_ loves her?” - -“Devotedly.” - -“And—you love her.” - -“I don’t count.” - -Phœbe was puzzling something out: “You love her, and Daddy loves her, -and you’re two brothers——” - -“And each wants the other to be happy,” said Uncle Bob, as if completing -the sentence. “But you see, Miss Ruth loves your daddy; she’s never -loved anyone else—not since she wore braids down her back. So that’s how -it is, old dumpling. And you’ll understand why my own brother pulls -back, and says No, and——” His voice broke. - -“Uncle Bob,” she asked tenderly, “are you _sure_ you want Daddy to marry -Miss Ruth? Because—because you’re crying.” - -His eyes were indeed brimming. But through the tears shone a smile. He -caught her to him, laughing down at her, pressing her head against his -shoulder, pressing his cheek against her cheek. “Of course I’m crying,” -he said, not even trying to keep his voice even. “Because I know why you -asked what you did. You think—you’re afraid that old Uncle Bob will be -terribly hurt, broken-hearted. And so your tender, precious thought is -for him. Oh, little Phœbe! My sweet girl!” He choked. And fell to -rocking her back and forth, not being able to go on. - -“Yes,” she whispered up to him. “That’s why. Oh, dear Uncle Bob!” - -“Well, Phœbe,”—he set her free, found his handkerchief, mopped his eyes -with it, blew a resounding blast, and took on a wider smile than -ever—“this is the truth, little woman: I want Daddy to marry Miss Ruth -better than anything else in the world.” - -Phœbe smiled back at him. Only fourteen years had those gray-blue eyes -looked upon the big world, yet those years had brought Phœbe something -of that age-long wisdom of woman which is called intuition. And as she -looked at Uncle Bob, she knew that he was, at one and the same time, -telling the whole truth and a great falsehood. - -She put a hand against his cheek. “Precious Uncle Bob!” she whispered -tremulously. And lowering her head, hid her face against his breast. He -had freed her from the ugly vision that haunted: he had given her the -promise of love and peace and joy. He had said he would do anything in -the world to make her happy. Now he was keeping his word—he was giving -up his hope of happiness in giving up Miss Ruth. - -“More than anything, Phœbe,” he repeated huskily. - -She moved her head in assent “Then he will,” she said simply. - -“But there isn’t any time to lose!” Uncle Bob stood up, wound his -watch-chain round a finger, pulled the big silver time-piece from its -pocket, consulted it hastily, and shoved it back. “I must get Miss Ruth. -I’ll telephone her house.” - -“Oh, but suppose she won’t come,” suggested Phœbe. - -“What shall I say to her?” Uncle Bob looked suddenly helpless. - -“I know!” A mischievous twinkle came back into Phœbe’s eyes. “If she -holds back you _scare_ her!” - -He gasped. “Scare her?” - -“Once I saw it—in the movies,” she confided excitedly. “Oh, Uncle Bob, -you say to her, ‘Poor Phœbe is dying!’” - -He joined in her laughter. “You muggins! If I have to, I’ll do it!” Then -gravely, “When she gets here, go awful slow—take your time.” - -Phœbe gave him a wise smile. “At first, I’ll just hint.” - -“Good. And—and there’s something else: If I were you I wouldn’t tell -Miss Ruth that you’ve talked this over with me.” - -“I won’t,” she promised, understanding. - -“Let her—and Daddy—think it was all your idea.” - -“If you think I’d better.” - -“I do. And, Phœbe, I’m not going to tell you what to say, or how to say -it; I’m just going to let you follow your own blessed ideas.” - -Her eyes grew solemn. “You needn’t be afraid,” she answered -reassuringly. “I know _just_ how to do it. I’ve got a wonderful plan.” - -“Ah, fine!” Then a little awkwardly, “But—er—I wonder if you could -manage (just this once) to tell a—a sort of a fib.” - -Phœbe laughed. “I guess so.” And added, roguishly, “If it’s a little -one.” - -He sobered and leaned down to her, taking her hands. “It’s important. -Even if you don’t understand why, oh, remember and believe what I tell -you—it’s _very_ important. Phœbe, if Miss Ruth asks you who wanted you -to do this, you must say it was Daddy.” - -“It was Daddy,” she repeated. - -He put a hand under her chin and lifted her face to his. He was smiling. -The tears in his eyes were tears of joy. “Oh, my little girl,” he said -tenderly, “this is going to make everybody happy.” - -She looked up at him, not smiling, and not in the least deceived. She -understood his sacrifice. It was made for her father, for Miss Ruth, for -her. And that moment, Uncle Bob, ageing, growing stout, getting bald, -was transformed to Phœbe, through her grateful love, into a figure all -knightly and splendid and beautiful. - -“I love you,” she told him. - -He swept her to him in another embrace. “Good luck!” he whispered. “Good -luck, and God bless you!”—and was gone. - - - - - CHAPTER XXV - - -Phœbe, standing at the center of her own room, slowly turned herself -about, as if taking a farewell look at the big, old bed—so forbidding -when contrasted with the dainty, bewreathed, ivory-tinted “twin” in -which she had slept beside her mother; at the low heavy chest of drawers -that held water-pitcher and bowl; at the marble-topped “dresser”, -equally ugly, with its slab of stone like something out of a cemetery; -at the tall, dark doors; the clothes-closet, that abode of fearful -shapes; the high-backed chairs; and the ancient sofa. - -And yet she was not saying good-bye to the room and the familiar objects -in it so much as she was to the life she had led there. A swift change -was coming. But not a change merely from the big room in the big, lonely -house to the dear surroundings in New York. That transfer was indeed to -be made. But there was more about to happen—a glorious thing! And it was -she, Phœbe Shaw Blair, who was to bring it to pass! - -She laughed a little, out loud. Then suddenly, for no reason, she -covered her face with both hands, and kissed her palms as if they were -the palms of another’s hands. “Oh, she _must_ say Yes!” she cried. -“Uncle Bob wants her to!” - -She was all ready. Her face was rosy after a quick wash in the bowl. Her -hair glistened even with a hurried brushing. She had on white stockings, -and her newest black pumps, and a fresh smock-dress that was pale blue. - -She looked down at herself and laughed again. Here she was, who had wept -and worried at the mere idea of a step-mother, and had even been glad -that Miss Ruth was rather cool to Daddy—here she was, actually scheming -to get a step-mother, which step-mother was to be that same Miss Ruth! - -She went up to the mirror and looked into it. “Phœbe!” she whispered. -“Oh, you’re such a _funny_ girl!” - -She sobered. Her glance had caught her mother’s photograph. She took it -up, holding it in both hands, close, and speaking to it as if to the -living. “Oh, you won’t mind?” she faltered. “Oh, Mother, try to tell me -that you won’t mind!” - -She held the photograph against her. Was she being faithless to her own -mother, in taking a new one? She turned to an open window, and looked -up. - -Somewhere in the vast sky was her dear one, more beautiful now, and -always to be beautiful and young. Uncle John said this was true of all -who died. And even though Uncle John did not like her mother he could -not say that she fared any differently than all the others who went -away. Out of the great blue was Mother looking down now upon her little -girl? And how? Happily? Or in sorrow? - -Phœbe looked at the picture again. There was a tender smile on the -lovely face. The eyes looked full into her daughter’s. - -“Oh, I know you don’t mind!” cried Phœbe. “You don’t mind!” She knelt at -the open window. Great white clouds lay against the blue. Phœbe -understood that her mother was beyond them—farther. She shut her eyes, -praying. - -“Oh, Mother, thank you!” she whispered. “It isn’t about Daddy you mind—I -know that. But about me—you believe I won’t love you any less, ever. Oh, -Mother, you’ll see I won’t forget you even for Miss Ruth. Don’t let it -hurt, will you? Don’t be a weeny speck jealous. Oh, precious Mother!” - -She kissed the picture, and got up, strangely comforted. There was some -pink tissue-paper in the bottom drawer of the dresser. She took it out -and carefully wrapped the photograph. Then she opened the clothes-closet -and found the suit-case. - -The lining of the cover was loose at one corner, and two or three little -things were under there, hidden! A valentine from a boy! Some hair-pins, -picked up now and then, and useful, on occasions, for trial attempts at -putting up her hair. And there was a picture post-card. A girl had given -it to her—one of Miss Simpson’s girls. Phœbe did not quite understand -the meaning of the picture on that card. But from the look in the girl’s -eyes, from the curious expression of her mouth, Phœbe had sensed that -the post-card was not nice. - -Now she tore it up, with a smart ripping of the pasteboard that had not -a little resentment in it. They were so “select”, those Simpson girls! -Yes! But one of them had pictures like this! Well, it could not stay in -the same place with Mother’s photograph! - -The secret little place cleansed of its evil holding, Phœbe pressed the -pink-wrapped photograph to her breast, and to her lips; then slipped it -under the loosened lining. For with more understanding than fourteen may -be credited with, Phœbe realized that any picture of Mother had best be -put away, kept for herself only—not for her father, or for the dear -presence that was to share a new happy home. - - - - - CHAPTER XXVI - - -“May I go right in?—Phœbe! Oh, Phœbe, I’m so frightened! -Darling,—why—why, you’re much better!” - -Miss Ruth had entered with a rush, to find Phœbe just emerging from the -clothes-closet. Miss Ruth was breathless, and a little pale. Now she -dropped the hat she was carrying, and knelt on the carpet, and caught -Phœbe to her. - -“Yes, I’m—I’m much better,” declared Phœbe. She bent to kiss Miss Ruth’s -hair. - -Miss Ruth hid her face against Phœbe’s breast. “I’m so glad! So glad!” -she said tenderly. - -“You see,” admitted Phœbe, “I wasn’t truly sick.” - -Miss Ruth looked up. “But the Judge said——” - -Phœbe nodded. “I know. Only I—I’ve just been pretending.” - -“Phœbe!” laughed Miss Ruth. Then, suddenly grave, “Oh, you don’t know -how it hurt to have you missing that day! Oh, Phœbe, I’m so happy that -you’re just pretending!” Then, catching sight of the pumps, and, next, -of the blue smock, “Why, Phœbe, this dress! Something’s happened!” - -“No,” declared Phœbe, “not yet. But, Miss Ruth, get ready! Something’s -_going_ to happen!” - -“To me?” Miss Ruth sat back. Her hair was rumpled. She looked very young -and girlish. - -“To both of us,” promised Phœbe, solemnly. - -“Ho—ho!” - -“It’s something awfully important,” cautioned Phœbe. - -“Dear me! Well, I think I’d better get up, then, and be prepared.” Miss -Ruth seated herself on the sofa. “Now! I’m all curiosity. Is there -anything I’m supposed to do?” - -Phœbe thought a moment. “Ye-e-es. Let me see.—I think you can lean -back.” - -“Ah!” Miss Ruth made herself comfortable against a cushion. “I like -this, because I ran all the way over.” She smiled at Phœbe provokingly. -“And now what?” - -“Now try to look just as pretty as you can.” - -Miss Ruth laughed. “Oh, I’ll do my best,” she declared. - -Phœbe shook her head at her. “I’m not joking,” she said earnestly. “You -know you are pretty.” - -“Oh, give me a kiss!” cried Miss Ruth, laughing again, and leaning to -catch at the blue smock. - -But Phœbe backed away. “No,” she said firmly, “it’s too soon——” - -“Too _soon_?” Miss Ruth was puzzled. - -“Yes. You see this has to be done in a certain way.” - -“Oh.” - -“Right now, a kiss would be turning everything upside down.” Phœbe was -very much in earnest. - -“Well! Well!” Miss Ruth tried to look properly impressed. - -“Next,” continued Phœbe, “I come close to you, and I look at you, -showing that I love you.” - -“Phœbe!” Now Miss Ruth caught at Phœbe’s hand. - -“No! Holding hands _also_ comes later.” - -“I see.” Miss Ruth leaned back once more. - -“Of course, you’re surprised that I love you——” - -“But I’m not!” - -“You will be when you hear it all,” threatened Phœbe. “And right now you -ought to drop your eyes.” - -Miss Ruth looked down. It was as if she understood, suddenly, what it -all meant. Her face grew grave, and softly pink. - -“That’s better,” said Phœbe, admiringly. “So this is when I reach and -take your hand.” She took Miss Ruth’s hand gently, and held it between -both her own. Once, in a charming picture, she had seen Mr. Henry -Walthall do precisely that. “Miss Shepard,” she went on, “the first day -I met you, I liked you very much. That was before—Mother—went away. I -was unhappy, and you were so good to me. You knew how I felt.” - -“Ah, my dear,” breathed Miss Ruth. She leaned forward, holding out the -other hand. - -“Wait!” pleaded Phœbe. “Because I’m not done. Miss Ruth, day after day, -for all these months, I’ve liked you more and more. Now I know that I -love you better than I do my relations.” - -“Phœbe, no!” Miss Ruth stared in amazement. - -“Yes! Oh, not more than Daddy, because he’s not a relation. But, Miss -Ruth, I love you as much as I do Daddy.” - -“And I love you,” said Miss Ruth. - -Phœbe dropped to the carpet at Miss Ruth’s knee. “How much?” she asked. -“Oh, think hard before you say!” - -“I hardly know how much.” She took Phœbe’s face between her hands. “But -very, very much.” - -“Do you love me so much that you’d do something wonderful for -me?—something that would make me the happiest girl in the whole world?” - -“What, darling?” Miss Ruth bent close. Her look searched Phœbe’s face. - -Phœbe had meant to go on just as Mr. Henry Walthall would have gone -on—“Miss Shepard, dear little woman, say Yes to me,” and then add, “Be -my mother, and Daddy’s loving wife!” But she forgot how Mr. Walthall had -knelt and looked, forgot to be solemn and poised; and completely out of -her thoughts went all that she had planned to say. Instead she threw her -arms about Miss Ruth, and clung to her wildly. “Oh, you must come with -us!” she cried. “We can’t live without you. Daddy adores you! And _I_ -do! Oh, Miss Ruth, I think I’ve _inherited_ it!” - -Miss Ruth gently freed herself from the hold of the young arms. Then -without speaking, she drew back from Phœbe. “My dear,” she said quietly, -“who told you to say that?” - -Phœbe hesitated. The truth was that Sophie had put the idea of -inheritance into Phœbe’s head. Once Phœbe had protested to Sophie her -great affection for Miss Ruth. Whereupon Sophie, with a wise nod, had -said, “Sure y’ do. You inherited it.” - -But the truth would not do! Uncle Bob had told Phœbe what to say, and -she must obey him. It was a fib, and it was not a little one. But it -would do much—for herself; for Miss Ruth; last, and most important, for -the dear father, who, long ago, had put aside his own dreams for the -sake of the elder brother he loved. - -Phœbe looked straight into Miss Ruth’s eyes. “Who?” she repeated. “Why, -it was Daddy.” - -Miss Ruth caught her close, held her for a long moment during which -neither moved nor spoke, then pushed back her hair and kissed her. -“Phœbe, dear,” she said, “I want to tell _you_ something. From the -moment I first saw _you_ I loved you, just as you loved me,—oh, so -tenderly! I loved you because you were you; and then, I loved you for -another reason——” - -“What?” whispered Phœbe. - -“Can you keep a secret?” - -Phœbe remembered Uncle Bob. She nodded. “I’m keeping several,” she -declared. - -“Phœbe,” said Miss Ruth, speaking very low, “I loved you because you -were _his_ little daughter.” - -“Daddy’s?” - -“Your dear, fine Daddy’s!” - -“Then you’ll be my mother! Oh, Miss Ruth, say that you will! Say you’ll -come! Say Yes! Say Yes!” - -“My little daughter!” faltered Miss Ruth. She laid her cheek against -Phœbe’s hair. - -It was then that Phœbe heard a heavy step—heard the door close, and the -step come toward them. “Ruth!” said a voice. (Uncle Bob had sent some -one else!) - -Miss Ruth rose, lifting Phœbe with her. The two stood, arms about each -other, waiting. But Miss Ruth’s look was lowered. Only Phœbe silently -beseeched her father. - -“Dearest,” he said presently,—and he was not speaking to Phœbe; “I -suppose there’s no use fighting against it.” - -“No,” she answered. “No use.” - -“Because _he_ wants it,” went on Phœbe’s father; “dear old Bob. He’s the -one that’s fixed this up?” He came a step nearer. - -Miss Ruth looked up then. “My heart was breaking,” she whispered, “at -the thought of having you go.” - -“Ruth!” He held out his arms to her, and she went to him. - -Phœbe scarcely knew what to do. She had never seen just this situation -on the screen. But instinct told her that it would be best, perhaps, to -let Daddy and Miss Ruth have this moment to themselves. So Phœbe turned -aside, and looked out of a window at the branches that were close and -the clouds that were far. And valiantly she tried to forget the two -behind her, and hear only the birds. - -“I want you, Ruth,” her father was saying. “Oh, I’ve always wanted you!” - -“You do love me!” answered Miss Ruth. “Dear Jim!” - -“_Tweet-tweet!_” added a sparrow outside. He had his head on one side, -precisely, Phœbe thought, as if he were trying to look in. Oh, the -prying little thing! Phœbe swung one hand at him. - - -“And Phœbe?” It was Miss Ruth, turning to speak, so softly. - -“Yes, Mother?” said Phœbe. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES - - - 1. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling. - 2. Archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings retained as printed. - 3. 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