I 
 
 
 ELEANOR GATES 
 
 Jluthorof 
 "THE POOR LITTLE RICH GIRL"
 
 PHOEBE 
 
 OF GLUT. MHURT. IX* ANGSTS
 
 PHOEBE 
 
 ;BY 
 ELEANOR GATES 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 GROSSET & DUNLAP 
 
 PUBLISH ERS
 
 COPYRIGHT 1919, BY 
 ELE ANO R GATES 
 
 All rights reserved 
 
 Printed in U. S. A.
 
 AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED TO THAT 
 
 LITTLE GIRL WHOSE STORY 
 
 IT IS 
 
 2129724
 
 PHOEBE 
 
 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 Grand- 
 ma's. Mother." 
 
 THE train was already moving. Phoebe, 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 separa- 
 tion; and then in that same hour should send this 
 message this command which was to start 
 Phcebe 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 
 
 ii
 
 12 Phoebe 
 
 clergyman who, though her father's own brothers, 
 were yet strangers to their only niece! 
 
 Somehow, without having to be told, Phoebe had 
 always understood that Mother did not like Grand- 
 ma, 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 Phoebe to 
 those paternal relations ? 
 
 It was all very strange ! It was mysterious, like 
 yes, like stories Phoebe had seen in moving-pictures. 
 
 Out of the gloom and clangor of the great sta- 
 tion, the train was now fast winding its way, past 
 lights that burned, Phoebe 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 Phoebe 
 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
 
 Phoebe 13 
 
 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 nar- 
 row, domed roof ! 
 
 Her father had been busy with the luggage, di- 
 recting the porter about the disposal of the two suit- 
 cases while taking off his own overcoat and hat. 
 But as he glanced down at Phcebe, he misunder- 
 stood 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. "Phcebe?" he questioned ten- 
 derly. 
 
 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 out- 
 ing to the Park, the Zoo, or some moving-picture
 
 14 Phoebe 
 
 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 Phcebe made a part 
 of her day-dreams. 
 
 And so her love for him was tinged with some- 
 thing 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 Phcebe said Yes, they would 
 add, "Oh, but isn't he good-looking !" All of which 
 delighted Phcebe, who long since had compared him 
 with the heroes she had seen pictured on the screen 
 which comparison was to the very great disad- 
 vantage 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! 
 
 Phcebe 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 any- 
 thing, a trifle too wide which made her firm lit-
 
 Phoebe 15 
 
 tie 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 al- 
 most 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 mili- 
 tary 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 Phoebe's eyes set wide apart, given to straight 
 looking, and quick, friendly smiles. He had pre- 
 sented her with his straight nose, too, and his mouth. 
 But his chin was firmer than hers, a man's chin, and
 
 1 6 Phoebe 
 
 the chin of a man who, once having set forward 
 on any course, does not turn back. 
 
 Phoebe 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 ab- 
 sences 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," 
 Phoebe's mother always said. "And all Daddy's 
 traps are at the Club." It had never occurred to 
 Phoebe to doubt anything that Mother told her. 
 And did not her father fully corroborate this ex- 
 cuse of Mother's? Phoebe 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.
 
 Phoebe 17 
 
 With her smile of reassurance, Phoebe 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 Phcebe. 
 
 "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?" Phcebe inquired. 
 
 "Well, stout. And Uncle John, being a clergy- 
 man, and a trifle particular, doesn't believe minis- 
 ters 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,
 
 1 8 Phoebe 
 
 green hedge where the birds build their nests, 
 and " 
 
 "And when will Mother come?" interposed 
 Phoebe, with an intonation which made plain her 
 opinion that it would certainly take mother to 
 make the suburban picture complete. 
 
 "Phoebe," 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 Phoebe. 
 "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 speed- 
 ing!" 
 
 They talked of other things then, of the homes 
 past which they were rushing, the towns through
 
 Phoebe 19 
 
 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, 
 Phcebe, worn by the excitement of the sudden de- 
 parture, 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 Phoebe 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 overwhelm- 
 ing, 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 Phcebe'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 win- 
 dow 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 thump- 
 ing in her breast and a choking in her throat, she 
 followed her father to the vestibule, where the por- 
 ter waited with the suit-case and a small, square 
 stool upon which, presently, she stepped down to 
 meet the rain. 
 
 20
 
 Phoebe 21 
 
 There was a single light in the station, and be- 
 side it leaned a young man in an agent's cap. With 
 her hand on her father's arm for he was carry- 
 ing 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 black- 
 ness. 
 
 "And Phcebe!" exclaimed Uncle Bob, lifting 
 Phcebe 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, Phcebe. 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 Phcebe was helped to the rear seat of the sur- 
 rey, Uncle Bob holding aside the curtains that shut
 
 22 Phoebe 
 
 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. 
 
 Phoebe 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. Phoebe peered forward at the 
 horse. She had pictured him after horses she had 
 seen in Central Park shiny-coated saddlers, or 
 carnage 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
 
 Phoebe 23 
 
 street. This horse had a long tail, and his head 
 was on a level with his back. Phoebe was disap- 
 pointed. 
 
 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. Phoebe 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 turn- 
 about, 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 Phoebe's side, and here,
 
 24 Phoebe 
 
 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 Phoebe 
 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. 
 
 Phcebe 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 rain-coat and now stood forth, a 
 heavy-set person, quite bald, and apple-cheeked, 
 with smiling blue eyes. 
 
 The greetings over, Phcebe fell back a step, felt 
 for and found her father's hand, and then lost her- 
 self 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, apprais- 
 ing them, Phcebe was unprejudiced in her judg- 
 ment,- and viewed them as she might have viewed 
 three strangers who were not related. How very 
 old Grandma was! Phcebe noted that the white 
 head trembled steadily, as if Grandma were, per-
 
 Phoebe 25 
 
 haps, cold. As for Uncle John, there was some- 
 thing 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 Phoebe 
 knew were not rain. And his eyes were shining 
 with something that Phoebe recognized the some- 
 thing she knew as love. He was big, he was round, 
 he was, oh, so very homely. But straightway, with 
 a child's true instinct, Phoebe loved him. 
 
 Behind the three was another figure. Phoebe 
 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, Phoebe 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, Phoebe answered Sophie's 
 smile with one of her own, and for the cup of 
 steaming chocolate that was set at her plate mur- 
 mured a friendly "Thank you." 
 
 The supper was a quiet affair. Grandma bobbed
 
 26 Phoebe 
 
 and nodded over her cholocate, 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 Phoebe afterwards learned was "a blessing". 
 He looked at his food crossly. Phoebe's father had 
 little to say, too. He looked tired and white. And 
 when he smiled at Phoebe, he seemed not to see her, 
 but to be looking beyond somehow. Only Uncle 
 Bob appeared cheerful. His eyes danced when 
 Phcebe lifted her eyes to him shyly. Every now 
 and then he patted her shoulder. But compared 
 by her New York standards Phoebe voted the sup- 
 per 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, Phcebe thought, as all of the New York apart- 
 ment made into one. It had lace curtains at both
 
 Phoebe 27 
 
 windows, and there was an old-style dressing-table, 
 slabbed over its top with mottled marble. When 
 Phoebe 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 Phoebe's mind. "I'll just put a 
 fancy towel on it t'morra," she promised. "Ain't 
 had time today." 
 
 "Thank you," murmured Phcebe. 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 Phoebe's 
 jo-dandy suit-case? Phoebe 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 dis- 
 played the clothes-closet, and hung Phoebe'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
 
 28 Phoebe 
 
 almost like temper J, flung them down into place 
 once more, and grudgingly sidled to the door. 
 
 Phoebe, standing in the middle of the floor, hat 
 still in hand, made a pathetic little figure that ap- 
 pealed to Sophie's heart. "Ain't there anything I 
 can do ?" she inquired, persisting. 
 
 Phcebe 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, heart- 
 ily. She went out, turning her tousled head to smile 
 a good-night. 
 
 Phcebe 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 cup- 
 board. She went to peer into the pitcher. Sure 
 enough ! The pitcher was full of water; and Phcebe, 
 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
 
 Phoebe 29 
 
 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 whis- 
 pered, "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 !" Phcebe lay back. Her hand crept 
 into her father's and she looked up at the high ceil- 
 ing, with its covering of wall-paper in a wavy, wa- 
 tered 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 Phcebe, stout- 
 ly. "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,
 
 30 Phoebe 
 
 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, Phoebe," he as- 
 serted. "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 Phoebe 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 up- 
 raised. And her loneliness and loss she told silently 
 to that picture of her father which still remained 
 under the swinging globe in the blackness.
 
 Phoebe 31 
 
 "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 Phoebe, 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 Phoebe smiled in her sleep. The 
 tinkling grew steadily louder. Phcebe waked, saw 
 where she was, and raised her head to listen. The 
 bell was outside. Persistent and musical, its ring- 
 ing called Phoebe 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 Phoebe'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 
 32
 
 Phoebe 33 
 
 to ask, her father was standing by the front door 
 in the big hall, the telegram open in his hand. 
 
 He did not permit Phoebe 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 tele- 
 gram when the messenger boy reminded him that 
 there was an answer. 
 
 "I'll write your mother," he explained to Phoebe. 
 
 Vfter breakfast he sat down to write. That first 
 day at Grandma's, Phoebe learned that during each 
 week-day morning the library was sacred to Uncle 
 John. So Phoebe's father wrote at Grandma's desk 
 in the sitting-room, with Phoebe writing at the sew- 
 ing-table close by. 
 
 Her father's letter was short. His face was 
 stern as he wrote it. Then he paced the floor. 
 Phoebe 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 commit- 
 ting suicide with a pistol Phoebe stole anxious 
 glances toward her father as she wrote.
 
 34 Phoebe 
 
 "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, Phcebe." 
 
 It was a short letter, since it occurred to Phoebe 
 that perhaps a little of her father's pacing might 
 be due to impatience. She was not a rapid pen- 
 man. 
 
 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 mo- 
 ment. Then, "Yes," he said, "of course." He 
 added her letter to his, but he did not seal the en- 
 velope. 
 
 When he was gone, Phoebe 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 Phoebe over the house. But 
 Phcebe 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 ex-
 
 Phoebe 35 
 
 ceedmgly 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, Moth- 
 er's colored maid, possessed. Remembering Sally 
 gave Phcebe a happy thought: Here was the one, 
 of all those in the big house, who would be a pleas- 
 ant 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 Phoebe's ' '<' 
 terest and Sophie's enthusiasm. And when F
 
 36 Phoebe 
 
 was done, Phoebe 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!" 
 
 "Phoebe." Her father had entered. He was 
 frowning at Sophie. 
 
 "Daddy!" Phcebe 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, Phoebe/' said her father. 
 
 She did not understand. "Couldn't Sophie take 
 me?" 
 
 "Phoebe, your Uncle John is a clergyman," ex- 
 plained her father, his voice grave. "If his niece 
 to the movies, that looks as if he approves of 
 . And he doesn't."
 
 Phoebe 37 
 
 Phoebe 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." 
 
 Phoebe sat down, dumbfounded. Sophie went 
 out quietly, without lifting those roguish eyes. 
 
 Phoebe'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 Phcebe, dutifully. 
 
 But rebellion came into her heart that first morn- 
 ing. And thereafter her Uncle John, rector of 
 the town's most exclusive church, and undeniably 
 a most devout man, was to play the role of villain 
 in the drama which Phcebe 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 Phoebe's mother. 
 And this time he waited while Phoebe's father wrote 
 out an answer. Then he went tinkling away. 
 
 "Is Mother anxious about us, Daddy?" Phoebe 
 wanted to know.
 
 38 Phoebe 
 
 "Yes, darling. But we're all right here, aren't 
 we? for a little while." 
 
 "I guess so," said Phoebe, 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. Phoebe'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 Phoebe, de- 
 claring laughingly that her mother would burn up 
 the telegraph wires ; while Phcebe, with her numer- 
 ous letters, would put a terrible strain on the local 
 post-office. 
 
 Yet for all his gaiety, Phoebe sensed that there 
 was something about it all which she did not under- 
 stand. 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 lettei. Also he 
 was not able to remember much that the letter con- 
 tained. 
 
 "Of course," conceded Phoebe, "Mother isn't 
 a very good letter-writer. Whenever you were
 
 Phoebe 39 
 
 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 Phoebe's father. 
 "It's easy to get off a telegram. Oh, well." 
 
 But Phoebe kept on puzzling over it all. When 
 the telegrams stopped, her father admitted that let- 
 ters kept on arriving. But he never showed any 
 of them to Phoebe, or read to her from them. He 
 explained that they were about very private mat- 
 ters. "What?" Phoebe asked herself. 
 
 Yes, there was something about all this telegraph- 
 ing and letter-writing which she did not under- 
 stand.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 THERE was something else which Phoebe did not 
 understand. Walking, mittened and warmly dad, 
 over the snow-crusted half-acre of Grandma's gar- 
 den, 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 under" 
 stand 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 chil- 
 
 40
 
 Phoebe 41 
 
 dren 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 after- 
 noon, 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 Phcebe? 
 
 There were other curious things. She was never 
 permitted to go downtown unless her father accom- 
 panied 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 con- 
 cerning 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, Phoebe did not meet them. 
 Sophie, suddenly grown enthusiastic over some ordi- 
 nary household matter, hurried her upstairs, or 
 down cellar, as the case might be; or took her egg-
 
 42 Phoebe 
 
 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 
 Phoebe 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 Phoebe along, the 
 watch that was set on the attic window was trans- 
 ferred 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 an- 
 nounced 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?" Phoebe pon- 
 dered. 
 
 Her mind dwelt on certain dark, dramatic pos- 
 sibilities. In New York, how freely had she tasted 
 of that to her most perfect of all joys the mov- 
 ing-pictures. She went to some temple of the silent
 
 Phoebe 43 
 
 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-hand- 
 ling, stern and adorable William S. Hart! 
 
 And now, her imagination trained, Phoebe, as she 
 considered conditions as she saw them, asked her- 
 self 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
 
 44 Phoebe 
 
 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 there- 
 in. While before she fell asleep, or if she waked 
 in the still hours, she held her breath and listened 
 listened. Sometimes there were snappings ; some- 
 times 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 de- 
 termined 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 w r ere 
 here," she told herself. It was easy to confide any-
 
 Phoebe 45 
 
 thing 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 ap- 
 proachable. Phcebe broached her subject diplomati- 
 cally. "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 re- 
 joinder. (Sophie held local society in high dis- 
 dain.) 
 
 "I knew lots of ladies and gentlemen in New 
 York," Phcebe 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 
 Phcebe's own room on this particular occasion 
 (Phoebe feeling instinctively that she could get bet- 
 ter results on her own territory), and Sophie was 
 so eager to hear about New York, and the apart- 
 ment, and the ladies, and the men, that she sat down.
 
 46 Phoebe 
 
 and asked many questions, only stopping, now and 
 then, to go to the door to look out. 
 
 And Phoebe, nothing loath, answered every ques- 
 tion and more. So that Sophie was given a very 
 fair and truthful account of life in the metropoli- 
 tan apartment that is, of the life that Phoebe saw 
 between her early waking and her early bed-time. 
 
 At the end of this long talk, Sophie was sum- 
 moned 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, Phoebe, 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 Phcebe entered, the two moved 
 apart, somewhat hastily, and Sophie smiled a con- 
 scious smile, and looked a little guilty, and began 
 to talk more loudly than was necessary about her 
 duties. 
 
 In that moment, Phoebe 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 Phoebe, namely,
 
 Phoebe 47 
 
 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 ar- 
 rival Phcebe had discovered that Grandma dear, 
 gentle Grandma, with her mild old eyes and her 
 trembling head did not care to talk to Phoebe 
 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 Phoebe 
 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 en- 
 raged at the photograph. He almost flung it down, 
 and went out with no word. 
 
 Phoebe 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 Phoebe understood that if she men-
 
 48 Phoebe 
 
 tioned 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 con- 
 fidence. For Sophie, voice lowered and tousled 
 head bobbing close to Grandma's, had been telling 
 over all that Phoebe had told to her. Yes, telling it 
 all over and what else? For Grandma's face, as 
 Phoebe 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 Phoebe drew more and more into her- 
 self. 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, 
 Phoebe 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
 
 Phoebe 49 
 
 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 pres- 
 ence that now, at times, seemed scarcely more than 
 the figure in a dream. 
 
 Phcebe had left New York just after the Christ- 
 mas 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 be- 
 longed 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 Phcebe 
 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 Phcebe understood 
 cost a fortune, and Phcebe saw a great curtain lift 
 to display castles, and forests, soldiers, knights and 
 princesses. And, of course, there was that su-
 
 5O Phoebe 
 
 premest 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 Phcebe came to the big 
 house. And the something which she did not un- 
 derstand 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 Feb- 
 ruary and into March. 
 
 Then, one day, a sudden change! A quick, be- 
 wildering, 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 "Phcebe" figured frequently. Next, Daddy ap- 
 peared with an unclouded face, and sat down at 
 the cottage-organ in Grandma's sitting-room and
 
 Phoebe 51 
 
 played a little, and sang a song or two, Uncle Bob 
 joining in. Next, wonder of wonders, Phoebe 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?" Phoebe wanted to 
 know. 
 
 "Yes, I got the news in a letter." 
 
 A wave of scarlet swept up Phoebe's young throat 
 and bathed the earnest little face. News of Mother 
 from Mother! It choked her, it was all so won- 
 derful. For had not Mother, for a long time, failed 
 to send any word to her and Daddy? 
 
 "Oh, a letter?" breathed Phoebe, 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
 
 52 Phoebe 
 
 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 Phoebe. 
 
 "Well! Thought I had it. Mm! Sorry. 
 Must've laid it down somewhere." 
 
 He did not find the letter. But Phcebe was com- 
 forted 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 Phcebe discovered the first day. 
 It was a house a house very like Grandma's. 
 
 Of course there were differences. At Miss Simp- 
 son's, for instance, the cellar held a great iron 
 monster-thing with which Phcebe 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
 
 Phoebe 53 
 
 cellar could not boast bins for potatoes, and tur- 
 nips. 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 hold- 
 ing 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 base- 
 ment! 
 
 Elsewhere, too, Phoebe felt the school to be in- 
 finitely 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 Phcebe's own age, declared that 
 Miss Simpson's house was stylish; while a teacher, 
 touching on architecture one day, proudly cata- 
 logued it as "very English." 
 
 Phoebe did not understand in just what way the 
 school was "very English," but she did come to 
 , through Genevieve, that whatever very Eng-
 
 54 Phoebe 
 
 lish might be, it was something much to be desired 
 for any house. As for Grandma's residence, well, 
 Genevieve was politely scornful. 
 
 Phcebe 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, rear- 
 ing its unfashionable turrets among very up-to-date
 
 Phoebe 55 
 
 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. Gene- 
 vieve declared, and other girls upheld her, that 
 Miss Simpson's was so unusually splendid in the 
 way of interior woods, marbled entrance-hall, fres- 
 coed 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? 
 
 Phcebe 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 col- 
 ored glass in certain of Grandma's doors. Crayon 
 reproductions of family photographs were not at 
 all "the thing," Phcebe knew and Genevieve averred.
 
 56 Phoebe 
 
 Neither were wax flowers modish and Grandma 
 had so many frames of them! And then there 
 was that little item of lace curtains. Phoebe did 
 not have to be told that nobody who really knew 
 would, in these later and wiser times, go out and 
 buy lace curtains. 
 
 Phoebe 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 stair- 
 way. 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 down-stairs rooms ! And there 
 were velvet couches on either side of the library 
 fire, and here, before a glowing hearth, Miss Simp- 
 son 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 Simp- 
 son as "Madam." And Phoebe knew this was most 
 proper and desirable. For Sally had always called 
 Mother "Madam." If Phoebe had not known about 
 all this, Genevieve would have been the one to teach
 
 Phoebe 57 
 
 her, Genevieve being a stickler for all that was 
 proper and fashionable. 
 
 Phoebe came to look upon the tea- function at 
 Miss Simpson's as a rare privilege. This was be- 
 cause 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, Phcebe wel- 
 comed 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 Phcebe, welcomed to the School by Miss Simp- 
 son, received into the exclusive tea circle before 
 that library fire, and made one of a little "set" of
 
 58 Phoebe 
 
 pupils out of well-to-do families Phoebe 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, Phcebe was coming to be almost patient, 
 almost happy and contented once more. 
 
 And then, one morning, with the same sudden- 
 ness that had found her free of restraint and be- 
 wildering 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. 
 Phcebe curtsied to Miss Simpson and that august 
 principal did not smile. And there were other 
 signs signs that struck a chill to Phoebe's tender 
 heart. 
 
 Phcebe did not ask any questions. New Year's 
 Day had ended a wonderful life. This new life 
 was baffling; full of cruel blows. "Submit," coun- 
 seled a still, small voice; "submit, and wait for 
 Mother." 
 
 The hot tears stung the gray-blue eyes. Phcebe
 
 Phoebe 59 
 
 blinked them away, opened her Physical Geography, 
 and smiled bravely at a picture of a chimpanzee 
 climbing a cocoanut tree. 
 
 Phoebe smiled but she awaited a new blow.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 PHCEBE 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 in- 
 tent 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 Phcebe, 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 ter- 
 
 60
 
 Phoebe 61 
 
 race 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 Phcebe every now and then. 
 When the last fellow-pupil was gone, Phcebe 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 to- 
 gether. But her eyes smiled bravely. Back went 
 one brown shoe, and the slender, stockinged legs 
 bent in a curtsey. 
 
 "Good-night, Miss Fletcher," said Phcebe, po- 
 litely. 
 
 "Good-night, dear." Miss Fletcher's voice was 
 curiously husky. And as Phcebe 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 Phcebe 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
 
 62 Phoebe 
 
 went trippingly down the winding steps that led to 
 the gate and the street. 
 
 A limousine was waiting there a long, gleam- 
 ing, tawny vehicle with brown trimmings. Phoebe 
 recognized the motor. It was Genevieve Finne- 
 gan's, and it called for Genevieve every school after- 
 noon. Phcebe had seen other cars of the same 
 color flashing hither and thither through the town. 
 The Finnegans, it was rumored, had five automo- 
 biles 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 Phcebe 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 Fin- 
 negan 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
 
 Phoebe 63 
 
 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 
 drive-way 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 Phcebe had interposed, 
 but very meekly, to inquire what part the younger 
 pupils would take, Olive, who was fully as round, 
 Phoebe 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," Phcebe had answered, and the girls 
 had laughed! 
 
 Why? 
 
 And then there were other things. Phcebe re- 
 volved around the end of the home gate, closed it 
 even as she started up the walk, bumped in sur- 
 prise 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 liv-
 
 64 Phoebe 
 
 ing-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 mir- 
 ror 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. 
 
 Phoebe 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." 
 
 Phoebe was turning again more slowly. "I 
 thought maybe my petticoat was showing." 
 
 "Not a sign of it."
 
 65 
 
 "But, Uncle Bol 
 
 "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 Phcebe noted how 
 Uncle Bob's chest rose, so that the front edges of 
 his coat drew apart. Just over the top of his col- 
 lar, too, his neck grew scarlet. "Staring and whis- 
 pering! The ill-bred chits!" 
 
 But Phoebe 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?"
 
 66 Phcebe 
 
 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 morn- 
 ing 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. "Be- 
 cause, 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 Phoebe 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
 
 Phoebe 67 
 
 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 apart- 
 ment 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 re- 
 member? To go anywhere, you have to travel so 
 much." 
 
 Uncle Bob laughed, and drew her to him. "You
 
 68 Phoebe 
 
 blessed !" he said. "Of course it's big. Why, there's 
 room enough here to swing a cat." 
 
 "Yes," agreed Phoebe, "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." Phoebe 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 Phcebe, as certain as before. 
 "I'd bother Uncle John when he's writing a ser- 
 mon. 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 di-
 
 Phcebe 69 
 
 rection, oh, there was a wonderful moving-picture 
 theatre, and " She stopped, suddenly remem- 
 bering. 
 
 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 under- 
 stand 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 
 Phcebe. "And then, maybe she wouldn't know just 
 how to sing."
 
 70 Phoebe 
 
 "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, whis- 
 pering 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
 
 Phoebe 71 
 
 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, Phoebe. Oh, it's 
 
 got to!" 
 
 She felt that he understood, that he grieved with 
 her, that her heartache was his own.
 
 THE blow she awaited fell twenty-four hours 
 later. 
 
 Phoebe spent much of that twenty- four hours in 
 conjectures. And the final and pathetic conclu- 
 sion 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 Simp- 
 son's had turned against her. 
 
 And what about Miss Simpson herself? Phoebe 
 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. 
 
 Phoebe's cry over, Uncle Bob had gone to join 
 72
 
 Phoebe 73 
 
 his two brothers in the library. A conference be- 
 gan there, Phoebe 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 ! 
 
 Phoebe went up to her room. She stole up, on 
 tip-toe, guiltily. Her brows were puckered, her eyes 
 wide, her lips pursed. She forbore to steady her- 
 self 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 Phcebe's side in a dividing 
 of the household which existed only in Phcebe's 
 mind at other times the maid swung over to the 
 clique of grown-ups, and Phoebe was left, as it 
 were, on the defence, alone. Yet Phoebe had dis- 
 covered that now and again it was possible' to get 
 information from Sophie. Phoebe's resolve was to 
 "pump" Sophie. 
 
 Arrived in her room, she gave herself up, a sec- 
 ond 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,
 
 74 Phoebe 
 
 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, Phoebe took 
 her hand-mirror and went to a window ; and seating 
 herself, examined her face, hair and throat criti- 
 cally, unsparingly. 
 
 Once she had asked her mother if she was pretty. 
 And Mother herself so beautiful! had answered, 
 with a kiss, "Of course / think so." But now, 
 Phoebe asked herself, was this quota of hair, fea- 
 tures 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. Phoebe concluded that in point 
 of good looks she brought nothing to Miss Simp- 
 son's School. And as she had no money, like 
 Genevieve Finnegan 
 
 She put down the mrrror 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 Phoebe believed, to lurk in the cave- 
 like storage places that, sloping of roof, opened 
 off the attic.
 
 Phoebe 75 
 
 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 ward- 
 robe. 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 weep- 
 ing? "No," said Phoebe, solemnly, to the doll, "it 
 isn't my face, and it isn't my clothes." For, after 
 all, when it came to looks, Phoebe 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. Phoebe tried to re- 
 member 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! Pray-
 
 76 Phoebe 
 
 ers ! That was it ! The girls had discovered, some- 
 how, that Phoebe 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 Phoebe 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 Phoebe did not 
 know "Now I lay me" Grandma had knelt down 
 beside Phoebe (they were in Phoebe's room) and 
 implored God to touch Phoebe's heart, and claim 
 Phoebe's love. And a day or two later, Uncle John 
 had called Phoebe into the library, where Phoebe 
 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 
 Phoebe's ignorance in the matter of prayers was so 
 shocking as to be beyond even Uncle John's power 
 to express. Phoebe 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 Phoebe had 
 virtually been snatched from the burning.
 
 Phoebe 77 
 
 So Phoebe 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 be- 
 fore! 
 
 Something pounded in Phoebe'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 Phcebe could see that even 
 
 jolly Uncle Bob ! And Grandma, pressing 
 
 dainties upon Phcebe, and smiling tenderly (with 
 swollen eyes), was plainly anxious and disturbed. 
 
 So was Sophie! True, she winked at Phcebe 
 once during the course of the meal. But it was a 
 solemn wink. Her manner was subdued. She 
 moved carefully, rattling no dishes. Phcebe caught 
 the girl's eyes upon her more than once. Phcebe
 
 y8 Phoebe 
 
 understood the look it was all examination, and 
 curiosity. 
 
 "Can Sophie take me upstairs?" asked Phoebe, 
 at bedtime. The uncles were back in the library 
 once more, and Phoebe'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/* Phoebe 
 answered. 
 
 But when she and Sophie were upstairs, alone, 
 and the latter had finished her pillow-beating, 
 Phoebe 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?" 
 
 Phoebe was equally adroit. "She was ?" she asked 
 indifferently. 
 
 "Yop. I don't like that woman." 
 
 Sophie went. And Phoebe, 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
 
 Phoebe 79 
 
 asked? Phoebe knew that it was this visit which 
 had made Uncle Bob decide against Phoebe's con- 
 tinuing at the school. 
 
 If the five grown men and women in the big 
 rooms below could have known how grievously 
 Phoebe'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, Phoebe'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 win- 
 dows 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?
 
 80 Phoebe 
 
 She sprang up. She kissed her mother's photo- 
 graph with a smiling kiss. She sang over her dress- 
 ing. 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 appe- 
 tite. 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 Phoebe, 
 who doesn't have to be shut up in school!" 
 
 Phoebe 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 vio- 
 let across the table to Phoebe, and pretended to be 
 shocked at the conduct of the ducks. So that
 
 Phoebe 81 
 
 Phoebe laughed, and Grandma and Daddy smiled 
 yes, even Uncle John smiled. Breakfast was cheer- 
 ful. 
 
 Gray eyes thoughtful, Phoebe 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 Phoebe, and 
 Mother kissed Phoebe: each other they did not 
 kiss. 
 
 Phoebe thought of this again later in the day, 
 when Genevieve came. For it was Genevieve who 
 delivered the blow!
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 GENEVIEVE was Phoebe's own age, but stockily 
 built, with an up-turning Irish nose, reddish cork- 
 screw curls, and freckles. She had a proud, con- 
 scious 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, shut- 
 ting them away completely. When she had some- 
 thing important to say, she had a trick of throw- 
 ing her head back with a toss of the curls. Phcebe 
 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 Phcebe. She had a well wrapped pack- 
 age under one arm, and she wasted no time in de- 
 livering it 
 
 "I've brought back your books," she explained, 
 and proffered the package. 
 
 Phcebe stared. "My books?" 
 
 "From Miss Simpson's." Genevieve laid them 
 82
 
 Phoebe 83 
 
 on the sitting-room table and sat, arranging her 
 skirt grandly. 
 
 Phoebe still stared. It was as if she had unex- 
 pectedly 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 Gene- 
 vieve, "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 Simp- 
 son, 'as long as I have my own motor, and my 
 chauffeur.' And Miss Simpson said, 'Thank you, 
 my dear. Then Phcebe won't have to come back'." 
 
 Phoebe'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 mat- 
 ter? Do you know?" 
 
 Genevieve smoothed the crisp folds of her taffeta 
 dress. "I'd rather not say," she declared, impor- 
 tantly evasive. 
 
 But Phcebe was not to be put off. "Oh, please, 
 Genevieve!" she entreated. "Tell me! Have I 
 done anything?"
 
 84 Phcebe 
 
 "N-n-n-no." Then, raising her eyes to Phoebe's 
 anxious face, "You you haven't heard anything?'* 
 
 Phcebe 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 Phoebe caught the inference. "Oh, yes ; 
 scandal," she said, almost under her breath. "That 
 would be awful." 
 
 Genevieve reached to touch Phoebe's arm con- 
 descendingly. "Don't you care," she counseled, 
 "because I like you just the same." 
 
 Phcebe 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. "Gene- 
 vieve," she whispered, "have I what scandal?" 
 
 "It's funny you don't know," marveled Gene- 
 vieve.
 
 Phoebe 85 
 
 "Oh, what is it? Please! Please!" Phoebe's lips 
 were trembling. 
 
 Genevieve, having postponed her informing to 
 her own complete satisfaction, now saw that the 
 moment was ripe for her climax. "Phoebe," she be- 
 gan solemnly, "Miss Simpson doesn't want you at 
 our school because your mother's in Reno." 
 
 "Reno?" repeated Phoebe. Her face lighted joy- 
 ously. 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 Phoebe'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 rea- 
 son." 
 
 "She's sick," returned Phoebe, 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
 
 86 Phoebe 
 
 New York papers. It was a printed telegram from 
 Nevada." 
 
 "Certainly there was," Phoebe 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." 
 
 "Divorced!" 
 
 Genevieve's eyes shone. It was the effect she 
 wanted. She moved toward the door. "Well, I 
 must be going," she announced. 
 
 Phcebe led the way. In the hall, she turned up 
 the stairs without even a glance toward her de- 
 parting 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
 
 Phoebe 87 
 
 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 her- 
 self, "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, Phoebe 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 phys- 
 ical relief to her mental anguish. Also, she had 
 hoped in her secret heart that she might be dis- 
 covered at her packing! discovered and com- 
 forted; 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 be- 
 loved home-nest, with its ivory woodwork and rose 
 hangings, its perfumed warmth, and beauty and 
 cosiness. Her mother and father were to be for- 
 ever apart forever I 
 
 Sorrow broke over her like a wave. "Forever !" 
 
 88
 
 Phoebe 89 
 
 she wept. "Forever!" There was something al- 
 most 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 suf- 
 fering 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 sepa- 
 rated 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 w r ould be the pain of having Mother 
 gone if she, Phcebe, 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
 
 90 Phoebe 
 
 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 wear- 
 ing 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 
 Phoebe advanced to a stand before the large map 
 of the United States which hung above the book- 
 cases at one side of the room.
 
 Phoebe 91 
 
 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 be- 
 cause 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. Phoebe 
 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.
 
 92 Phoebe 
 
 Phoebe liked them. But they were not, just then, 
 first in her thoughts. Did Genevieve Finnegan, 
 and others like her, expect Phoebe Shaw Blair to 
 hide herself away in Grandma's big house? To 
 weep alone at slights? "From such small-town 
 people?" raged Phoebe, 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, Phoebe 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
 
 Phoebe 93 
 
 happily, and skip just to show all those gaping 
 neighbors how little she cared ! 
 
 She compromised on a rubber ball. It was an in- 
 spiration ! 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 con- 
 fess 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 any- 
 thing else you like " 
 
 Phoebe 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
 
 94 Phoebe 
 
 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 pur- 
 pose, 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 com- 
 pletely absorbed. 
 
 After that, every day for many days she went 
 at least once to the drug-store. And she bounced 
 the ball both ways I
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 Now came the beginning of what was like a new 
 era of life for Phoebe 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 ex- 
 istence. 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 be- 
 cause 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 emo- 
 tional awakening, with her realization that some- 
 
 95
 
 96 Phoebe 
 
 thing 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 lov- 
 ingly 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 appre- 
 ciated. 
 
 But the first Sunday following Genevieve Finne- 
 gan'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 directte 
 behind her. But when the organ broke forth, fill- 
 ing 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
 
 Phoebe 97 
 
 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" r (as Uncle 
 John had taught her) ; instinctively her silent prayer 
 was addressed to her mother. "Oh, darling, darl- 
 ing!" 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. 
 
 Th remorse. Behind the adored figure, what 
 was thdt 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 Phoebe by a hand's breadth. Grandma's 
 dress, of wool, and black, with pipings of gros- 
 grain, had been made for her two years before. 
 Faintly it smelled of moth-balls.
 
 98 Phoebe 
 
 Phoebe 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 Phoebe stay in 1 a 
 town that treated her unkindly and gossiped rbout 
 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 I" she promised her- 
 self. "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 suffer- 
 ing how wistful was their expression, how far- 
 away was the look in their beautiful eyes. Phoebe
 
 Phoebe 99 
 
 bore herself like them, walking slowly, with up- 
 lifted 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 wel- 
 comed 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 fa- 
 ther's heels. The paleness left her face. She con- 
 sented 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 sit- 
 ting-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
 
 ioo Phoebe 
 
 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 expres- 
 sions of love. For her heart was hungry for af- 
 fection. 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 unspeak- 
 ably sad. She wept, her head in her arms. All 
 sorts of pictures flashed themselves upon her brain. 
 And she repeated certain Biblical lines and pas- 
 sages 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
 
 Phoebe 101 
 
 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 ad- 
 vancing vested choir. It had even made her for- 
 get, 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 curious- 
 ly 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, 
 Phoebe 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
 
 ;iO2 Phoebe 
 
 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. 
 Phcebe 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 pic- 
 tures". 
 
 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 
 Phoebe 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 in- 
 quired. "Wasn't it er because your father 
 wasn't payin' her enough money?" 
 
 "You know it w r asn't," declared Phcebe, bluntly.
 
 Phoebe 103 
 
 "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? Phoebe, you 
 been listenin'!" 
 
 "Genevieve Finnegan," said Phoebe, 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 High- 
 ness 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 Phoebe, "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 Phoebe. "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!"
 
 IO4 Phoebe 
 
 "He says to her, 'Miss Simpson, Phoebe 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. 
 
 Phoebe touched Sophie on the shoulder. "Is is 
 divorce why my mother sent me here?" she asked. 
 
 "Phoebe, if I tell y' the truth " 
 
 "But, then, maybe you don't know either," added 
 Phoebe, 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 Phoebe'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." 
 
 Phoebe did not speak for a minute. While things 
 began to clear for her the swift packing, the sud- 
 den departure from New York, the telegrams that
 
 Phoebe 105 
 
 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 Phoebe, 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." 
 
 Phcebe was appalled. She got up, and stood over 
 Sophie, wavering a little, too shocked to speak. 
 
 "Phcebe!" 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
 
 io6 Phoebe 
 
 mother. I heard the Judge say so, and his maw 
 agreed. But your Uncle John " 
 
 Phoebe 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," re- 
 minded Sophie. "But I guess your mamma done 
 somethin' that made him pretty mad." 
 
 Phoebe longed to know what, to ask about it 
 iYet she shrank from having Sophie tell her any- 
 thing 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
 
 Phoebe 107 
 
 they oughta sep'rate, and be done with it, and not 
 quarrel around where there's a child." 
 
 Phoebe 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 Phcebe, impatiently. 
 "What do they all say?" 
 
 "What do they know about your mamma's 
 plans?" Sophie retorted. "Maybe she'll marry 
 again." 
 
 Phoebe 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 min- 
 ute! 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
 
 io8 Phoebe 
 
 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 Phcebe, 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 Phoebe, 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 conversa- 
 tion. 
 
 "Don't you see how much it's like a movie?" 
 Phoebe 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, Phoebe viewed the mem- 
 bers of her family with a new eye with a fresh 
 understanding. And was thrilled, as well as grati- 
 fied 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 Phoebe 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 Phoebe'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 Phoebe, 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 
 
 109
 
 no Phoebe 
 
 she meant to ask Sophie the very first chance she 
 had. 
 
 The chance came that evening. As Phoebe 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. 
 
 "Phcebe," she began her face was grave and 
 her voice anxious ; "y u won't say a word about my 
 tellin' you what I did this afternoon?" 
 
 "I won't," declared Phoebe. 
 
 " 'Cause if the folks was to find out, they'd fire 
 me." 
 
 Phcebe 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 Phcebe was saying, "why, it 
 needn't be me they blame. 'Cause almost anybody 
 in town mighta told y'." 
 
 Phcebe stared. "You mean everybody knows?" 
 she demanded. 
 
 "Everybody 'round here, anyhow." 
 
 "And I I didn't know!"
 
 Phoebe in 
 
 "I'm sorry I told y'." Sophie turned away her 
 face. She lifted a corner of her apron to an eye. 
 
 "Please !" begged Phoebe. "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 Phoebe 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 Phoebe 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 Phoebe to make herself comfortable on 
 the big, old library couch and read whatever she 
 liked. With the awakening of her emotions, what 
 Phoebe liked to read about was love. She found
 
 .112 Phoebe 
 
 some books by "The Duchess". They were Uncle 
 Bob's, and they were full of romance. Phoebe de- 
 voured them while across the room the clergy- 
 man toiled over a sermon that was, perhaps, con- 
 cerned with Peter's wife's mother. 
 
 And every week-day afternoon Phoebe 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 re- 
 main 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. Phoebe 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 Phoebe that something 
 unusual had happened. 
 
 "Judge!" whispered Sophie.
 
 Phoebe 113 
 
 He glanced up, half a lemon in eacH hand, and 
 damp sugar on his face. Phoebe 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 
 Phcebe by the hand and started for the sitting- 
 room. 
 
 "Who is Miss Ruth ?" asked Phcebe 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 Phoebe's trembled. 
 
 "I'm here with more Court troubles," explained 
 Miss Ruth. She was looking at Phcebe. Her eyes 
 were the color of the flowers on her hat.
 
 ii4 Phoebe 
 
 "My dear," it was Grandma speaking "this is 
 Jim's little girl." 
 
 Phoebe 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 Phoebe's cheek with 
 her lips. "I've wanted to meet you often," she 
 said. Then, as if with sudden feeling, she drew 
 Phoebe to her, and held her close. 
 
 The welcome tenderness of it, the embracing 
 arms, the soft, fragrant dress it was all like 
 Mother to Phoebe. 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, Phoebe! 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.
 
 Phoebe 115 
 
 "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 re- 
 sounding 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."
 
 n6 Phoebe 
 
 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 
 Phoebe away from her a little. "You will come 
 sometimes to see me, Phoebe?" 
 
 "Oh, yes." 
 
 "I live very close." 
 
 "And and you'll come to see me ?" asked Phoebe, 
 eagerly. What was it about Miss Ruth that she 
 liked so well? Miss Ruth was grave. Her look 
 was tender. The hands that held Phoebe's were 
 firm and cool. 
 
 "If you want me to come " 
 
 "Oh, I do!" 
 
 "Then Til come." 
 
 Phoebe rose upon tiptoe. "Could you come after 
 supper, maybe?" she asked. "That's that's al- 
 ways 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?" 
 
 "Phoebe loves stories," answered Phoebe's grand- 
 mother. "She misses the moving-pictures she used
 
 Phoebe 117 
 
 to see. And so if you'd tell her a story some even- 
 ing, Ruth, " 
 
 "Or," put in Phoebe, 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 Phcebe again. 
 "But you've Grandma, and Uncle John, and Uncle 
 Robert, and and your father " 
 
 Phcebe 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 
 Phcebe, 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 Phcebe?" said the Judge. He had 
 her hand, and he squeezed it. 
 
 Phcebe 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 
 
 PHCEBE thought about that, wondering 1 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. Phoebe 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 say- 
 ing 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 slow- 
 ly, in fact almost sidling, with glances up at the 
 
 118
 
 Phoebe 119 
 
 higher windows of the house, and those formidable 
 gingerbread turrets. 
 
 At first Phoebe 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 Phoebe's heart gave a leap. It was not 
 a dressed-up boy: It was a girl! "A girl in dis- 
 guise!" concluded Phoebe, 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 Phoebe went out to meet her, and also halted. 
 The two looked at each other. 
 
 "Won't you come in?" asked Phoebe at last, po- 
 litely. 
 
 The girl hung her head. 
 
 "Come on in," persisted Phoebe. "Nobody's 
 going to hurt you." She turned and led the way, 
 and the girl followed. 
 
 She was about Phoebe's own age, but pale, and
 
 I2O Phoebe 
 
 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 
 Phoebe, 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 Phoebe 
 again. "Please. Just say it right out" 
 
 "Th' Judge," with not a movement of the lips. 
 
 Phcebe 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-1-licked!" 
 
 "Oh!" Phoebe went to her, taking one of the
 
 Phoebe 121 
 
 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 Phcebe again. "You so you've got 
 a step!" 
 
 "Uh-huh." 
 
 Phcebe sat down and regarded her visitor, mar- 
 veling 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, Phcebe, 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." Phcebe nodded sadly. "They sit at
 
 122 Phoebe 
 
 the table, and don't speak, and don't kiss each othei 
 good-night." 
 
 "But she spends all Paw's money," went on Ma- 
 nila. "And she hits me. Look !" She drew up a 
 loose sleeve. There on the thin arm was a dark 
 welt. 
 
 Phoebe 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 
 Phoebe. 
 
 "Nope. Just boozes" She lowered the sleeve 
 resignedly. 
 
 Phoebe 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' 11 you do 
 if you get a step?" 
 
 Phoebe sat back. "Me?" she demanded, and' 
 swallowed. 
 
 Manila nodded.
 
 Phoebe 123 
 
 Phoebe said nothing. She felt her heart swell- 
 ing; 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 Ma- 
 nila rose, Sophie took her by a shoulder and led 
 her hallward. 
 
 But Phoebe stayed where she was. A storm 
 was raging in her breast. Sophie had suggested 
 a step- father, and Phcebe had been able to laugh. 
 Did she not know Mother? dear, beautiful, de- 
 voted 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 mat- 
 ter of a step- father even a second thought? Be- 
 sides, 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 Phoebe would be entirely free it was Mother
 
 124 [Phoebe 
 
 who was setting him free. (And this gave Phoebe 
 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 Phoebe cruelly. And the pain was a double 
 one. For she suffered on her own account, im- 
 agining 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 fore- 
 boding 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-moth- 
 ers so well! Yes, she could even remember cer- 
 tain 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 seek- 
 125
 
 ia6 Phoebe 
 
 ing 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! 
 
 Phoebe 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 ac- 
 tion 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
 
 Phoebe 127 
 
 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 mar- 
 ried that awful step-mother. 
 
 Meanwhile, seeing these things which at least 
 conveyed worry, she came to forget herself in con- 
 cern 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 to- 
 ward 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 role of little mother: she was yearn-
 
 128 Phoebe 
 
 ing over him. Oh, her Daddy! Her dear, dear 1 
 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, Phoebe was quick to urge 
 him on first of all because she would not let her- 
 self 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 Phoebe's father well very well indeed al-
 
 Phoebe 129 
 
 most too well! She smiled across the counter at 
 him: she said, "How are you?" familiarly: she 
 even called him "Jim". 
 
 Phoebe 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 Phcebe when the tall glass was 
 half empty. That aroused Phoebe's suspicions. She 
 declined a second helping. She understood the pur- 
 pose behind a second helping! "She wants to get 
 in with me," Phcebe 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 Phcebe cared 
 nothing about the reproof. There was something 
 at stake something terribly important. She de- 
 termined 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-
 
 130 Phoebe 
 
 store and see him well past it! And when she 
 had kissed him good-bye at some corner, she re- 
 turned with no glance toward that counter which 
 had always yielded such generous sodas and sun- 
 daes. 
 
 One day Phoebe got a fright. The drug-store 
 young woman ran out to them, to intercept them. 
 Doctor Blair, she said, wanted to speak to Phoebe's 
 father on the drug-store telephone. Phoebe 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, '7 don't like the girl at the 
 drug-store. You know what I mean. I hate her, 1 
 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 be- 
 yond 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.
 
 Phoebe 131 
 
 Phoebe would have passed girl and baby without 
 a look. But the former halted her. "Oh, Phoebe, 
 you've never seen my little son," she said. 
 
 Phoebe 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 Phoebe; "like you." 
 
 After that she often went with her father to 
 have ice-cream sodas at the drug-store. And al- 
 ways, in his hearing, she asked after the baby and 
 after the baby's father, and she rather prided her- 
 self 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 sym- 
 pathetic companionship of a woman she could have 
 trusted, would have driven the vision from her 
 thoughts. But in that adult household, where all of
 
 132 Phoebe 
 
 her little confidences were given to no one, her mor- 
 bidity 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 Phoebe had seen. This 
 imaginary step-mother was tall, bony, heavy-shoul- 
 dered 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, Phoebe 
 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 oc- 
 curred to Phoebe. Had not Botts, poor liquor-sod- 
 dened, 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 
 Phoebe's fear called up was of all things formidable,
 
 Phoebe 133 
 
 and overbearing, yet silent with the silence that 
 means power. 
 
 Phoebe 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 Phoebe 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 to- 
 gether. 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 com-
 
 134 Phoebe 
 
 ing 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 her- 
 self 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."
 
 Phoebe 135 
 
 Her eyes stared into his. "Daddy! You and 
 Mother are divorced !" 
 
 "Phoebe!" he gasped, plainly astounded. 
 
 "Did you steal me away from Mother?" she de- 
 manded. 
 
 "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, Phoebe," 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, Phoebe," 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."
 
 136 Phoebe 
 
 "And for a long time you haven't seen Daddy 
 and Mother go anywhere together." 
 
 "Daddy," she whispered, with a quick look be- 
 yond him, lest she be overheard, "don't you like my 
 mother?" 
 
 "Ah, Phoebe!" He shook his head again, sigh- 
 ing. "Ah, if I could only spare my little girl!" 
 
 "Daddy!" she cried, her arms suddenly about 
 him. "Dear, dear Daddy!" 
 
 "Phoebe, you must try to understand," he coun- 
 seled; "and take it all just like the little woman you 
 are. Then you and I will decide what's best no- 
 body 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 Phoebe was 
 not able to open her young heart to him. For their 
 conference was broken in upon by Sophie, who en- 
 tered, smiling, telegram in hand.
 
 Phoebe 137 
 
 "Boy wants a' answer, Mr. Jim," she announced. 
 
 Phoebe's father took the yellow envelope with a 
 trace of irritation at being interrupted. 
 
 "Oh, Daddy, is it from Mother?" Phoebe ques- 
 tioned. 
 
 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 Phcebe. 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 Phoebe. "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. 
 
 Phcebe 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
 
 138 Phoebe 
 
 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 close- 
 ly resembled the "movies"..
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 IT was Grandma who came for Phoebe. 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 man- 
 tel. Though his look was lowered, Phoebe knew 
 that he was angry. Uncle Bob stood nearby, hands 
 in pockets. He nodded Phcebe a greeting. Phcebe's 
 father was not there. And Phcebe 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 Ne- 
 vada," 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 
 139
 
 140 Phoebe 
 
 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 Phcebe's father, a 
 suit-case in one hand, his hat in the other. Be- 
 hind him was Sophie, carrying his overcoat. He 
 said nothing, only put down the suit-case, crossed 
 to Phoebe, 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. Phoebe saw them and heard them, and real- 
 ized that she had shocked. She reddened. 
 
 "My little Phoebe !" 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 Phcebe's 
 father.
 
 Phoebe 14* 
 
 Uncle Bob shrugged. "How can I judge Helen'* 
 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." 
 
 Phoebe 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 Phcebe, 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, Phcebe 
 sat down, not helplessly, but she felt a trifle weak,
 
 142 Phoebe 
 
 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 gold- 
 fish, 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," Phcebe explained. 
 
 "Won't you come to me, darling?" asked 
 Grandma. 
 
 "I'm all right," Phcebe declared reassuringly.
 
 Phoebe 143 
 
 "Uncle John loves you, Phoebe," 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 ~irl, 
 so his love goes out to you." 
 
 "Thank you," said Phcebe. 
 
 Uncle Bob had come in while his brother was 
 speaking. He grinned at Phcebe 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 Phcebe. 
 
 "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, thought- 
 fully. "Miss Ruth," he repeated. "Ah, yes. Who 
 doesn't love Miss Ruth." 
 
 "Manila loves her," confided Phcebe. "Sophie 
 told me all about it. Miss Ruth has been so good 
 to Manila. She calls Miss Ruth 'Angel'."
 
 144 Phoebe 
 
 "But you why, you hardly know Miss Ruth." 
 There was a strange expression on Uncle Bob's 
 face. He was looking at Phoebe, but he seemed to 
 be thinking of something far away. "Why do you 
 love her?" 
 
 Phoebe put her head on one side. "I don't ex- 
 actly know why," she admitted. In her heart, she 
 knew this was not strictly true. There was a rea- 
 son for liking Miss Ruth. It had to do with 
 Phoebe's jealousy about a step-mother. Phoebe 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, Phoebe 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 con- 
 strained silence. Phcebe 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. 
 
 Phcebe wondered if something was wrong about 
 Miss Ruth. She made up her mind to ask Sophie.
 
 Phoebe 1145 
 
 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. 
 
 Phoebe 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, Phcebe 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 sor- 
 row. 
 
 Uncle Bob read the wire. He took, Phcebe 
 thought, a good while to read it. And he made a
 
 146 Phoebe 
 
 curious face at it, a grimace that seemed half comi- 
 cal, half sad. Then he handed the paper to Grand- 
 ma, 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 Phoebe 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 Phcebe. "My my moth- 
 er ?" 
 
 "Phoebe," said Uncle John, more tenderly than 
 he had ever spoken to her in all the past months. 
 "Phoebe, your mother is in Heaven." 
 
 Phcebe 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
 
 Phoebe 147 
 
 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. "Phoebe!" he whispered. "Little, little 
 Phoebe!" 
 
 She lifted a hand to her face, brushed at a 
 cheek, tried to straighten, swallowed then made to- 
 ward him unsteadily, and stumbled against his 
 breast.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 PHCEBE 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 wa- 
 ter, 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 near- 
 est for the comfort and sympathy that could drive 
 
 away such terrible visions. 
 
 148
 
 Phoebe 149 
 
 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 com- 
 forting to Phoebe 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 news- 
 papers had short, but kind, notices of the death, in 
 the Far West, of Mrs. James Blair. And there were 
 references to "the little daughter, Phoebe, now re- 
 siding with her grandmother, Mrs. John G. Blair".
 
 150 Phoebe 
 
 Never before had Phoebe 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 Phoebe's Sunday and 
 second-best dresses. Uncle John had opposed the 
 bands strongly, and in Phoebe's presence. He did 
 not approve of the wearing of mourning by chil- 
 dren. 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 Phoebe, a band on her sleeve seemed to 
 set her apart, somehow, to single her out par- 
 ticularly. 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 
 Phoebe tore up! And there was another letter, a 
 "-Round Robin" from eight of the girls at Miss 
 Simpson's. Phoebe 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."
 
 Phoebe 151 
 
 "Good for you, old dumpling !" commended Uncle 
 Bob. "There's spunk for you !" 
 
 "Don't encourage Phoebe 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 Phoebe away from there. And now whom 
 are they thinking about? that Simpson woman's 
 pocket-book! Confound them!" 
 
 Phoebe gave some reflection to that short pas- 
 sage 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 whis- 
 pered.
 
 152 Phcebe 
 
 "It is Miss Ruth, Phoebe," 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 Phcebe, contented, and slept 
 again. 
 
 After that Miss Ruth continued to come. Often 
 in the darkness, if Phcebe was wakeful, Miss Ruth 
 would tell her stories wonderful stories, about 
 princesses and knights, goblins and dwarfs and 
 fairies. These were all new to Phoebe, who knew 
 best the more modern stories of the films. 
 
 "Why didn't you ever come to see us before?" 
 Phoebe wanted to know. 
 
 "You like me, don't you, dear?" Miss Ruth re- 
 turned happily. It was early morning, and Phoebe 
 had just wakened. Already the room was light- 
 ening with the dawn. Miss Ruth leaned down and 
 cupped Phoebe'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 Phoebe slept 
 through the nights without waking, when watch- 
 ers were no longer needed beside her bed. She 
 did not understand how it was, but she had come
 
 Phoebe 153 
 
 to feel two things: First, it did not seem true 
 that her mother was dead, and having had no let- 
 ters from her mother since leaving New York, there 
 was not even the cutting off of messages to bring 
 home to Phcebe her loss; second, her mother's death 
 settled finally a question that had vexed Phoebe 
 sorely, the troublesome question of what was going 
 to happen once the divorce was granted. Now 
 Phcebe 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 de- 
 clared. "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 Phcebe 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 de- 
 termined 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
 
 Phoebe 
 
 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 up- 
 permost 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 Phoebe's ar- 
 rival from New York, how anxious the family had 
 been that she should meet and talk to no one. But 
 now, as during Phoebe's attendance at Miss Simp- 
 son'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.
 
 Phoebe 155 
 
 This gave Phoebe her opportunity! "I'd like to 
 see Manila," she announced one day. 
 
 And so it came about that Manila paid Phcebe 
 a second visit, and the two went out to the summer- 
 house, taking along Phoebe's old doll, and Phoebe 
 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 talka- 
 tive!) "But if he comes back alone, why " 
 
 "What?" asked Phcebe. "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!" Phcebe 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."
 
 156 Phoebe 
 
 Phoebe 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, philosophi- 
 cally. "Then the Judge'd have her hung." 
 
 "Say, what does your step-mother look like?" 
 Phoebe wanted to know. 
 
 Manila thought. "She's like a rat most," she con- 
 cluded 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 Phoebe. (After that the im- 
 aginary step-mother that lurked in the big Blair 
 house whenever the light was dim, took on a rat- 
 like personality slenderness, stealthiness, small 
 black eyes and sniffy nose.) 
 
 Phoebe 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. 
 Phoebe regarded her more respectfully than ever.
 
 Phoebe 157 
 
 "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 Phoebe'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, Phcebe 
 thought her visitor should have gone. For supper- 
 time approached, and yet Manila lingered. 
 
 "Are you afraid?" Phcebe 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, Phcebe experienced real ter- 
 ror. 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.
 
 158 Phoebe 
 
 "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." 
 
 Phoebe 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' Phoebe's 
 father as a horrible example of a real step-mother ? 
 
 "Just let the mean old thing keep away from 
 here," said Phoebe, by way of tactfully turning 
 Uncle Bob from even a suspicion of that plan. 
 
 "My dear niece!" chided Uncle John.
 
 CHAPTER XVi 
 
 AT once lessons were resumed, filling the morn- 
 ing hours of each week-day. And a strict pro- 
 gram of driving was followed out each afternoon 
 that the weather permitted. In consequence of which 
 Phoebe had little time to herself, and none for Ma- 
 nila. 
 
 "They don't want me to have even one friend," 
 Phoebe concluded resentfully. "And Uncle John 
 wants me to forget Mother." 
 
 He was leading Phoebe 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 befoftftier, 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 com- 
 plained. 
 
 159
 
 160 Phoebe 
 
 "Pretty dry after the movies?" he suggested. 
 
 Phoebe assented. "I'm used to something excit- 
 ing." 
 
 "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." 
 
 Phcebe 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 matinee. 
 
 Phoebe, 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
 
 Phoebe 161 
 
 small. Her face was shining from a vigorous soap- 
 ing, as well as with expectancy. Phoebe 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." 
 
 Phoebe 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 Phcebe 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 Phcebe. 
 
 "Well, y' see, the fact is the Judge just wor- 
 ships Miss Ruth." 
 
 "0-o-oh." 
 
 "Yes, he's in love with her. Now, don't you
 
 1 62 Phoebe 
 
 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 Phcebe. "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 j 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, Phcebe. She's the nicest woman in this 
 town. But she's nevef been happy." Sophie 
 sighed. "Things've never gone right for Miss Ruth, 
 some way." 
 
 "And she doesn't love Uncle Bob?" persisted 
 Phcebe. 
 
 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 Phcebe.
 
 Phoebe 1163 
 
 "He's too short, and he's bald, and a little old, 
 
 "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 Phoebe. "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 Phoebe. 
 
 "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 Phoebe, "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."
 
 164 Phoebe 
 
 "Well, now, I'll tell you what's the matter. Every- 
 body 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 Phoebe. "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
 
 Phoebe 165 
 
 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 Phoebe. "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 pic- 
 ture's goin' to end sad." 
 
 She started away. And presently Phoebe, watch- 
 ing, 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! 
 
 Phcebe turned houseward. The world was just 
 full, she reflected, of good moving-pictures that no 
 one seemed to be using.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 To Phoebe, Uncle Bob took on a new and in- 
 tense interest. Heretofore, he had been just Uncle 
 Bob, stout and jolly and loving, with certain un- 
 known 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 Phoebe 
 forgot his stoutness and his baldness in remem- 
 bering 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 
 
 166
 
 Phoebe 167 
 
 Miss Ruth love your Uncle if she don't," she as- 
 serted. "And she don't." 
 
 "I'm going to pray about it,'* resolved Phoebe, 
 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 confiden- 
 tially; for instance, Uncle John. 
 
 "When I get educated," Phcebe 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 / can put a lawyer to sleep." 
 
 "Lawyers are not nice people," Phoebe declared. 
 "At least they're never very nice on the screen." 
 
 She asked him quite frankly about her program
 
 1 68 Phoebe 
 
 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?" 
 
 Phoebe 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 whis- 
 pered. "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 !"
 
 Phoebe 169 
 
 "I want my mother," whispered Phoebe. "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. "Phoebe," 
 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 Phoebe, 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 him- 
 self in thought, his eyes on the carpet, they were 
 in the library his arm about Phoebe. 
 
 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
 
 170 Phoebe 
 
 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 Phoebe, 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, Phoebe?" 
 
 "Yes," answered Phoebe. 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 Phoebe, a little fright- 
 ened 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 
 Phoebe 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 en-
 
 Phoebe 171 
 
 tered 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! Phcebe 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 " 
 
 Phcebe 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.
 
 172 Phoebe 
 
 "Oh, I'm so glad to hear you say that!" cried 
 Miss Ruth. "Poor, unhappy " 
 
 But Phoebe 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-pic- 
 ture story! Uncle Bob meant that Manila should 
 be set free. 
 
 "And I'm going to do it," vowed Phcebe. 
 
 She made for the hall door.
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 ALL the moving-picture heroines that Phoebe 
 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 dis- 
 aster, or punishment even displeasure? Quite 
 naturally, therefore, Phcebe apprehended only suc- 
 cess 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, Phcebe 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 atten- 
 tion of another boy by throwing pebbles against a 
 window. She determined to throw pebbles against 
 Manila's window.
 
 174 Phoebe 
 
 She knew which was the Botts house by begin- 
 ning 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 Phoebe 
 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. 
 
 Phoebe felt disappointment. Manila was not liv- 
 ing 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.
 
 Phoebe 175 
 
 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. Phoebe 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 prop- 
 erly, 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 Phoebe, 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 Phoebe, 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
 
 176 Phoebe 
 
 the sill, let one leg drop over it leisurely, next, an- 
 other, and slipped quietly to the ground. A mo- 
 ment later Phoebe drew her through a gap in the 
 fence. 
 
 Manila seemed not only indifferent, but even re- 
 luctant, 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 Phoebe 
 more irritated than ever. 
 
 "But haven't you been locked up?" Phoebe 
 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?" Phoebe stopped short. 
 
 "I'm scairt," confided Manila. 
 
 "Scared nothing!" Phcebe said stoutly, slamming 
 the gate behind them. "You're with us now." 
 
 "Mrs. Botts told me, 'Don't you budge'."
 
 Phoebe 177 
 
 "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. "Phoebe, she'll 
 come after me." 
 
 "Don't you worry. I've seen lots worse than 
 her." 
 
 "Worsen her?" repeated Manila, incredulous. 
 
 "In the pictures. And I've noticed that the hero 
 or the heroine always conies out ahead." 
 
 Manila allowed herself to be led across the rear 
 lawn toward the Blair house, but she was not con- 
 vinced. "This ain't no movie," she reminded. 
 
 "It's better than a movie," asserted Phoebe, "be- 
 cause it's honest-to-goodness true!" 
 
 Manila looked back over a shoulder. Her con- 
 cern was growing fast. "But what if she seen us 
 run away?" 
 
 Phoebe 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
 
 178 Phoebe 
 
 were open, too, at least they were not locked. 
 But Phoebe 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 de- 
 manded 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. Phcebe eyed her approvingly. This was 
 better the proper spirit. 
 
 "Sh! Sh!" cautioned Phcebe. 
 
 They arrived, bent over, under a window. 
 Phcebe 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
 
 Phoebe 179 
 
 me, 'Don't you budge'." But she took Phoebe's 
 hand. 
 
 When the two were side by side once more, 
 Phoebe 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 prom- 
 ising excitement. 
 
 Manila sought the nearest chair. "Wa-a-ah," 
 she wept. 
 
 "Poor little girl!" said Phoebe, 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 woe- 
 begone 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 Phcebe. 
 "Uncle John's a clergyman, and he knows all about 
 Heaven. The twelve gates of the City are twelve
 
 180 Phoebe 
 
 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 Phoebe. 
 
 "Look for it!" 
 
 Phoebe 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 Phoebe. "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.
 
 Phoebe 181 
 
 "Manila!" pleaded Phoebe. "Everybody says 
 that Heaven is look!" She pointed ceilingward. 
 
 "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 !" 
 
 Phoebe 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 Phoebe had felt that 
 from the standpoint of drama there had been not 
 a little lacking in this rescue of an imprisoned step- 
 daughter. She was to feel this no longer. For the 
 exciting now took place. 
 
 Phoebe never did quite figure out how it hap- 
 pened. But first there was a quick slamming of 
 floors, and a shrilling of voices Sophie's, Grand- 
 ma's, and another, a strange woman's. Then as 
 Manila leaped from Phoebe's hold, the door opened 
 with a fling, so that the window-curtains billowed 
 and swung, and into the room, stamping and pant- 
 ing, with eyes bulging and lips puffed out, and a
 
 1 82 Phcebe 
 
 very torrent of threatening cries, came the Rat- 
 Woman ! 
 
 Phoebe knew her instantly, even before Manila 
 cried "Mrs. Botts !" And Phoebe faced her, brave- 
 ly, with dislike and reproof in her look. Crouched 
 behind her was Manila, sobbing wildly. 
 
 "So-o-o !" cried the Rat-Woman, advancing upon 
 Phoebe. "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 retort- 
 ed. "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. 
 (Phoebe noted that there was an accent, slight, 
 but enough to give what Phoebe thought was the 
 perfect touch. This was no ordinary villain!) 
 
 "Phoebe," said Uncle Bob, mildly, "how does 
 Manila happen to be here?" 
 
 "Tell! Yes!" added Mrs. Botts, wrathfully. "I 
 hear about this Phoebe. She is smart. She knows 
 everything." 
 
 Phoebe drew herself up. "Well, I know one 
 thing," she returned coolly.
 
 Phoebe 183 
 
 "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 dra- 
 matic. Phoebe had to give her credit for that. 
 
 "Phoebe?" Uncle Bob was as mild as ever. 
 
 Phoebe wished that she might have had a dif- 
 ferent 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 limou- 
 sine, 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 \' f implored Phcebe. "She's 
 had such bad luck! a step-mother, and the awful
 
 184 Phoebe 
 
 name of Botts, and she's red-haired, and freckled, 
 and she's got adenoids!" 
 
 Mrs. Botts sprang forward. "So-o-o!" she an- 
 swered. "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!" 
 
 "Phcebe," said Uncle Bob. He crossed to her, 
 anxiously Phcebe thought. 
 
 "You are a little thief!" Mrs. Botts stuck a 
 fist close to Phoebe'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 Phcebe' s ears 
 then, shutting out that shrill voice. Once Phcebe 
 heard "school," and twice she heard "your 
 mother." Then Mrs. Botts flung herself away and 
 out. 
 
 "What did she say, Uncle Bob?" asked Phoebe. 
 "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
 
 Phoebe 185 
 
 tearless once more. "My goodness !" she mourned, 
 "now we've done it!" 
 
 "What?" asked Phoebe. 
 
 "Why, don't y' see? The Rat-Woman come too 
 soon." 
 
 "Sure enough!" Phoebe agreed. "Oh, thafs too 
 bad!" 
 
 "And your paw don't git to see her/' Manila 
 added. 
 
 "Phoebe, why did you want your daddy to see 
 her?" asked Uncle Bob. 
 
 "Oh, just be-because," Phoebe frowned at Ma- 
 nila, warning her to silence. 
 
 Uncle Bob sat down upon the couch. "Come 
 here, old dumpling," he bade. And when Phoebe 
 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 Phoebe. "We 
 were going to show him Mrs. Botts. And now 
 the whole plot is spoiled."
 
 i86 Phoebe 
 
 "So you think step-mothers are mean and ter- 
 rible," 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 Phoebe'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 Phoebe. "I 
 don't want one!" 
 
 "Don't you worry. No Peru woman is going to 
 get him." 
 
 "But I don't want anybody," she persisted. "Oh, 
 Uncle Bob!" 
 
 That was all. Except that when Phoebe had 
 gone to Miss Ruth's with Manila, and was near- 
 ing home again, Grandma came out to meet her.
 
 Phoebe 187 
 
 And Grandma was particularly tender to her, for 
 some reason, and that very evening sat beside 
 Phoebe's bed for a little while, and chatted. 
 
 And from then on Phoebe could not help but 
 notice it Grandma seemed to take great interest 
 in Phoebe, 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 
 Phoebe 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 Phoebe, as she unlaced her 
 shoes preparatory to going to bed ; "because a won- 
 derful 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 be- 
 tween 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 Phcebe he lis- 
 tened while she read aloud from Dickens's 
 "Child's History of England." 
 
 Phcebe 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. Where- 
 upon Phcebe, with "Little Women" handy, or "Sara 
 
 Crewe," or, better still, something by "The Duch- 
 
 188
 
 Phcebe 189 
 
 ess", 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 Phoebe 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 
 Phoebe was then at liberty either to go on reading 
 from the book of her choice or betake herself else- 
 where. 
 
 But this was to be a wonderful day. For no 
 sooner was Phcebe engrossed in her book, as her 
 clergyman uncle was in his sermon, than Sophie ap- 
 peared, 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 Phcebe 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
 
 190 Phoebe 
 
 matter of fact it was Sophie who had recom- 
 mended "The Duchess" books, and pointed out the 
 place of their hiding. But Phoebe knew that when- 
 ever 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 
 Phoebe did not care to have him see "Airy, Fairy 
 Lillian". 
 
 Uncle John gone, Sophie did a hop-skip to 
 Phoebe's chair. "What d' y' think !" she exclaimed 
 excitedly. 
 
 Phoebe 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 Phoebe's eyes. "Comp'ny," she announced. 
 
 "Company? Who?" Phoebe was more than in- 
 terested. 
 
 "Genevieve Finnegan."
 
 Phoebe 1911 
 
 Phoebe made a wry face. "Her!" she said, and 
 flushed. 
 
 "I pretended I didn't know her," chuckled 
 Sophie. 
 
 Phoebe 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 Phoebe. 
 
 "You're right! Because Miss Simpson come 
 with her." 
 
 "Miss Simpson!" gasped Phoebe, staring. 
 
 "In the sittin'-room with Grammaw and Dr. 
 Blair." 
 
 Phoebe 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 prod- 
 uct 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,
 
 192 Phoebe 
 
 Phoebe 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 clas- 
 sics! 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. Phoebe 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 talk- 
 in' !" she replied admiringly. "When you needed 
 these fine ladies, they didn't stand by y'." 
 
 Phoebe 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 Phoebe's ears? Something very ugly, 
 Phoebe was sure. And Phoebe would have liked to
 
 Phoebe 193 
 
 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 any- 
 thing, had I? And Miss Simpson sent home my 
 books!" Her voice broke. She sank to the chair. 
 
 "Phoebe," 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 Phoebe, 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. 
 
 Phcebe opened her book at random. Perhaps it 
 was even upside down she scarcely knew. How- 
 ever 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. 
 
 "Phcebe !" gushed Miss Finnegan. She burst past
 
 194 Phoebe 
 
 Sophie. "Phoebe! You darling! Oh, I'm so glad 
 to see you !" 
 
 Phoebe 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 in- 
 terested 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 Phoebe, 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 pos- 
 sibly be." 
 
 Genevieve blinked, trying to comprehend this on- 
 rush of ideas. 
 
 Phoebe 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?"
 
 Phoebe 195 
 
 Phoebe knit her brows. "Why, they're they're 
 well, just the most important thing. My Uncle 
 John says 'The classics are the foundation of cul- 
 ture'." 
 
 "Is that so!" pondered Genevieve. "Well, I'd 
 better put 'em down. What did you call 'em? 
 'Kenihvorth' ?" She drew a handsome leather note- 
 book from the richly embroidered handbag on her 
 arm. "Because Mamma says, 'Germans or no Ger- 
 mans, 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 Phoebe glanced her way, 
 roguishly, Sophie noiselessly applauded, and sig- 
 nalled Phoebe to continue her tactics. 
 
 Phoebe 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 Phoebe. "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 sup- 
 pose now, the first thing you know, your father'll 
 be getting married."
 
 196 Phoebe 
 
 Phcebe 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." 
 
 Phcebe 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 no- 
 body else." Then marching up to Genevieve, an- 
 grily, 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 serv- 
 ants." 
 
 "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 an-
 
 Phoebe 197 
 
 swered 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 Phoebe, 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 Simp- 
 son in my motor." 
 
 "When y' got your motor," sneered Sophie, 
 "what a pity y' didn't get some manners !" 
 
 Genevieve ignored her. "Good-bye, Phoebe," 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. 
 
 Phoebe sighed. "Now, she'll make Miss Simp- 
 son 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
 
 198 Phoebe 
 
 hear what I tell 'em ! Phoebe, you show Miss Simp- 
 son that you don't want her old school. You turn 
 her down first!" 
 
 Phoebe rallied herself. She realized that Sophie 
 was speaking the truth. The quarrel with Gene- 
 vieve and especially what Genevieve had just said 
 (Phoebe 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 Phcebe," gushed Miss Simpson, "how 
 do you do!" 
 
 "How do you do," responded Phcebe, rising po- 
 litely. 
 
 "It's so nice to see you again," went on the Prin- 
 cipal. "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 mus- 
 cular, changed the subject by bending down to 
 Phoebe's book. " 'Kenilworth' ?" she cried in de- 
 lighted surprise. "Do you enjoy it, Phoebe?" 
 
 "I love it," answered Phoebe, with quiet sincer- 
 ity. "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 Phcebe," she declared. 
 
 199
 
 2OO Phoebe 
 
 "Oh, he is." Phoebe 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 mur- 
 mured, and sank, still staring at Phoebe, to a con- 
 venient chair. 
 
 'I do," returned Phoebe. "You know princesses 
 always have governesses and tutors. I've seen them 
 in the movies." 
 
 "The movies!" exclaimed Miss Simpson. 
 
 "But Phcebe doesn't go to them," said Grandma, 
 quickly. "Dear Phcebe, you know you don't." 
 
 Phoebe 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, Phcebe, because ah er 
 I'm calling on all of my pupils for the Fall term, 
 and so " 
 
 Up went Phoebe's chin another inch. She re-
 
 Phoebe 201 
 
 turned 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 pro- 
 pelled 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 Phoebe's grandmother. "Where, I wonder, 
 is dear Genevieve?" she inquired. 
 
 "Grandma," said Phoebe, "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.
 
 2O2 Phoebe 
 
 "Yes, have a cup of tea, Miss Simpson!" cried 
 Phoebe, 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 "Kenil- 
 worth" 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. 
 
 "Phoebe!" It was Sophie, come to hear the re- 
 sults of the Simpson visit "Whatever is the mat- 
 ter?" 
 
 Phoebe 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." Phoebe 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?"
 
 Phoebe 203 
 
 "They won't?" Phoebe went close to Sophie, and 
 lowered her voice. "Then it's the movies," she de- 
 clared. "I'm not going to stand things any more. 
 I'm going to see some pictures and I'm going with 
 you!" 
 
 "Phoebe 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 Phoebe. 
 
 "If I take y' just once?" Sophie held up a fin- 
 ger. 
 
 Phcebe had won. She threw her arms about 
 Sophie, almost smothering her. "Darling Sophie!
 
 204 Phoebe 
 
 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 Phoebe. She echoed 
 the sigh. 
 
 "Oh, he's grand!" breathed Sophie. 
 
 Phoebe 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 or^ Phoebe. 
 
 "Oh, he's crazy about her!" 
 
 "Mm!" Phoebe considered the toe of a shoe. 
 Now and again, in the case of this particular star, 
 she had dreamed dreams. She had looked for- 
 ward to a time when her hair would be up and her 
 dresses longer; then, if her plans worked out satis- 
 factorily, might she not be a moving-picture actress, 
 and play with her favorite hero? 
 
 "When he told her how he loved her," mused
 
 Phoebe 205 
 
 Sophie, almost as if to herself, "and asked her to 
 be his bride " 
 
 Phoebe 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 possi- 
 ble sunset. 
 
 "But did she say Yes?" inquired Phoebe, impa- 
 tiently. 
 
 "Well, not just at first She kinda hung off " 
 
 "Goodness !" exclaimed Phcebe, 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 !" 
 
 Phcebe 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
 
 206 Phoebe 
 
 other girls this William S. Hart girl, for instance 
 simply had everything. In an excess of resent- 
 ment she went up to Uncle John's favorite arm- 
 chair and kicked it!
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 "PHCEBE, dear," cried Uncle John, "I am the 
 happiest of men !" 
 
 Phoebe 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 Phcebe, 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 
 
 207
 
 208 Phoebe 
 
 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 Phoebe's hair! 
 
 After he was gone, Phoebe 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 Phoebe 
 could see, he was thoroughly enjoying himself all 
 the time! Writing a sermon was not work. Mak- 
 ing calls on people was not work. It was all a
 
 Phoebe 209 
 
 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 con- 
 spiracy. For here came Grandma, bringing an ap- 
 ple-turnover. Phoebe particularly liked apple-turn- 
 overs. 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 fol- 
 lowed the fate of the turnover. No one had a word 
 to say about supper, or Phoebe'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 indif- 
 ference. Sophie was on the back porch when Phoebe
 
 2io Phoebe 
 
 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 Phcebe. 
 She danced up and down. 
 
 When they reached the theatre, they went warily. 
 They waited in the foyer till the lights were low- 
 ered, 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 Phoebe, 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. 
 
 Phcebe had not spoken while she wa^ in the
 
 Phoebe 211 
 
 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 com- 
 bined 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, Phoebe did 
 not notice anything she was too busy chattering. 
 But when they were farther out toward the Blair 
 Addition, Phoebe 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, Phoebe 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.
 
 212 Phoebe 
 
 Overhead the stars were low and bright. The trees 
 swayed in the night wind. Yet Phoebe 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. Phoebe 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 rea- 
 son to fret about the next day. She said her pray- 
 ers 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 sum- 
 moned enough courage to take a seat beside Sophie 
 in the theatre. And when the lights went down,
 
 Phoebe 213 
 
 he held Sophie's hand. That Phoebe 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," Phoebe told her- 
 self. 
 
 Also at the rear gate, as they were returning, 
 the man grew bolder. So did Sophie. From a con- 
 siderate distance, Phceoe saw the two embrace 
 saw their faces touch. 
 
 At that, Phoebe turned and walked away. She 
 was angered. 
 
 But when Sophie joined her, giggling and whis- 
 pering, 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 tempta- 
 tion too great to resist. "Just this once more," 
 vowed Phoebe.
 
 214 f Phoebe 
 
 The vow was to be kept so far as this par- 
 ticular theatre, and this town, was concerned; but 
 not kept in the way Phoebe 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 joy- 
 ous 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 differ- 
 ences. 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 Phoebe was looking over the audience. 
 At first, she was conscious of a white face a wom- 
 an'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. 
 Phcebe 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,
 
 Phoebe 215 
 
 Phoebe led the way out of the theatre to the side- 
 walk. 
 
 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 side- 
 wise. 
 
 "So-o-o!" she triumphed. "This is the good 
 Phoebe ! She comes to make trouble for neighbors. 
 But she goes out at night with servants. She is a 
 sneak !" 
 
 Phcebe said nothing. She was too frightened, 
 too bewildered. She guessed what Mrs. Botts would 
 do, and was trying to think how to meet the in- 
 evitable. 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. 
 
 Phoebe said nothing. She took Sophie's hand 
 and started home. The man, for once, did not join 
 them. Phoebe did not even think about him. She 
 was too miserable. 
 
 Sophie was also speechless, until, with an ex- 
 plosive outburst, as they neared the back gate,
 
 216 Phoebe 
 
 she fell to crying and talking at the same time. 
 Phoebe 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!" ex- 
 claimed Phoebe. 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. 
 
 Phoebe 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!"
 
 Phoebe 217 
 
 "Or I'll wake up Uncle Bob, Sophie! Oh, t 
 can't stand it !" 
 
 "Do you want me to be fired ?" 
 
 They walked on a little. Phoebe'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 Phoebe 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," Phoebe 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 Phoebe. But her face was
 
 2i8 Phoebe 
 
 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 be- 
 side 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 star- 
 ing 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 be-
 
 Phcebe 219 
 
 cause of what the theatre promised of dear delight, 
 the whole thing a thrilling adventure: it was an- 
 other 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 
 Phoebe would have to stay; to face it out at the 
 table; to live it down in shame. 
 
 "O-o-oh!" breathed Phcebe. 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
 
 22O Phoebe 
 
 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 apart- 
 ment, and faithful Sally.
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 IT was a glorious morning. The sun was not up 
 yet, so the air was cool even crisp; and Phoebe, 
 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! 
 
 Phoebe had no thought of taking a train for New 
 York. In the first place, she had no money, hav- 
 ing spent her last penny at the theatre; in the sec- 
 ond 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 direc- 
 tion 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 
 
 221
 
 222 Phoebe 
 
 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 morn- 
 ing songs. Phoebe 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 ad- 
 venture 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
 
 Phoebe 223 
 
 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 auto- 
 mobile 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. 
 
 Phoebe 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
 
 224 Phoebe 
 
 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 Phoebe, 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 fre- 
 quent now, and she had to be on the lookout con- 
 stantly, 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
 
 Phoebe 225 
 
 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 pic- 
 ture 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 Phoebe to make what to her was a 
 heart-breaking detour. 
 
 By the middle of the afternoon she was exhaust- 
 ed. 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
 
 226 Phoebe 
 
 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 Phoebe, catch- 
 ing 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. 
 
 Phoebe knew that she must give this man a satis- 
 factory 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 some- 
 thing to eat." 
 
 "Is that so!" The man considered her explana- 
 tion, and even turned about to look toward the 
 house she had indicated. "Well, how does it hap-
 
 Phoebe 227 
 
 pen your father and you are hangin' around this 
 hay-field?" he persisted. 
 
 "Well," Phoebe saw that she had partly con- 
 vinced him "my father's automobile broke down, 
 over there on the road. But I had to have some- 
 thing 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 Phoebe, 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.
 
 228 Phoebe 
 
 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 Phoebe 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 for- 
 got 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. Phoebe 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."
 
 Phoebe 229 
 
 The elderly man stopped. "Want a ride?" he 
 called down cheerily. 
 
 "Would you mind?" inquired Phoebe. "You see 
 I want to go to town, because my aunt, who's 
 camping over here," she waved a hand in the di- 
 rection of the hay-stack "feels sort of sick, and 
 wants some medicine." 
 
 "Climb in," was the hearty invitation. 
 
 Phcebe climbed. Then, calling upon her imagina- 
 tion, 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 be- 
 hind 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 in- 
 terested, and gave Phcebe some plums out of his 
 coat pocket. 
 
 As they spun along, Phcebe 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 con- 
 fess 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
 
 230 Phoebe 
 
 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 
 Phoebe was not the little girl who had run away that 
 morning! And suppose 
 
 But to Phoebe's intense relief none of the sev- 
 eral 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 Phoebe 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 Phoebe, 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,
 
 Phoebe 231 
 
 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 Phoebe 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 re- 
 membered 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.
 
 232 Phoebe 
 
 She smiled to herself in the dark. What would 
 the people on the train say if they knew that be- 
 neath them, as they tore along, was a little girl who 
 was running away? "Some day, when I'm a fa- 
 mous 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 inter- 
 ested." 
 
 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 bet- 
 ter place," she declared, pleased with her own judg- 
 ment. "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
 
 Phoebe 233 
 
 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 " 
 
 Phoebe 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, Phoebe 
 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 
 
 234
 
 Phoebe 235 
 
 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. Per- 
 haps 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 to- 
 ward 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 tim- 
 bers 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 direc- 
 tion of the wide road. One was a stranger. The 
 other was her father. As they halted under the 
 bridge, Phcebe gave a great cry, and half crawled,
 
 236 Phoebe 
 
 half rolled, from her hiding-place. Her face was 
 streaked with dirt, her hair tangled, her dress 
 rumpled. Sobbing, she almost fell down the em- 
 bankment to her father's arms. 
 
 "Daddy! Oh, Daddy! Daddy! Oh, Daddy, for- 
 give 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 direc- 
 tions, 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 mat- 
 tered 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 gath- 
 ered, 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. 
 
 Phcebe lay as she had lain that afternoon and 
 evening on the train, her head pillowed on her fa-
 
 Phoebe 237 
 
 ther's shoulder, her feet curled up on the wide seat. 
 But now her father talked to her, lovingly, sooth- 
 ingly. 
 
 "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 her- 
 self 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!"
 
 238 Phoebe 
 
 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 Phoebe's father was out 
 of the tonneau and up the steps to the kitchen be- 
 fore anyone could follow them. 
 
 In the rear hall, Phoebe was set upon her feet. 
 Her father knelt beside her, wiping her face and 
 smoothing her hair. Grandma joined them, speak- 
 ing 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 ! Phoebe, glanc- 
 ing 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 Phoebe "a 
 little sneak". What would Uncle Bob do to a little 
 sneak ? 
 
 All nervous and frightened and tired as she was,
 
 Phoebe 239 
 
 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. 
 
 Phoebe knew who it was ; she held her breath. 
 
 "Little old dumpling!" 
 
 Phoebe 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 Phoebe'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! 
 
 "Phoebe!" Uncle Bob was reproving her lov-
 
 240 Phoebe 
 
 ingly. "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. Grand- 
 ma was smiling at her. 
 
 When the glass was drained, Uncle Bob caught 
 her up. "No, Jim, let me carry her," he begged. 
 (Phoebe 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, Phoebe in his arms. "Not a 
 word!" he cried, his voice trembling with anger. 
 "I won't have Phoebe picked on. If you're wise, 
 you'll stop righting the movies and fight with them 
 fight for better pictures. Don't tear down im- 
 prove!" Then he went on. 
 
 There was a happy surprise awaiting Phoebe 
 when her room was reached. The surprise was 
 Miss Ruth, with one of Sophie's big aprons pinned 
 about her. She received Phoebe from Uncle Bob, 
 and there was no mistaking her joy. It was Miss 
 Ruth who tended Phoebe, undressed and bathed her, 
 helped her to bed, and brought her the broth.
 
 Phoebe 241 
 
 "You won't go, will you?" whispered Phoebe, 
 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. 
 
 Phoebe sighed, snuggled her cheek against Miss 
 Ruth's hand, and slept.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 UNCLE BOB was exasperated. He was talking to 
 Phoebe's father. Phcebe 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!" 
 
 Phoebe 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 any- 
 body," and Phoebe'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. Aga,in Phoebe's father 
 laughed. "You're a wonder!" he cried. "Well, 
 your Honor, who is it?" 
 
 "You know." 
 
 242
 
 Phoebe 243 
 
 There was silence for a moment. Phoebe'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. Phcebe 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." 
 
 Phoebe'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?" Phcebe asked her- 
 self.) 
 
 "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 Phoebe's father, quietly, 
 "I won't do something unworthy."
 
 244 Phoebe 
 
 "Unworthy? What do you mean?" 
 
 "Along with the rest, Bob, I happen to know that 
 you care." 
 
 "If 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 Phoebe's 
 moving-picture yarns !" (Phoebe sat up. They did 
 mean her!) 
 
 "Judge," said Phoebe'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!" 
 
 Phcebe leaned back, completely at a loss to un- 
 derstand any of it. Fish stories? Moving-pic- 
 tures? 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 Phoebe's father, sarcastic- 
 ally. "Well, fifteen years ago I wouldn't step in 
 your way."
 
 Phoebe 245 
 
 "I!" Uncle Bob laughed, but not pleasantly. 
 "Old, and fat, and bald." 
 
 "I will not do it," said Phoebe'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 Phoebe." ("It is about me," declared 
 Phoebe. "I'm 'her,' after all.") "My life's half over, 
 Jim : Hers is just beginning." 
 
 "You're a blessed old brother," and Phoebe 
 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 Phoebe's father, gently. "I 
 had my chance at happiness, Bob, and I made a mess 
 of it. But I've got Phoebe, and you "
 
 246 Phoebe 
 
 "Forget me! I'm out of it. And why should 
 you cheat yourself? And her?'* 
 
 "Sh!" 
 
 Phoebe'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!" Phoebe 
 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 Phoebe'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 par- 
 ticular, 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 Phoebe. She had come 
 close to being dismissed. And she had not been in- 
 dependent 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 Phoebe 
 
 guessed was a most exciting interview. Phoebe was 
 
 247
 
 248 Phoebe 
 
 almost sorry to have missed it. While Uncle Bob 
 and Phoebe's father were out and away, searching, 
 Uncle John had attended to Sophie. 
 
 Grandma told Phoebe (in a whisper!) that Sophie 
 had knelt in front of Uncle John, weeping griev- 
 ously over Phoebe'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-pic- 
 tures, 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, aa*; 
 put a match to them. Then Uncle John had re- 
 lented. 
 
 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 Phoebe, 
 feeling somewhat injured. That man, too, was re- 
 sponsible for the blame heaped on Sophie that 
 man who had tagged them home from the the- 
 atre, and sat with them twice. Phcebe was angry 
 with him, too.
 
 Phoebe 249 
 
 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 Grand- 
 ma'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 absentmindedly, 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 gentle- 
 ness. "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.
 
 250 Phoebe 
 
 Phoebe 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 Phoebe from the sofa and held 
 her at arm's length. His face Phoebe 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 gather- 
 ing himself for a leap. 
 
 "Phoebe," he began again, "if Uncle John failed, 
 it's because he couldn't help it. You see, only moth- 
 ers 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.
 
 Phoebe 251 
 
 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. Phoebe 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 get- 
 ting a stepmother 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 !"
 
 252 Phoebe 
 
 "Point? What?" 
 
 "The little ducks have a stepmother!" 
 
 "M-m-mm 1" That was a new thought. Phoebe 
 sat down. 
 
 "That Plymouth Rock," went on Uncle Bob, "is 
 a mighty good little hen." 
 
 "I never thought," agreed Phoebe. "Of course 
 that hen is a step." 
 
 "Nice, kind little step! You see, my dear, some 
 stepmothers are bad like Mrs. Botts. And then 
 some are just peaches like Grandma." 
 
 Phoebe 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 stepmothers when Ma- 
 nila 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 stepmother!) "Then of
 
 Phoebe 253 
 
 course," she added, "Grandma has never er 
 whipped you." 
 
 He burst into laughter, throwing back his big 
 head and slapping his knees. "Whipped!" he re- 
 peated. "Whipped! Oh, Phoebe!" Then, grave- 
 ly, "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 ear- 
 nestly. "She's been so wonderfully dear. And 
 you wouldn't either, Phcebe. No; very soon, you 
 wouldn't either." 
 
 "I wonder," commented Phcebe. She was think- 
 ing 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 Phcebe. 
 Her eyes grew moist with quick gratitude. 
 
 "There are thousands of good steps," declared 
 Uncle Bob. 
 
 "But Manila see what Manila got!"
 
 254 iPhoebe 
 
 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 
 Phcebe. 
 
 "Mrs. Botts picked him," contradicted Uncle 
 Bob. "Oh, Phcebe, I want you to trust me, to be- 
 lieve me!" 
 
 "Of course!" she cried. 
 
 "Phcebe," 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." 
 
 Phcebe 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. "Phcebe ! Oh, Phcebe, 
 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 !"
 
 Phoebe 255 
 
 "Before tomorrow?" 
 
 "This very afternoon!" 
 
 At that they both rose. There was that set look 
 about Uncle Bob's jaw which Phoebe, learning the 
 moods of men, recognized as a sign of determina- 
 tion. Before that big, glowing countenance and 
 those clenched teeth, Phoebe weakened. 
 
 He saw that. "Oh, Phcebe," 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 / think of it. Well, there must be some- 
 one 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 smil- 
 ing once more "there are any number of charm-
 
 256 Phoebe 
 
 ing ladies about. Now let's just think. Mm! 
 Who? For instance." 
 
 "We-e-ell." Phoebe 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 trans- 
 pired, 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 an- 
 other. 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 Phcebe 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 bet- 
 ter 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 some- 
 body who will just 'do'."
 
 Phoebe 257 
 
 "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 Phoebe 
 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. 
 
 "Phoebe!" he cried. 
 
 "Yes?" Her eyes were a little fearful. 
 
 "Just the one !" He came to sit beside her. 
 
 "Who?" She sat very straight. 
 
 "Phoebe," he took her face between his hands; 
 his kind blue eyes searched hers, shining upon her 
 with infinite love; "Phoebe, how about Miss Ruth?" 
 
 She started. "Miss Ruth!" And that moment 
 a strange thing happened to Phoebe. The forbid-
 
 258 Phoebe 
 
 ding 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 
 Phoebe had once seen at the Zoo in Bronx Park, in 
 New York; that gray-haired, sullen-eyed, formida- 
 ble, silent creature made out of childish imaginings 
 now stepped backward, as it were, out of Phoebe's 
 brain; and to take the place that was left, there 
 came forward Ruth Shepard, a tender smile light- 
 ing her eyes and curving her mouth Ruth Shep- 
 ard, with hands outstretched. 
 
 Phoebe drew a sobbing breath of relief. "She'd 
 be perfect!" she declared. "She loves me, and I 
 love her. And and Daddy " 
 
 "Phoebe," went on Uncle Bob, "your daddy loves 
 Miss Ruth." 
 
 Phoebe blinked, trying to understand. "Daddy 
 loves her?" 
 
 "Devotedly." 
 
 "And you love her." 
 
 "I don't count." 
 
 Phoebe was puzzling something out: "You love 
 her, and Daddy loves her, and you're two broth- 
 ers " 
 
 "And each wants the other to be happy," said
 
 Phoebe 259 
 
 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, laugh- 
 ing 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 Phcebe! 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, Phoebe," he set her free, found his 
 handkerchief, mopped his eyes with it, blew a re-
 
 260 Phoebe 
 
 sounding 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." 
 
 Phoebe smiled back at him. Only fourteen years 
 had those gray-blue eyes looked upon the big world, 
 yet those years had brought Phoebe 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 low- 
 ering 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, Phcebe," he repeated husk- 
 ily. 
 
 She moved her head in assent. "Then he will," 
 she said simply. 
 
 "But there isn't any time to lose!" Uncle Bob
 
 Phoebe 261 
 
 stood up, wound his watch-chain round a finger, 
 pulled the big 1 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 
 Phcebe. 
 
 "What shall I say to her?" Uncle Bob looked 
 suddenly helpless. 
 
 "I know!" A mischievous twinkle came back 
 into Phoebe'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, Toor 
 Phoebe 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." 
 
 Phoebe 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.
 
 262 Phoebe 
 
 "Let her and Daddy think it was all your 
 idea." 
 
 "If you think I'd better." 
 
 "I do. And, Phoebe, 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." 
 
 Phoebe 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 un- 
 derstand why, oh, remember and believe what I 
 tell you it's very important. Phcebe, 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."
 
 Phoebe 263 
 
 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 Phcebe, 
 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 
 
 PHCEBE, 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 con- 
 trasted 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 sur- 
 roundings in New York. That transfer was indeed 
 to be made. But there was more about to happen 
 a glorious thing! And it was she, Phcebe Shaw 
 
 Blair, who was to bring it to pass ! 
 
 264
 
 Phoebe 265 
 
 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 stock- 
 ings, 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 stepmother, and had even been 
 glad that Miss Ruth was rather cool to Daddy 
 here she was, actually scheming to get a step- 
 mother, which stepmother was to be that same Miss 
 Ruth! 
 
 She went up to the mirror and looked into it. 
 "Phcebe!" she whispered. "Oh, you're such a 
 funny girl!" 
 
 She sobered. Her glance had caught her moth- 
 er'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 !"
 
 266 Phoebe 
 
 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 differ- 
 ently 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 sor- 
 row? 
 
 Phoebe 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 Phoebe. 
 "You don't mind !" She knelt at the open window. 
 Great white clouds lay against the blue. Phoebe 
 understood that her mother was beyond them far- 
 ther. 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
 
 Phoebe 267 
 
 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. Phoebe 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, Phcebe 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 !
 
 268 Phoebe 
 
 The secret little place cleansed of its evil holding, 
 Phoebe 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, Phoebe 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? Phoebe! Oh, Phoebe, I'm 
 so frightened! Darling, why why, you're much 
 better!" 
 
 Miss Ruth had entered with a rush, to find Phoebe 
 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 Phoebe to her. 
 
 "Yes, I'm I'm much better," declared Phoebe. 
 She bent to kiss Miss Ruth's hair. 
 
 Miss Ruth hid her face against Phoebe's breast. 
 "I'm so glad ! So glad !" she said tenderly. 
 
 "You see," admitted Phcebe, "I wasn't truly 
 sick." 
 
 Miss Ruth looked up. "But the Judge said " 
 
 Phoebe nodded. "I know. Only I I've just 
 been pretending." 
 
 "Phoebe!" laughed Miss Ruth. Then, suddenly 
 grave, "Oh, you don't know how it hurt to have 
 
 you missing that day! Oh, Phoebe, I'm so happy 
 
 269
 
 270 Phoebe 
 
 that you're just pretending!" Then, catching sight 
 of the pumps, and, next, of the blue smock, "Why, 
 Phoebe, this dress! Something's happened!" 
 
 "No," declared Phoebe, "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 Phcebe, solemnly. 
 
 "Ho ho!" 
 
 "It's something awfully important," cautioned 
 Phcebe. 
 
 "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 any- 
 thing I'm supposed to do?" 
 
 Phcebe 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 Phcebe provokingly. 
 "And now what?" 
 
 "Now try to look just as pretty as you can." 
 
 Miss Ruth laughed. "Oh, Til do my best," she 
 declared. 
 
 Phcebe shook her head at her. "I'm not joking,"
 
 Phoebe 271 
 
 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 Phcebe 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." Phcebe was very much in earnest. 
 
 "Well ! Well !" Miss Ruth tried to look proper- 
 ly impressed. 
 
 "Next," continued Phcebe, "I come close to you, 
 and I look at you, showing that I love you." 
 
 "Phcebe!" Now Miss Ruth caught at Phcebe'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 
 Phcebe. "And right now you ought to drop your 
 eyes." 
 
 Miss Ruth looked down. It was as if she under-
 
 272 Phoebe 
 
 stood, suddenly, what it all meant. Her face grew 
 grave, and softly pink. 
 
 "That's better," said Phoebe, 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 Phoebe. "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." 
 
 "Phoebe, 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. 
 
 Phoebe dropped to the carpet at Miss Ruth's knee. 
 "How much?" she asked. "Oh, think hard before 
 you say !"
 
 Phoebe 273 
 
 "I hardly know how much." She took Phoebe's 
 lace between her hands. "But very, very much." 
 
 "Do you love me so much that you'd do some- 
 thing wonderful for me? something that would 
 make me the happiest girl in the whole world?" 
 
 "What, darling?" Miss Ruth bent close. Her 
 look searched Phcebe's face. 
 
 Phoebe 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 / 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 Phoebe. "My dear," she said 
 quietly, "who told you to say that?" 
 
 Phoebe hesitated. The truth was that Sophie had 
 put the idea of inheritance into Phoebe's head.
 
 274 Phoebe 
 
 Once Phoebe had protested to Sophie her great af- 
 fection 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 
 Phoebe 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. 
 
 Phcebe 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. "Phcebe, 
 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 an- 
 other reason " 
 
 "What?" whispered Phcebe. 
 
 "Can you keep a secret?" 
 
 Phcebe remembered Uncle Bob. She nodded. 
 "I'm keeping several," she declared.
 
 Phoebe 275 
 
 "Phoebe," 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 Phoebe's hair. 
 
 It was then that Phoebe 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 Phoebe with her. The 
 two stood, arms about each other, waiting. But 
 Miss Ruth's look was lowered. Only Phoebe silent- 
 ly beseeched her father. 
 
 "Dearest," he said presently, and he was not 
 speaking to Phoebe ; "I suppose there's no use fight- 
 ing against it." 
 
 "No," she answered. "No use." 
 
 "Because he wants it," went on Phoebe'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
 
 276 Phoebe 
 
 breaking," she whispered, "at the thought of hav- 
 ing you go." 
 
 "Ruth!" He held out his arms to her, and she 
 went to him. 
 
 Phcebe 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 Phoebe 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, Phcebe thought, 
 as if he were trying to look in. Oh, the prying lit- 
 tle thing ! Phcebe swung one hand at him. 
 
 "And Phcebe?" It was Miss Ruth, turning to 
 speak, so softly. 
 
 "Yes, Mother?" said Phcebe.
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
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