That night, at supper, Phoebe viewed the members of her family with a new eye—with a fresh understanding. And was thrilled, as well as gratified in her vanity, by the thought that she knew quite as much about “everything” as they did. Now and then she stole a wise glance at Sophie, to which the latter gave no answering sign.

Other thoughts thrilled 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 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.

“Phoebe,” she began—her face was grave and her voice anxious; “you won’t say a word about my tellin’ you what I did this afternoon?”

“I won’t,” declared Phoebe.

“’Cause if the folks was to find out, they’d fire me.”

Phoebe 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 Phoebe was saying, “why, it needn’t be me they blame. ’Cause almost anybody in town mighta told y’.”

Phoebe stared. “You mean everybody knows?” she demanded.

“Everybody ’round here, anyhow.”

“And I—I didn’t know!”

“I’m sorry I told y’.” Sophie turned away her face. She lifted a corner of her apron to an eye.

“Please!” begged 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 some books by “The Duchess”. They were Uncle Bob’s, and they were full of romance. Phoebe devoured them—while across the room the clergyman toiled over a sermon that was, perhaps, concerned with Peter’s wife’s mother.

And every week-day afternoon 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 remain cut off completely from everyone (she would punish them all!) when she made two friends. And both—though each was so different from the other—soon became very dear to her.

It was on a Saturday afternoon that the first came. 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.

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 Phoebe by the hand and started for the sitting-room.

“Who is Miss Ruth?” asked Phoebe 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 Phoebe. Her eyes were the color of the flowers on her hat.

“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.

“I’ve just had a telephone message from the Botts’s nearest neighbor,” went on Miss Ruth. “And I felt sure you’d want to do something about it before Monday. Judge, Mrs. Botts has been whipping Manila again.”

“Oh, that woman!” scolded Uncle Bob.

“She’s a step-mother, isn’t she, Bob?” inquired Grandma. There was a gay twinkle in her old eyes.

“She’s a bad step-mother,” he answered. He went over to her, leaned down and gave her a resounding kiss. “But, you see, a Judge is likely to hear only of the bad ones.”

“Mr. Botts isn’t keeping his word,” reminded Miss Ruth.

“I know,” returned Uncle Bob. “He promised to put a stop to any more whipping. What do you think we ought to do?”

“Well,”—Miss Ruth hesitated—“of course, you may not agree, but I’ve been wondering if Manila wouldn’t like to leave home.”

“Suppose you ask her, Ruth.”

“Or if I might send her here to see you.”

“That’s a good idea. It’ll keep her away from the Court House, poor youngster.”

Miss Ruth made as if to go then. But “What do you think of our young lady?” he wanted to know.

“Just—just what I hoped she’d be like,” Miss Ruth answered, almost as if to herself. She held 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 I’ll come.”

Phoebe rose upon tiptoe. “Could you come after supper, maybe?” she asked. “That’s—that’s always the lonesomest time.”

Miss Ruth nodded. “And perhaps Grandma will let us have a good talk together upstairs, before you go to sleep—will you, Mrs. Blair?”

“Phoebe loves stories,” answered Phoebe’s grandmother. “She misses the moving-pictures she used to see. And so if you’d tell her a story some evening, Ruth,——”

“Or,” put in 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 Phoebe again. “But you’ve Grandma, and Uncle John, and Uncle Robert, and—and your father——”

Phoebe 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 Phoebe, 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 Phoebe?” said the Judge. He had her hand, and he squeezed it.

Phoebe 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.”