Phoebe thought about that, wondering what Uncle Bob meant. Something kept her from asking him. Was it the strange look on his face as he watched Miss Ruth go? Or was it the way in which he went out, hands stuffed in pockets, head down, grave—curiously unlike his usual smiling self? And how did he want Miss Ruth to live at Grandma’s? As a sort of helper, like Sophie? That was not likely. Perhaps Miss Ruth boarded nearby, and Uncle Bob wanted her to board at the Blair house. 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 saying that for years, and years,—and years.”

But before her opportunity came to question Sophie, and while she was still watching out in the direction Miss Ruth had gone, she saw a strange little figure coming across the grass—coming slowly, in fact almost sidling, with glances up at the higher windows of the house, and those formidable gingerbread turrets.

At first 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 disguise!” 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, politely.

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 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.

Phoebe stared. She understood. Uncle Bob, reigning over the local Juvenile Court, looked after children exclusively. Here, helpless, homely, and pathetic, was one of his charges. “Have you been a bad child?” she asked sorrowfully.

“Naw.”

“Then what—what have you been?”

“L-l-licked!”

“Oh!” Phoebe went to her, taking one of the red hands, and drew her to a chair. “You poor little girl! Here! Sit down. Now tell me. Who licked you?”

The pale eyes became suddenly alive with fear. The drooping mouth tightened, and trembled. “Step-mother!”

“Oh!” cried Phoebe again. “You—so you’ve got a step!”

“Uh-huh.”

Phoebe sat down and regarded her visitor, marveling at her. A step-mother—a cruel step-mother who beat and tortured, exactly like the step-mothers in the movies! “Then you’re Manila Botts,” she declared.

“Yop.”

Somehow, Phoebe, 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.” Phoebe nodded sadly. “They sit at the table, and don’t speak, and don’t kiss each other good-night.”

“But she spends all Paw’s money,” went on Manila. “And she hits me. Look!” She drew up a loose sleeve. There on the thin arm was a dark welt.

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’ll you do if you get a step?”

Phoebe sat back. “Me?” she demanded, and swallowed.

Manila nodded.

Phoebe said nothing. She felt her heart swelling; her ears sang. She wanted to take hold of Manila and pound at her with a fist. She hated her! She hated——!

Sophie came in. “The Judge is in the lib’ry, Manila,” she said, somewhat reprovingly. As Manila rose, Sophie took her by a shoulder and led her hallward.

But Phoebe stayed where she was. A storm was raging in her breast. Sophie had suggested a step-father, and Phoebe had been able to laugh. Did she not know Mother?—dear, beautiful, devoted Mother, who would no more think of doing anything that could hurt her small daughter than of—than of—well, committing the most awful crime: murder, or stealing, or setting some house on fire. Why, who would think of giving the matter of a step-father even a second thought? Besides, the “movies” never pictured wicked, cruel step-fathers. There were, probably, step-fathers in existence. Even so, whoever heard of their being undesirable?

But this was different. Soon that father so dear to Phoebe would be entirely free—it was Mother 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.