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 mantel. Though his look was lowered, Phoebe knew that he was angry. Uncle Bob stood nearby, hands in pockets. He nodded Phoebe a greeting. Phoebe’s father was not there. And Phoebe wondered.

“Little old dumpling,” said Uncle Bob. She came to him, and he looked down at her with a tender smile.

“Yes?” There was more curiosity than concern in her voice.

“A telegram has just come from—from Nevada,” went on Uncle Bob.

Her face lighted. Up came her hands, to reach toward him joyously. “Mother!” she breathed.

He shook his head. “The telegram is from a Doctor,” he answered. “Your mother is—is pretty sick. She has asked your daddy to come.”

“Oh!—but—but you think Mother will get well?”

“Of course she will,” declared Uncle Bob stoutly.

The next moment, here came Phoebe’s father, a suit-case in one hand, his hat in the other. Behind him was Sophie, carrying his overcoat. He said nothing, only put down the suit-case, crossed to 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 realized 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 Phoebe’s father.

Uncle Bob shrugged. “How can I judge Helen’s feelings?” he answered, with a trace of bitterness. “I have no child.”

“Oh, I understand you, Bob,” retorted his eldest brother, angrily. “But you know”—significantly—“there are occasions not proper for a child.”

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 Phoebe, 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, Phoebe sat down, not helplessly, but she felt a trifle weak, as if some sort of a prop had been taken out from under her.

Her Uncle John was suddenly anxious. “Now, you won’t cry, will you, my child?” he asked.

“Cry?” she repeated, with a touch of pride. “Oh, no. I’m just saying to myself, over and over, ‘Daddy isn’t divorced from my mother. And he’ll bring her back! He’ll bring her back!’ That makes me so happy.” She gulped. Tears swam in the gray-blue eyes, but she smiled through them. The happiest thought of all she could not mention: that she might now dismiss forever the possibility of having a step-mother! She would have her own mother again, and the dear New York home, and her father, and Sally, the maid, yes, and the goldfish, and—the “movies”! “I—I wish I had my old doll,” she added, aloud, but as if to herself.

“Your doll, darling?” questioned Grandma.

“Isn’t our little woman pretty big for a doll?”—this from Uncle John.

“It’s just—I—I want something to—to hold, and love,” Phoebe explained.

“Won’t you come to me, darling?” asked Grandma.

“I’m—all right,” Phoebe declared reassuringly.

“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 girl, so his love goes out to you.”

“Thank you,” said Phoebe.

Uncle Bob had come in while his brother was speaking. He grinned at Phoebe 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 Phoebe.

“Don’t you love anybody but Daddy and Mother?” asked Uncle Bob.

“Oh, yes.”

“I thought so! Grandma, and Uncle John, and a wee bit of love for yours truly——”

“And I love Miss Ruth.”

Uncle Bob sobered. He looked down, thoughtfully. “Miss Ruth,” he repeated. “Ah, yes. Who doesn’t love Miss Ruth.”

“Manila loves her,” confided Phoebe. “Sophie told me all about it. Miss Ruth has been so good to Manila. She calls Miss Ruth ‘Angel’.”

“But you—why, you hardly know Miss Ruth.” There was a strange expression on Uncle Bob’s face. He was looking at 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 exactly know why,” she admitted. In her heart, she knew this was not strictly true. There was a reason for liking Miss Ruth. It had to do with 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 constrained silence. Phoebe 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.

Phoebe wondered if something was wrong about Miss Ruth. She made up her mind to ask Sophie.

She thought of Sophie because the girl had just entered, abruptly. She had a yellow envelope in her hand. “Here’s another telegram, Judge,” she announced.

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, Phoebe was destined never to forget that minute, or the hours and the days that immediately followed. For the minute was to bring a great crisis into her life, and the hours and the days were to be filled with sorrow.

Uncle Bob read the wire. He took, Phoebe thought, a good while to read it. And he made a curious face at it, a grimace that seemed half comical, half sad. Then he handed the paper to Grandma, and turned to lean on the high, leather-covered back of the couch.

Grandma read the telegram and—let it slip from her fingers to the floor.

Ordinarily 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 Phoebe. “My—my mother——?”

“Phoebe,” said Uncle John, more tenderly than he had ever spoken to her in all the past months. “Phoebe, your mother is—in Heaven.”

Phoebe understood. The blood went out of her face. Something drove through her body from head to foot, like a stroke of lightning. But though she swayed a little, she kept her foothold. Hers was a staunch little soul.

“She’s all Blair,” Uncle Bob had once said of her. Now as she set her teeth together, and clenched her fingers on her palms, she was taking her blow in true Blair fashion.

Uncle Bob came round to the front of the couch. That big, moon-like face of his was working as he, too, strove for control. He sat down, and held out his arms. “Phoebe!” he whispered. “Little, little Phoebe!”

She lifted a hand to her face, brushed at a cheek, tried to straighten, swallowed—then made toward him unsteadily, and stumbled against his breast.