“Darling Phoebe,” gushed Miss Simpson, “how do you do!”

“How do you do,” responded Phoebe, rising politely.

“It’s so nice to see you again,” went on the Principal. “Oh, my dear, we’ve missed you so much!”

“Thank you.”

Such straight looking out of those frank eyes, and such cool poise, was most disconcerting. Miss Simpson, with a smile that was wholly muscular, changed the subject by bending down to Phoebe’s book. “‘Kenilworth’?” she cried in delighted surprise. “Do you enjoy it, Phoebe?”

“I love it,” answered Phoebe, with quiet sincerity. “Every day I read it with Uncle John—Sir Walter Scott in twelve volumes.”

Miss Simpson turned to Grandma, waiting and smiling and nodding her white head at the far end of the library table. “Dr. Blair must be such a great help to Phoebe,” she declared.

“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 murmured, and sank, still staring at Phoebe, to a convenient 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 Phoebe doesn’t go to them,” said Grandma, quickly. “Dear Phoebe, 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, Phoebe, 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 returned the diplomatic smile. “But, Miss Simpson,” she protested pleasantly, “I wouldn’t change my tutor for anything. Uncle Bob says a tutor is ever so much more stylish than a private school.”

Miss Simpson’s face set. She rose as if propelled upward by a spring. “However,” she said icily, “a private school might be of great value to you. It might help to eradicate the effect of your moving-picture training, and teach you that nice little girls are never loquacious.” Now she revolved toward 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.

“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 “Kenilworth” to the sofa—“And History! And anything!” Whereat she flung herself bodily atop the book and the sofa, buried her face in a cushion and wept.

“Phoebe!” It was Sophie, come to hear the results of the Simpson visit. “Whatever is the matter?”

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?”

“They won’t?” Phoebe went close to Sophie, and lowered her voice. “Then it’s the movies,” she declared. “I’m not going to stand things any more. I’m going to see some pictures and I’m going with you!”

“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 finger.

Phoebe had won. She threw her arms about Sophie, almost smothering her. “Darling Sophie! Oh, Sophie, you’re a girl, and you understand!—Oh, Sophie, who’s the star I’ll see tonight?”

Sophie half turned away. She raised ecstatic eyes to the neighborhood of Uncle John’s Map of Palestine. She sighed. “William S. Hart,” she half whispered.

“William S. Hart,” repeated 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 on 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 forward to a time when her hair would be up and her dresses longer; then, if her plans worked out satisfactorily, might she not be a moving-picture actress, and play with her favorite hero?

“When he told her how he loved her,” mused Sophie, almost as if to herself, “and asked her to be his bride——”

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 possible sunset.

“But did she say Yes?” inquired Phoebe, impatiently.

“Well, not just at first. She kinda hung off——”

“Goodness!” exclaimed Phoebe, 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——!”

Phoebe paused. It seemed to her then as if she were to be penned up forever in this small town which she so hated; as if she would never grow up, and be able to say what she would do; as if other girls—this William S. Hart girl, for instance—simply had everything. In an excess of resentment she went up to Uncle John’s favorite armchair—and kicked it!