At once lessons were resumed, filling the morning hours of each week-day. And a strict program of driving was followed out each afternoon that the weather permitted. In consequence of which Phoebe had little time to herself, and none for Manila.

“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 before her, 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 complained.

“Pretty dry—after the movies?” he suggested.

Phoebe assented. “I’m used to something exciting.”

“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.”

Phoebe 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 matinÉe.

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 small. Her face was shining from a vigorous soaping, 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 Phoebe 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 Phoebe.

“Well, y’ see, the fact is the Judge just worships Miss Ruth.”

“O-o-oh.”

“Yes, he’s in love with her.—Now, don’t you 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 Phoebe. “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’ 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, Phoebe. She’s the nicest woman in this town. But—she’s never been happy.” Sophie sighed. “Things’ve never gone right for Miss Ruth, some way.”

“And she doesn’t love Uncle Bob?” persisted Phoebe.

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 Phoebe. “He’s too short, and he’s bald, and a little old, too——”

“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.”

“Well, now, I’ll tell you what’s the matter. Everybody 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 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 picture’s goin’ to end sad.”

She started away. And presently Phoebe, watching, 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!

Phoebe turned houseward. The world was just full, she reflected, of good moving-pictures that no one seemed to be using.