All the moving-picture heroines that Phoebe loved were responsible for her resolve to rescue Manila. The plan seemed an inspiration; and not in the least degree blameworthy—on the contrary. When had she seen one of her screen favorites do anything, however startling, that had brought disaster, or punishment—even displeasure? Quite naturally, therefore, Phoebe apprehended only success in her venture, happiness for Manila, and praise for herself.

She thrilled with the excitement of the venture as she set off from the Blair side-porch. Here was a real heart drama!

As she trotted across the lawn and through the garden, Phoebe made up her mind as to how she would carry out her design. Once, in a book she had read, a boy had stealthily attracted the attention of another boy by throwing pebbles against a window. She determined to throw pebbles against Manila’s window.

She knew which was the Botts house by beginning at the Shepard residence and counting three. Manila’s home was of brick, with white trimmings and green blinds. The window toward Miss Ruth’s was not high from the ground, and it was just above a recently spaded flower-bed. When Phoebe reached the fence that skirted the flower-bed, she gathered a handful of small gravel, tossed it against the window-panes, and then crouched in the lee of the fence. Her heart was pounding against her middy blouse—pounding wildly. She was glad of it. In a matter of this kind that was precisely what a moving-picture heroine’s heart should do!

More small gravel. Then a face appeared at the window—Manila’s face. And Manila’s pale eyes looked out, and roved inquiringly. But only for a moment. She had something in her hands—a pair of scissors; also some paper. She was busy with these.

Phoebe felt disappointment. Manila was not living up to expectations, to the possibilities of the drama. She should have come flinging against the glass, glad and thankful of a rescuer. Her face should have been very wan, and tear-stained. Her hair should have been free about her shoulders. There should have been a long purple welt across one poor, pitiful cheek.

Instead, Manila’s hair was braided, but very mussy. It stood up around her forehead like a fiery fringe. Phoebe was reminded of savage girls that she had seen at the showing of the Roosevelt South American pictures.

“St! St!” she hissed. She stood up, but stooped. She was determined that she, at least, would do her share toward carrying out the whole thing properly, to make it like a real picture.

Manila saw her, and hoisted the window. “Hullo,” she greeted, with one eye on the work in her hands. “What’re you doin’ out there?”

“Manila Botts,” cried Phoebe, crossly, “I have come to save you!”

Manila, hanging upon the window-sill, thrust out her under lip rebelliously. “But I’m cutting paper dolls,” she protested.

“Manila Botts!” scolded Phoebe, with a stamp of her foot. “Uncle Bob means to take you away from your step-mother, and I’ve come to get you. Now, are you going to act like this?”

Patiently Manila dropped scissors and paper. Then she disposed herself sidewise, face down, upon the sill, let one leg drop over it leisurely, next, another, and slipped quietly to the ground. A moment later Phoebe drew her through a gap in the fence.

Manila seemed not only indifferent, but even reluctant, about being rescued. As for gratitude, there was not a trace of it. As the two made off together along the tradesmen’s dirt road that ran behind the row of houses, she pointed out now one thing, and now another, in a way that made Phoebe more irritated than ever.

“But haven’t you been locked up?” Phoebe wanted to know; “and in a room without a bed?”

“Aw, well,” returned Manila, philosophically, “you betcha I wouldn’t let Mrs. Botts know I cared.”

When the rear gate leading to the Blair house was reached, Manila began to hang back. “Wisht I didn’t come,” she declared.

“Wha-a-at?” Phoebe stopped short.

“I’m scairt,” confided Manila.

“Scared nothing!” Phoebe said stoutly, slamming the gate behind them. “You’re with us now.”

“Mrs. Botts told me, ‘Don’t you budge’.”

“You don’t have to mind her any more. After this you mind just me.”

“She won’t let me.”

“She can’t help herself. Because I’m going to adopt you. You’re going to be—let me see! I don’t know which, my sister or my daughter.”

Manila halted and pulled back. “Phoebe, she’ll come after me.”

“Don’t you worry. I’ve seen lots worse than her.”

“Worse’n her?” repeated Manila, incredulous.

“In the pictures. And I’ve noticed that the hero or the heroine always comes out ahead.”

Manila allowed herself to be led across the rear lawn toward the Blair house, but she was not convinced. “This ain’t no movie,” she reminded.

“It’s better than a movie,” asserted Phoebe, “because it’s honest-to-goodness true!”

Manila looked back over a shoulder. Her concern was growing fast. “But what if she seen us run away?”

Phoebe was turning a corner on her way to the library windows. The library windows were low of sill. At this season of the year they were wide open. Of course all the outer doors of the house were open, too,—at least they were not locked. But Phoebe had no intention of entering her home in any prosaic fashion. No, indeed. Heroines of the screen always made their exits and entrances romantically. She meant to carry out this drama in true moving-picture fashion.

She lowered her voice. “Who cares?” she demanded scornfully. “It was all just perfect. There was the window, and the ladder——”

“Ladder?” challenged Manila.

“Well, what was better, you threw yourself out. You are the prisoner, Manila, and I’m the heroine.—My, if only somebody could’ve come by with a kodak!”

They crept along by the wall. Manila was sniffing. Phoebe eyed her approvingly. This was better—the proper spirit.

“Sh! Sh!” cautioned Phoebe.

They arrived, bent over, under a window. Phoebe slowly straightened and spied out the ground. The library was empty. Good! She gave a hop, landed on mid-torso across the sill, gave a wriggle, and stood safely within. “Now!” she whispered cautiously, putting forth a hand.

Manila was weeping in good earnest. “She told me, ‘Don’t you budge’.” But she took Phoebe’s hand.

When the two were side by side once more, Phoebe was all tender sympathy. She felt that Manila was really acting very well. At first the latter had given the impression that, after all, Mrs. Botts was not so bad as she had been painted. But of course she was! And this drama was promising excitement.

Manila sought the nearest chair. “Wa-a-ah,” she wept.

“Poor little girl!” said Phoebe, stroking the red hair. “If only we had our mothers—both of us. Manila, do you suppose our mothers are together in Heaven?” Then with a glance at the woebegone figure, “Well, perhaps not exactly together, but close by. Perhaps my mother is in a mansion all of precious stones, and your mother—your mother is walking along the streets of gold.”

Manila cast up one eye, the other being hidden under a damp fist. “How do y’know?” she asked.

“Uncle John tells me,” condescended Phoebe. “Uncle John’s a clergyman, and he knows all about Heaven. ‘The twelve gates of the City are twelve pearls,’ he says. Oh, Manila, if you and I could only go to Heaven to our mothers!”

Manila stood up. “Where is Heaven?” she asked hopefully, as one who is of a mind to set off forthwith.

“Where? Well, I don’t know exactly. That’s one thing I forgot to ask Uncle John.”

Manila’s face fell. And her eyes, roving, lit upon the nearby globe. She pointed. “Can’t y’ find it on the world?” she suggested.

“On that?” cried Phoebe.

“Look for it!”

Phoebe gave Manila’s arm a soothing pat. Then with a shake of the head, “Poor little girl, don’t you know that Heaven isn’t on the globe? And I’ve never even seen it in the movies.”

Manila sat down.

“I know what’s inside,” confided Phoebe. “That’s the bad place, where we go if we kill anybody, and if we tell lies. It’s awful hot there, Uncle John says, and we burn and burn. Oh, Uncle John knows everything religious.”

There was something about all this that made Manila’s courage sink, for once more she fell to weeping.

“Manila!” pleaded Phoebe. “Everybody says that Heaven is—look!” She pointed ceiling-ward.

“Up in your house?” faltered Manila.

“No! Somewhere in the sky.”

“How do we get there? Airplanes?”

“The minute you die, Manila, you’re an angel, and you grow wings.”

“I don’t wanta die!”

Phoebe put her arms about the shaking figure. “There! There!” she comforted. “What you need is mothering. I know. It’s what I want when I feel blue. Manila, I’m going to mother you.”

And then—! Up to now Phoebe had felt that from the standpoint of drama there had been not a little lacking in this rescue of an imprisoned stepdaughter. She was to feel this no longer. For the exciting now took place.

Phoebe never did quite figure out how it happened. But first there was a quick slamming of doors, and a shrilling of voices—Sophie’s, Grandma’s, and another, a strange woman’s. Then as Manila leaped from Phoebe’s hold, the door opened with a fling, so that the window-curtains billowed and swung, and into the room, stamping and panting, with eyes bulging and lips puffed out, and a very torrent of threatening cries, came the Rat-Woman!

Phoebe knew her instantly, even before Manila cried “Mrs. Botts!” And Phoebe faced her, bravely, with dislike and reproof in her look. Crouched behind her was Manila, sobbing wildly.

“So-o-o!” cried the Rat-Woman, advancing upon Phoebe. “I find out if someone can come into my house to steal!”

Uncle Bob had entered behind her. He was smiling, hands in pockets. “Nonsense!” he retorted. “Who would steal Manila. You’ve been hard on this poor child again, and she simply took to her heels.”

“I tell her, ‘Don’t you budge’,” cried Mrs. Botts. (Phoebe noted that there was an accent, slight, but enough to give what Phoebe thought was the perfect touch. This was no ordinary villain!)

“Phoebe,” said Uncle Bob, mildly, “how does Manila happen to be here?”

“Tell! Yes!” added Mrs. Botts, wrathfully. “I hear about this Phoebe. She is smart. She knows everything.”

Phoebe drew herself up. “Well, I know one thing,” she returned coolly.

“Ye-e-es! And what?” Mrs. Botts folded her arms and hung her weight on one foot.

“I know that all step-mothers are cruel.”

Out leaped Mrs. Botts’s arms. She swept around upon the Judge. “You hear it?” she demanded. “You hear it? She is permitted to insult me!”

It was not to be denied that Mrs. Botts was doing her part to make the whole thing really dramatic. Phoebe had to give her credit for that.

“Phoebe?”—Uncle Bob was as mild as ever.

Phoebe wished that she might have had a different tale to tell. If only she had thought to gag Manila, and tie her hands! If only she could tell of, say, a kidnapping plot, of a great, black limousine, and Mexicans with knives! But——

“Well, Uncle Bob,” she began calmly, “I did go over and get her. Miss Ruth told us she was crying. Well, she wasn’t. She was cutting paper dolls. Anyhow, I stole her, and she’s cried a lot since. Uncle John says I’m too big for dolls, so I intend to adopt her.”

“Adopt her!” exploded Uncle Bob.

“Oh, just look at her!” implored Phoebe. “She’s had such bad luck!—a step-mother, and the awful name of Botts, and she’s red-haired, and freckled, and she’s got adenoids!”

Mrs. Botts sprang forward. “So-o-o!” she answered. “She is like that. But she can mind her own business. And she does not talk too much. She might be worse—as bad as you!”

“Phoebe,” said Uncle Bob. He crossed to her, anxiously Phoebe thought.

“You are a little thief!” Mrs. Botts stuck a fist close to Phoebe’s nose. “And I will have you arrested! The whole town knows about you. Miss Simpson, she——”

Uncle Bob put a hand over each of Phoebe’s ears then, shutting out that shrill voice. Once Phoebe heard “school,” and twice she heard “your mother.” Then Mrs. Botts flung herself away and out.

“What did she say, Uncle Bob?” asked Phoebe. “What did you cover my ears for? What did she say?”

Uncle Bob did not reply. He was white with rage. He went to the door and looked through. “Sophie, put that vixen out!” he ordered.

Now that Mrs. Botts was gone, Manila was tearless once more. “My goodness!” she mourned, “now we’ve done it!”

“What?” asked Phoebe.

“Why, don’t y’ see? The Rat-Woman come too soon.”

“Sure enough!” Phoebe agreed. “Oh, that’s too bad!”

“And your paw don’t git to see her,” Manila added.

“Phoebe, why did you want your daddy to see her?” asked Uncle Bob.

“Oh, just be-because,” Phoebe frowned at Manila, warning her to silence.

Uncle Bob sat down upon the couch. “Come here, old dumpling,” he bade. And when Phoebe had gone to him, “Now, because why?”

“I don’t want to tell you,” she confessed frankly.

“But I’d really like to know.”

She hesitated. “If I tell you, you won’t laugh?” she asked.

“I won’t laugh,” promised Uncle Bob, gravely.

“Because I want Daddy to see how mean and terrible step-mothers are,” explained Phoebe. “We were going to show him Mrs. Botts. And now the whole plot is spoiled.”

“So you think step-mothers are mean and terrible,” said Uncle Bob. And there was not even a glimmer of a smile in his eyes. On the contrary—he looked actually troubled!

All that she had longed to say to her father now surged to Phoebe’s lips. She dropped beside her uncle, and clung to him. “Oh, I don’t want a step-mother!” she cried. “Oh, Uncle Bob, help me! Keep Daddy from getting married again! You will, won’t you? A step-mother would whip me, and wear Mother’s clothes, and make Daddy hate me! Oh, Uncle Bob, you don’t think Daddy will bring one home?”

“Darling baby,” he said tenderly, “I know your Daddy won’t bring one home.”

“Oh, not a Peru woman!” pleaded Phoebe. “I don’t want one!”

“Don’t you worry. No Peru woman is going to get him.”

“But I don’t want anybody,” she persisted. “Oh, Uncle Bob!”

That was all. Except that when Phoebe had gone to Miss Ruth’s with Manila, and was nearing home again, Grandma came out to meet her. And Grandma was particularly tender to her, for some reason, and that very evening sat beside Phoebe’s bed for a little while, and chatted.

And from then on—Phoebe could not help but notice it—Grandma seemed to take great interest in Phoebe, to be with her often, to make her little presents, and buy her little things, and say so much to her that was sweet. For which reason Phoebe came to understand Grandma better, and daily their love for each other grew.