“You can’t tell anything by the way a day starts,” philosophized Phoebe, as she unlaced her shoes preparatory to going to bed; “because a wonderful day starts exactly like an ordinary one.”

The day had indeed started ordinarily enough—with the usual routine: breakfast, twenty minutes in the open air, then an hour equally divided between spelling and sums. Next Uncle John “heard” the spelling, and looked over the sums; after which, settling himself in a big, comfortable chair by a window,—his back to Phoebe—he listened while she read aloud from Dickens’s “Child’s History of England.”

Phoebe liked the reading aloud best. Because she had discovered that if she would read quietly, and in one tone, Uncle John could be counted upon to fall asleep during the first ten minutes. Whereupon Phoebe, with “Little Women” handy, or “Sara Crewe,” or, better still, something by “The Duchess”, was able to change from the History to a story without in any way disturbing Uncle John.

When Uncle John was finished with his after-breakfast sleep (Sophie confided to Phoebe that it was his liver), he invariably wakened with a start, pretending that he had not been dozing at all, said “Yes, yes, yes,” as he got up, and “Very well, dear child,” as he crossed to the table and his work, and Phoebe was then at liberty either to go on reading from the book of her choice or betake herself elsewhere.

But this was to be a wonderful day. For no sooner was Phoebe engrossed in her book, as her clergyman uncle was in his sermon, than Sophie appeared, looking flushed and important. She made toward the big table with a swish of her starched skirts. She bent to whisper something. Whereat Dr. Blair sprang up with a joyful exclamation and strode out.

It so happened that Phoebe was reading “Airy, Fairy Lillian”. On Sophie’s entrance she had quickly closed that fascinating volume and slipped it between her back and the chair, then folded her hands thoughtfully in her lap; not that she feared to let Sophie know what she was reading—as a matter of fact it was Sophie who had recommended “The Duchess” books, and pointed out the place of their hiding. But Phoebe knew that whenever Uncle John was roused out of the strange, dazed—almost cataleptic!—condition into which he fell when he worked, he was more likely than not to take stock of everything about him. And Phoebe did not care to have him see “Airy, Fairy Lillian”.

Uncle John gone, Sophie did a hop-skip to Phoebe’s chair. “What d’ y’ think!” she exclaimed excitedly.

Phoebe looked up languidly. Secretly she was annoyed at Sophie’s interruption, for the exquisite Lillian (a sort of novelized Marguerite Clark) had just sprained her slender, silken-covered ankle, and a lover fully as handsome as Dustin Farnum was about to take Lillian up in his strong young arms.

“What?” she inquired politely.

Sophie bent, put a hand on each knee, and beamed into Phoebe’s eyes. “Comp’ny,” she announced.

“Company? Who?” Phoebe was more than interested.

“Genevieve Finnegan.”

Phoebe made a wry face. “Her!” she said, and flushed.

“I pretended I didn’t know her,” chuckled Sophie.

Phoebe was suspicious. “What do you think she’s come for?” she asked.

“Can’t say.” Sophie straightened and shrugged.

“Maybe she’s going to tell me they’re all sorry for putting me out of school,” suggested Phoebe.

“You’re right! Because Miss Simpson come with her.”

“Miss—Simpson!” gasped Phoebe, staring.

“In the sittin’-room with Grammaw and Dr. Blair.”

Phoebe stood up. The bow on the front of her middy-blouse rose and fell. Her eyes swam. It was all very well to be independent, to say she did not want friends or acquaintances. But she had lived through scores of dull days—days that were all the harder to endure because she was a product of a metropolis. She had not even seen as much of Manila as she would have liked. Miss Ruth, too, came only when she had to. And when Uncle Bob had suggested asking little girls in, Phoebe had proudly said no—but said it with a bursting heart.

But now the time was come when she could stand out against her loneliness no longer. “Oh, Sophie! Sophie!” she cried, clasping her hands. “It’s just splendid! No more tutoring with Uncle John! Oh, how I hate it! No more Dickens’s ‘Child’s History of England,’ or these awful classics! Miss Simpson’s come to ask me——”

She paused. It was the look on Sophie’s face that made her pause. Resentment was written large on that countenance framed by the tousled hair. Phoebe understood the resentment. She shared it. “But she didn’t want me when my mother was—West,” she said.

Sophie’s arms were folded. “Now, you’re talkin’!” she replied admiringly. “When you needed these fine ladies, they didn’t stand by y’.”

Phoebe nodded. “I know. I’ve thought about it lots since my mother died. And I know there was something the matter.” She looked down at the carpet, restraining herself from questioning Sophie. What was it that Mrs. Botts had said—while Uncle Bob covered Phoebe’s ears? Something very ugly, Phoebe was sure. And Phoebe would have liked to ask now, yet shrank as ever from discussing her mother with a servant. But Uncle Bob had said that Mother could not do wrong——

“Sophie!” she whispered. “I hadn’t done anything, had I? And Miss Simpson sent home my books!” Her voice broke. She sank to the chair.

“Phoebe,” said Sophie, gently. Then to rouse her, “Keep your chin up, Kiddie! Don’t you let that Finnegan girl see that you care!”

“I don’t care,” protested Phoebe, with spirit. “You just watch me! Go on—bring her in. I’m ready!” She caught up a volume of Scott from where she had deposited it when Lillian had proved the more enthralling.

“Ha-ha-a-a-a!” chortled Sophie, proudly. With a toss of her head, she went out.

Phoebe opened her book at random. Perhaps it was even upside down—she scarcely knew. However it was, she became intensely engrossed in it, so that she did not even glance up when the door to the hall opened and Sophie returned.

“I found her, Miss Finnegan,” announced Sophie, in her best receiving manner.

“Phoebe!” gushed Miss Finnegan. She burst past Sophie. “Phoebe! You darling! Oh, I’m so glad to see you!”

Phoebe let her book drop, still open, to her knees. Very carefully she put one forefinger on the line she was supposed to be reading. Then she raised eyes that had in them mild surprise, and just a trace of sweet bewilderment.

“Oh! How do you do,” she answered politely; and got up. “Please excuse me. I—I get so interested in my books. This is ‘Kenilworth,’ by Sir Walter Scott. Of course you’ve read it.”

“‘Kenilworth’?” said Genevieve. “Why, no.”

“You haven’t?” returned Phoebe, shocked. “Oh, my, that’s too bad. After a while, when you’re grown up, you’ll wish you’d read it. A girl can’t be just fluffy. And a woman mustn’t be fluffy. We must know things, and we must be wise and—and as much like Miss Ruth Shepard as we can possibly be.”

Genevieve blinked, trying to comprehend this onrush of ideas.

Phoebe put her head on one side and smiled. “Oh, I do so enjoy the classics,” she declared.

It was Genevieve’s turn to be bewildered. “The—classics?” she echoed. “What are the classics?”

Phoebe knit her brows. “Why, they’re—they’re—well, just the most important thing. My Uncle John says ‘The classics are the foundation of culture’.”

“Is that so!” pondered Genevieve. “Well, I’d better put ’em down. What did you call ’em? ‘Kenilworth’?” She drew a handsome leather notebook from the richly embroidered handbag on her arm. “Because Mamma says, ‘Germans or no Germans, with our name we just got to have culture’.” She touched her tongue with the tip of a slender gold pencil and wrote.

Sophie, backed against the hall door, shook with silent laughter. As Phoebe glanced her way, roguishly, Sophie noiselessly applauded, and signalled Phoebe to continue her tactics.

Phoebe assumed the grand air. “I suppose you’ve heard about my father?” she began again.

“In Peru, ain’t he—isn’t he?” asked Genevieve.

“It’s South America,” said Phoebe. “Only a few people ever go there. Daddy is such a wonderful mining-engineer that they just had to have him.”

Genevieve put away her notes. “Well, I suppose now, the first thing you know, your father’ll be getting married.”

Phoebe turned white. All the grand air went, leaving her staring almost wildly. “Married!” she breathed. “My—father——”

Genevieve smiled with gratification. Her shot had gone home. “Mamma says,” she went on blandly, “that since this war, with so many men killed off, why, a man that ain’t—I should say isn’t—married don’t stand a chance.”

Phoebe flung “Kenilworth” down. “Oh, but he wouldn’t!” she cried. “No! I don’t want to lose him!”

Sophie was at her side in an instant. “Darlin’, don’t you believe it! He loves you, and just nobody else.” Then marching up to Genevieve, angrily, with hands on hips, “Say! What did you come here today for, anyhow?”

Genevieve lifted her shoulders with disdain. “Mamma says,” she returned calmly, “that you can tell whether people are nice or not by their servants.”

“Y’ can!” taunted Sophie. “Well, ‘Mammaw’ sure oughta know. Because Bridget Finnegan was oncet a servant.”

Genevieve’s face darkened. Her neck appeared to swell. “Well, I can tell you this much,” she answered hotly. “There are some things my mother wasn’t. People have never said that she——”

“Here!” stormed Sophie. She caught Genevieve by a shoulder.

“Sophie!” gasped Phoebe, appalled.

But Sophie did not hear. “Now, you run along,” she ordered, showing Genevieve toward the door. “Do y’ understand?”

Genevieve went haughtily. “I wouldn’t stay for anything,” she declared. “I’ll wait for Miss Simpson in my motor.”

“When y’ got your motor,” sneered Sophie, “what a pity y’ didn’t get some manners!”

Genevieve ignored her. “Good-bye, Phoebe,” she said, from the door. “I don’t believe us Simpson girls will see you again at school.”

“I’m dead sure you won’t!” cried Sophie, and slammed the door in Genevieve’s face.

Phoebe sighed. “Now, she’ll make Miss Simpson hate me,” she said sadly. “And so will all the girls, and they won’t take me back——”

“Take you back!” raged Sophie. “After they sent you packin’ home that time? Where’s your pride? If it was me, I just wouldn’t go back. And your uncles and your paw won’t let y’ when they hear what I tell ’em!—Phoebe, you show Miss Simpson that you don’t want her old school. You turn her down—first!”

Phoebe rallied herself. She realized that Sophie was speaking the truth. The quarrel with Genevieve—and especially what Genevieve had just said (Phoebe was aware of an inference there), made her see that the last bridge was burned between her and the Simpson School. So she might as well show indifference to the visiting Principal, whose voice, even now, could be heard from the direction of the sitting-room.

“All right, Sophie,” she whispered bravely. “Don’t you worry.”

She caught up “Kenilworth” once more, tucked herself into a corner of the big couch, rested her head in a scholarly pose upon one hand, and lost herself between the pages of Sir Walter Scott.