“Phoebe, dear,” cried Uncle John, “I am the happiest of men!”

Phoebe was killing time—yet pleasantly, with the aid of “Airy, Fairy Lillian.” She kept it boldly in her lap as this more formidable of her uncles paused beside her chair. She was not rebellious now, but she was determined. Of course Uncle John would be horrified if he were to know about her plans for the coming evening. So he might just as well be shocked not so completely by what he would surely regard as a frivolous book. Well, let him be shocked!

But he did not look at the book. “Grandma has just told me,” he added.

“Yes?” encouraged Phoebe, anxious to return to Lillian.

“Oh, it has warmed my heart,” he declared;”—to hear that you really like my teaching, and the literature that we’ve enjoyed together. And that you’d rather stay with me than go back to Miss Simpson’s.”

“Yes, I would.”

“Blessed little student!” He said it lovingly. And—wonder of wonders!—he leaned down and kissed Phoebe’s hair!

After he was gone, Phoebe sat for a long while, thinking. Uncle John had been unusually kind and tender to her—just at the wrong time! In all the past months, when had he ever thought to do more than give her an absent-minded pat? Why then was he being so nice all at once, so that her conscience hurt her?

She felt resentment toward Uncle John.

She considered, too, his hatred of the “movies”. He had his church, in which he was supreme. He could get up at stated intervals and talk as much as he liked, and who dared interrupt him? He had music, as well, and processions. And he was paid for all this (Sophie declared him to be the best-paid clergyman in town), when, so far as Phoebe could see, he was thoroughly enjoying himself all the time! Writing a sermon was not work. Making calls on people was not work. It was all a weird, not-to-be-understood form of grown-up pleasure.

Then why should he interfere in what she thought was having a good time?

“He sha’n’t,” she said firmly.

Other things happened that afternoon which made Uncle John’s conduct seem part of a conspiracy. For here came Grandma, bringing an apple-turnover. Phoebe particularly liked apple-turnovers. As she munched this one, letting the flakes of a deliciously rich crust fall upon the pages of “The Duchess”, she could not help but wonder if Sophie had not, for some reason, confessed the plot for that night, with the result that Grandma was resorting to bribery!

Next, Uncle Bob appeared. He had an oblong box in one hand. The box was elaborately tied with blue ribbon. It was chocolates, and they followed the fate of the turnover. No one had a word to say about supper, or Phoebe’s possible lack of appetite for it. She ate, and she read her novel openly. And—her conscience hurt more and more!

But darkness, the love of adventure, and a thirst for her favorite delight, helped her to feel indifference. Sophie was on the back porch when Phoebe came stealing down. Not a word was spoken as the latter sat on the bottom step to put on her shoes. The stars were out, the air was soft. When finally, hand in hand, they stole toward the back gate, the perfume of Grandma’s flower-beds gave place to the friendly odors of chicken-coop and stable, and they knew they were safe.

“Now,” said Sophie triumphantly, as the gate shut softly behind them.

“It’s like a regular movie,” whispered Phoebe. She danced up and down.

When they reached the theatre, they went warily. They waited in the foyer till the lights were lowered, after which they fairly stole into their chairs, in the last row. Here, shoulder to shoulder, with an occasional anxious glance about them, they sat through the program.

Just before the end of the last picture, Sophie touched Phoebe, motioning her to follow. They sought the foyer once more, and saw the end of the evening story from a position by the door. Then as the audience rose, out the pair flew, heads down, to the sidewalk.

Phoebe had not spoken while she was in the theatre. Now and then she had looked up at Sophie, or squeezed her arm gratefully. She was afraid of attracting attention to herself. But out in the open air she burst forth gaily. The gay music, the accustomed entertainment she loved, the excitement of again being part of a crowd, all combined to make her feel that she was back once more among the old, happy days. With Sally, she had been free to come and go. She loved freedom.

Something curious happened just after she and Sophie left the theatre. At first, while they were in the more crowded part of the town, Phoebe did not notice anything—she was too busy chattering. But when they were farther out toward the Blair Addition, Phoebe realized that a man was walking rather close behind them, crossing a street when they crossed it, turning corners when they turned. As they were nearly home the man suddenly came abreast of them, and greeted Sophie. And he seemed to be a very good friend of Sophie’s, for he took her arm.

At the rear gate, Phoebe went on a few steps alone, and then halted to wait. She was not near enough to catch what the man and Sophie said: she could hear only the murmur of their voices. Overhead the stars were low and bright. The trees swayed in the night wind. Yet Phoebe was not thrilled. She did not feel that romance was in the air—not romance such as “Airy, Fairy Lillian” held—not by any means the kind of romance that she had just enjoyed at the theatre. She wished only that Sophie would not be silly, and would hurry up. It was late. Phoebe dreaded the climb in the dark to her room.

But no feeling either of fear or remorse troubled her as she prepared for bed. She had gained her room without discovery. And as it would never occur to any one of the family to suspect that she might steal out of an evening, there was no reason to fret about the next day. She said her prayers hastily and sleepily. And she did not ask for forgiveness because she had been to the moving-pictures. They were her right. They rounded out that all but perfect day that she exclaimed over while she unlaced her shoes.

Two nights later, she and Sophie went again, and again she saw the man. This time he summoned enough courage to take a seat beside Sophie in the theatre. And when the lights went down, he held Sophie’s hand. That Phoebe did not like at all. It was all right on the screen, of course—holding hands. But with Sophie! And so close! It did not seem nice.

“Sally never acted like that,” Phoebe told herself.

Also at the rear gate, as they were returning, the man grew bolder. So did Sophie. From a considerate distance, Phoebe saw the two embrace—saw their faces touch.

At that, Phoebe turned and walked away. She was angered.

But when Sophie joined her, giggling and whispering, she made no comment. Only she resolved that she would not go out at night with Sophie again if the man was to accompany them home. And before she lay down in the dark to sleep, she said a little prayer about it, and promised that she would not break her resolve.

But a few nights later, a change of program brought the moving-picture version of a play that she had seen acted in New York by men and women who spoke their lines. It was a temptation too great to resist. “Just this once more,” vowed Phoebe.

The vow was to be kept—so far as this particular theatre, and this town, was concerned; but not kept in the way Phoebe had meant.

The picture was wonderful. She had so much to tell Sophie—of the differences between the play as it was flashed upon the cloth before them and as it was on the speaking stage. She was joyous and excited. When the man came, as before, she was even glad, for it was nice to be able to lean across Sophie and tell him about the differences. No regret for having broken her resolve troubled her.

And then something happened—between Part I and Part II of the picture, when the piano was going merrily, and Phoebe was looking over the audience. At first, she was conscious of a white face—a woman’s face—turned her way. Next, with a sinking of the heart, she knew the face—Mrs. Botts!

She got up and turned in the other direction. Sophie pulled at her dress, and said something. Phoebe did not heed her. To get away, that was her only thought. She fumbled for, and found, her coat, and put on her hat. And with Sophie trailing behind her as people rose to let them pass, Phoebe led the way out of the theatre to the sidewalk.

Mrs. Botts faced them. There was a cruel twist to her thin mouth. Her eyes were dancing. Her hands were on her hips. Her head was tipped sidewise.

“So-o-o!” she triumphed. “This is the good Phoebe! She comes to make trouble for neighbors. But she goes out at night with servants. She is a sneak!”

Phoebe said nothing. She was too frightened, too bewildered. She guessed what Mrs. Botts would do, and was trying to think how to meet the inevitable. But she looked at Mrs. Botts calmly enough.

“A little sneak!” repeated Mrs. Botts. “Pah!” She snapped her fingers, threw back her head with a laugh, and walked away.

Phoebe said nothing. She took Sophie’s hand and started home. The man, for once, did not join them. Phoebe did not even think about him. She was too miserable.

Sophie was also speechless, until, with an explosive outburst, as they neared the back gate, she fell to crying and talking at the same time. Phoebe patted her arm.

“It’s too bad,” she said. “You took me, and now they’ll blame you.”

“What’s done is done,” wept Sophie.

“To think I did it while Daddy was away!” exclaimed Phoebe. Suddenly she felt amazed at the enormity of her own conduct. “How could I? Oh, Sophie!”

“That’s just why y’ could,” retorted Sophie, with a show of spirit. “Your maw’s gone, and your papa’s away, and you’re heart-broke. So, instead of lettin’ you cry your eyes out, I took you to the movies, and helped y’ forget. But none of them will understand.” She halted by the chicken-coop to look up at the house, dimly outlined against the sky.

Phoebe looked up too. Sophie’s last night! That was her thought. Her only comfort was to be taken from her. With new help at Grandma’s, what kind of a place would it be?

“Oh, Sophie,” she whispered, “let me go to Grandma’s room right now, and tell her, and ask her to forgive us both!”

“Tell! Oh, my goodness!”

“Or I’ll wake up Uncle Bob, Sophie! Oh, I can’t stand it!”

“Do you want me to be fired?”

They walked on a little. Phoebe’s head was down, her step lagged. She thought of Miss Ruth. If she could only turn aside to the Shepard house, standing white and temple-like in the starlight. There, so close, was one who would understand.

Sophie began to whisper again: “Don’t peep, darlin’. ’Cause we’re safe. I’ll watch the phone. If Mrs. Botts calls up, I’ll know what to say. If she writes, I’ll burn the letter. And if she dares show her ugly face——!”

They went up the back stairs like shadows. Usually Sophie did not see Phoebe into the latter’s room on late returnings from the theatre; but this time she entered, put on the light, turned down the bed, and said a fond good-night.

“I wish I could tell somebody,” Phoebe insisted. “Because I—I feel awfully bad. I think it’s my conscience.”

But Sophie shook her head. “If they find out about us,” she argued, “just remember this: They can’t fire you. So don’t you worry.”

“I won’t,” answered Phoebe. But her face was pale with apprehension. “And, anyhow, I’ve seen three wonderful five-reelers.”

But when she was alone, and the light was out, she, too, broke down. “I deserve to be punished,” she confessed. “I said I wouldn’t go again, and I broke my word.” She dropped to her knees beside the bed.

She prayed for her mother to ask God to take her. “I’m discouraged,” she complained. “Oh, Mother, I want to come to you. Everything I like to do is bad in this house!” She recalled a day when Uncle John had been most displeased with her because, with an eye to harmonious color, she had rearranged the books in the library, putting the green-backed ones on one shelf, the red-backed ones on another.

Now, so real was her contrition and her fear, that not once as she knelt did it occur to her that what she had done, and what she was suffering, was in any way like a “movie”.

She lay down at last, but with eyes wide and staring into the dark. It was one thing to steal away at night to the movies with Sophie, shoes in hand till the back steps were gained, giggles restrained till the rear gate was left behind, spirits high because of what the theatre promised of dear delight, the whole thing a thrilling adventure: it was another matter to face out the escapade in the full light of morning.

Oh, the dread of it! For of course Mrs. Botts would tell. Then, what? There would be bitter blame on the part of Uncle John. He would blame Sophie most (which was a comforting thought!). But Sophie was grown. Sophie was free. Sophie could be saucy, if she wanted to, and could pack up, and leave, her earnings in her purse. But Phoebe would have to stay; to face it out at the table; to live it down in shame.

“O-o-oh!” breathed Phoebe. She wrestled with despair.

A clock downstairs rang the hours until three. Then, exhausted, she slept—and in her sleep fought Mrs. Botts hand to hand.

When she awoke, she was sitting up. Dawn was at hand. She could tell that by the thin, white horizontal lines of the shutters. She sprang out of bed and began to dress.

Once she had packed to run away. There was no time to pack now. To go, that was her only thought. She ran a comb through her hair. She threw her serge coat over her arm, and took her hat in her hand. Then with a hurried good-bye kiss for her mother’s pictured face, she stole out and down, bound for New York, and the dear apartment, and faithful Sally.