“Let’s take time——”

Phoebe opened her eyes. It was broad daylight. Another train was passing overhead, shutting out the sound of the voice. She raised herself a little, and peered to both sides.

What she saw was men—two lines of them! Each was a little distance away from his nearest neighbors. All were walking in the same direction—toward the little town. The train gone, Phoebe could hear the men calling to one another. She wondered what it was all about.

Then she knew! They were hunting her! If they found her, they would drag her out, all dusty as she was, and carry her back with them. And she would be laughed at, and talked about, and pointed out, as if she were wicked, or crazy.

Once she had told herself that she did not care what the town thought or said. Now she knew that if she were to return, a culprit, she could not bear it, could not face anyone again. She had feared to face them all—Uncle John in particular—after her discovery by Mrs. Botts. But now—! This was a thousand times worse!

When Uncle John had told her that her mother was dead, she had not thought of dying. But now she longed to die. There flashed across her mind the picture of herself as they would find her. Perhaps she would be lying, pale and still, on some flowery, sunny slope, where, faint from lack of food and drink, she had at last sunk down. Or, better still, she would be washed by the waves toward some shore, and the moon would shine on her white face, and her hair would float out on the water.

She heard steps. Farther back against the timbers she crouched, and held her hat before her face.

Then the voice began again—“Somebody would’ve seen her, I tell you, if she’d passed.” She lifted her head, unable to believe her ears. Her father’s voice! And he was in Peru!

Then two men moved into sight from the direction of the wide road. One was a stranger. The other was her father. As they halted under the bridge, Phoebe gave a great cry, and half crawled, half rolled, from her hiding-place. Her face was streaked with dirt, her hair tangled, her dress rumpled. Sobbing, she almost fell down the embankment to her father’s arms.

“Daddy! Oh, Daddy! Daddy! Oh, Daddy, forgive me! Forgive——!”

He caught her to him, and she knew that he was weeping, too. Oh, the joy of having his arms about her, of feeling herself back in his tender care! Men were running toward them from both directions, shouting as they came. Shots were being fired. It was all because she was found. But she hid her face and clung to heir father. What mattered if only she had him?

“Dear baby!” he was saying. “Oh, my precious little girl! Oh, were they bad to her while Daddy was away? He’ll never go again—he’ll never leave his darling again——”

He carried her through the crowd that had gathered, and stepped with her into the tonneau of an automobile. The car turned slowly. A great cheer went up. Nearby a church bell began to ring. Then the ride home began.

Phoebe lay as she had lain that afternoon and evening on the train, her head pillowed on her father’s shoulder, her feet curled up on the wide seat. But now her father talked to her, lovingly, soothingly.

“She wanted to go back to New York, my baby,” he said.

“Yes,—oh, yes!”

“Well, she shall! She shall!”

“Oh, Daddy, do you mean it?”

“Darling, I was keeping that as a surprise.”

She threw her arms about him. She drew herself up so that she could speak, her lips at his ear. The man who was driving them—he must not hear. “Daddy,” she whispered, “just you and I will go? Nobody else?”

He was puzzled. “Why—why, who else?” he asked.

“Oh, nobody, Daddy! Thank you! Thank you!” Contentedly she rested her cheek once more against his coat.

“The little apartment is all ready,” he went on; “and Sally is waiting. And down there not a soul shall ever know——”

She nodded. “About this.”

“Not a soul,” he promised. Then to the man, “Speed up!”

They were nearing town now. The driver fairly tore past the depot, and along one short street to the gate of the Blair grounds. The gate was open, and the car whisked through a little group of the curious who were waiting. Another group, with more boldness, was at the front porch. But the automobile did not stop here. Taking to the lawn, it circled the house to the rear entrance. Grandma was there. And Phoebe’s father was out of the tonneau and up the steps to the kitchen before anyone could follow them.

In the rear hall, Phoebe was set upon her feet. Her father knelt beside her, wiping her face and smoothing her hair. Grandma joined them, speaking not at all, but shaking her head very hard. There were tears on her old cheeks. Grandma did not look angry—only glad and sad! Phoebe, glancing at her, knew that in the future there would never be any blaming on Grandma’s part.

But Uncle Bob!—what about him? He was the Children’s Judge, used to dealing with young wrong-doers. Mrs. Botts had called Phoebe “a little sneak”. What would Uncle Bob do to a little sneak?

All nervous and frightened and tired as she was, there flashed across her brain the picture of herself up before this dearer of her two uncles—before him at the very bar of his terrible Court, her head hanging while scores of strangers stared at her, and Uncle Bob passed judgment!

Then she heard the door open. It was not Sophie—the step was too slow and too heavy. The door closed, softly.

Phoebe knew who it was; she held her breath.

“Little old dumpling!”

Phoebe turned. “Oh, Uncle Bob, I’m sorry—and—and I’m ashamed!”

“I see both sides of this question,” he said gently.

She held out her arms in a wild, tearful appeal. “Then you won’t arrest me! You won’t take me to Court!”

It brought him to her in a rush. He put his arms about her, and gave a great gulping laugh, and hugged her.

In Phoebe’s inmost soul there was no real fear of his punishing her publicly. But the growing woman in her sensed the dramatic, and enjoyed it. Also, she knew how to touch the big heart of this uncle; the heart of her father, too!

“Phoebe!”—Uncle Bob was reproving her lovingly. “Going to the movies isn’t a State’s Prison offence—not yet!”

She felt suddenly weak and faint. Someone put a glass to her lips—a glass of warm milk. It was Grandma. She tried to smile as she drank. Grandma was smiling at her.

When the glass was drained, Uncle Bob caught her up. “No, Jim, let me carry her,” he begged. (Phoebe felt like a real heroine!)

At that moment, the thing most dreaded came to pass. The dining-room door opened. Through it came Uncle John. “My dear child,” he began.

Uncle Bob halted, Phoebe in his arms. “Not a word!” he cried, his voice trembling with anger. “I won’t have Phoebe picked on. If you’re wise, you’ll stop fighting the movies and fight with them—fight for better pictures. Don’t tear down—improve!” Then he went on.

There was a happy surprise awaiting Phoebe when her room was reached. The surprise was Miss Ruth, with one of Sophie’s big aprons pinned about her. She received Phoebe from Uncle Bob, and there was no mistaking her joy. It was Miss Ruth who tended Phoebe, undressed and bathed her, helped her to bed, and brought her the broth.

“You won’t go, will you?” whispered Phoebe, lying back among the pillows. “Please don’t leave me!”

“I wouldn’t think of it,” declared Miss Ruth. She took a seat beside the bed.

Phoebe sighed, snuggled her cheek against Miss Ruth’s hand, and slept.