What was all wrong? What word did Uncle Bob want Daddy to say? And to whom? In particular, what was it that Uncle Bob wanted Daddy to do? And who, oh, who, was “her”?

She longed to go down to the kitchen and ask Sophie. But she knew there was no use—Sophie would tell her nothing. Just now Sophie was on her best behavior, and was taking a distinctly grown-up attitude toward Phoebe. She had come close to being dismissed. And she had not been independent about it. For what she had done was, by the very nature of the case, known throughout the town, which meant that other families might not care to hire a girl who had stolen out in the evening to a theatre, taking with her a child. Uncle John had pointed this out to Sophie, adding that he would make it his business to see she did not deceive any other employer.

Uncle John and Sophie had had what Phoebe guessed was a most exciting interview. Phoebe was almost sorry to have missed it. While Uncle Bob and Phoebe’s father were out and away, searching, Uncle John had attended to Sophie.

Grandma told Phoebe (in a whisper!) that Sophie had knelt in front of Uncle John, weeping grievously over Phoebe’s disappearance, blaming herself bitterly, and pleading for forgiveness. Uncle John had been sternness itself. At first, he had declared for one course: Sophie must go. Later, when Sophie vowed that she would give up moving-pictures, he had softened a little. Still later, she brought down to him all the photographs she owned of “movie” stars—forty-seven in all. She had thrown them into the fireplace in the library, and put a match to them. Then Uncle John had relented.

So Sophie was being a new Sophie—quiet of foot and tongue, and quiet of dress. For two days she had not even curled her hair!

“There’s no use asking her,” concluded Phoebe, feeling somewhat injured. That man, too, was responsible for the blame heaped on Sophie—that man who had tagged them home from the theatre, and sat with them twice. Phoebe was angry with him, too.

She was still puzzling her head over what Uncle Bob and her father had to say to each other, when here came the former—almost stealthily, with glances over his shoulder. His face was red; his eyes were solemn. Once inside the door of Grandma’s room, he locked it!

“That’s all right,” he whispered. “Grandma knows.” He came to sit beside the sofa.

For a long moment he did not speak. He patted her shoulder absent-mindedly, and the small hand she had reached out to him—this dear uncle whom she was so soon to leave! All the while he looked past her, out of the window. And his lips, tight-pressed, worked in the way they had when he was framing something important.

When he finally spoke, it was with great gentleness. “Of course, I wish you hadn’t gone to that theatre without permission,” he began. “But I wish more that you’d been so happy here at home that even a movie wouldn’t have tempted you. But you haven’t been happy. You’ve been shut up like a bird in a cage. No chums, no fun, no school—though Uncle John has tried to do his best.” He stroked her cheek.

Phoebe nodded. “He’s talked about my soul,” she reminded. “But—I guess it hasn’t helped.”

Another wait, with no patting of her shoulder, nor stroking of her cheek. Then with a sudden move he fairly lifted Phoebe from the sofa and held her at arm’s length. His face—Phoebe had never before seen it with this expression. It was white now, and his eyes stared into hers. His lips were trembling. He breathed like a man who is gathering himself for a leap.

“Phoebe,” he began again, “if Uncle John failed, it’s because he couldn’t help it. You see, only mothers understand little souls. Dear old dumpling, let Uncle Bob tell you what’s wrong! You’ve got just about everything that any small girl could ask for—good food, and a roof, and clothes, and relatives, and a wonderful daddy. But the most important thing——”

She understood. “My mother.”

“You’ve been so brave. Oh, Uncle Bob has watched, and understood how you’ve grieved since your mother went. She can’t come back to you—you realize that. And—and wouldn’t it be best if—if you—that is, certain care and companionship and love are coming to a girl your size—you need it, and so——”

He was floundering, he was stammering, and he was getting very red again. Phoebe regarded him with grave eyes.

“What do you mean, Uncle Bob?” she asked bluntly.

He took both her hands in a firm grasp. “I mean just this:” he answered firmly enough; “you need a new mother.”

She stood up, and drew away from him. “A step?”

“A step.”

“Oh, Daddy has promised that we’re to be alone together—with Sally.”

He nodded. “Suppose he has! How about getting a step-mother yourself?”

“But I don’t want one!” she protested. “I just want my real mother—like other girls have!” And then, in a quavering remonstrance against Fate, and with breast heaving, and clenched fists, “Oh, why haven’t I my mother! Even the kittens have a mother, and the little ducks have a mother!”

“Ah!” cried Uncle Bob, triumphantly, “you’ve made my point for me, young lady!”

“Point? What?”

“The little ducks have a step-mother!”

“M-m-mm!” That was a new thought. Phoebe sat down.

“That Plymouth Rock,” went on Uncle Bob, “is a mighty good little hen.”

“I never thought,” agreed Phoebe. “Of course that hen is a step.”

“Nice, kind little step! You see, my dear, some step-mothers are bad—like Mrs. Botts. And then some are just peaches—like Grandma.”

Phoebe leaned closer. “Grandma?” she repeated. “You mean——?”

“Darling, we never told you. At first, for no reason, except that we boys—your daddy and Uncle John and I—have never used the word to each other, much less to anyone else. Afterwards, when I found you hated step-mothers—when Manila helped you to think them all bad—we still didn’t tell you. We wanted you to learn to love Grandma dearly.”

“I do.” (Grandma! She of the gentle look and gentler voice, who did not know how to be cross or unkind, she was a step-mother!) “Then of course,” she added, “Grandma has never—er—whipped you.”

He burst into laughter, throwing back his big head and slapping his knees. “Whipped!” he repeated. “Whipped! Oh, Phoebe!” Then, gravely, “That sweet mother-woman? Why, I couldn’t love Grandma better if she were my own mother.”

“You couldn’t?”

“I never knew the difference,” he declared earnestly. “She’s been so wonderfully dear. And—you wouldn’t either, Phoebe. No; very soon, you wouldn’t either.”

“I wonder,” commented Phoebe. She was thinking aloud.

“Take your daddy,” went on Uncle Bob. “He was just a little shaver when Grandma came to us. He wasn’t strong—he didn’t sleep. She spent night after night carrying him, mothering him. Grandma saved your daddy’s life.”

“Then Grandma is a good step,” asserted Phoebe. Her eyes grew moist with quick gratitude.

“There are thousands of good steps,” declared Uncle Bob.

“But Manila—see what Manila got!”

He smiled knowingly, mysteriously. “Manila’s own fault,” he said.

“No!”

“Yes. She made the mistake of not picking her own step.”

“Manila’s father picked Mrs. Botts,” confided Phoebe.

“Mrs. Botts picked him,” contradicted Uncle Bob. “Oh, Phoebe, I want you to trust me, to believe me!”

“Of course!” she cried.

“Phoebe,”—he rested a hand on either shoulder—“you need a good step. But you mustn’t make Manila’s mistake. You must not trust to your father’s judgment. You—must—pick—that—step—yourself.”

Phoebe gasped. “Myself?”

“Yourself—or you won’t get one.”

“But—but,” she protested, trying to rise from beneath his hold.

He would not let her go. “Phoebe! Oh, Phoebe, listen to me! Your father guesses that you don’t want him to marry. And so he won’t. For that very reason you must choose your mother. And you must choose her before you go!”

“Before tomorrow?”

“This very afternoon!”

At that they both rose. There was that set look about Uncle Bob’s jaw which Phoebe, learning the moods of men, recognized as a sign of determination. Before that big, glowing countenance and those clenched teeth, Phoebe weakened.

He saw that. “Oh, Phoebe,” he pleaded, “there’s so much that you must know for your own safety and happiness. My little girl, you didn’t even realize what dangers lay along the Valley Road as you went! Think of it! It makes my heart sick when I think of it. Well, there must be someone beside you—some dear woman who will love you, someone you can trust and love!”

“But—but who—?” she faltered.

He drew back. “Mm,—yes, that’s so. Now, who?” He took one of his characteristic turns, hands behind back, knuckles of one tapping the palm of the other. “Now who? Of course, it must be somebody nice.”

She stared. “I should think so!”

“Well,”—Uncle Bob came about, suave and smiling once more—“there are any number of charming ladies about. Now let’s just think. Mm! Who? For instance.”

“We-e-ell.” Phoebe gave him a sidewise look. Certain “movie” stars (she could think of two whom she adored!) had loomed first in her mind’s eye. But considering what had so recently transpired, could she venture to mention these young goddesses to Uncle Bob? She felt she could not. And besides might not her father, if he were to marry one of them, find her so attractive that his little daughter——

Staunchly she put jealousy out of her heart. Once Mother had told her that there are different kinds of love, and one could not subtract from another. So if Daddy were to care for a new wife, it did not follow that he would care a whit less for his daughter. And so Phoebe met the problem at its nearest point—the drug-store.

“There’s a new young lady down at Fletcher’s,” she informed Uncle Bob. “And she likes me better than the one did who has the baby. Because as soon as my ice-cream soda is gone, she asks me to have another. Now, wouldn’t she do?”

Uncle Bob looked dubious. “It can’t be somebody who will just ‘do’.”

“I suppose not.”

“And there’s Daddy. You know—in a way—we’ll have to please him.”

At that she felt more jealous than before; but she fought it. “Yes,” she answered steadily, “we’ll have to pick somebody that Daddy likes.—I’ll think again.”

Uncle Bob was thinking, for he was scratching his head as he walked. “Let me see,” he mused. “Let me see.” He gave a quick glance at Phoebe from under lowered lids.

“I can’t seem to remember another good one,” she announced apologetically.

Her uncle halted—abruptly. He brought his two fists up in front of him. He smiled, showing all of his teeth.

“Phoebe!” he cried.

“Yes?” Her eyes were a little fearful.

“Just the one!” He came to sit beside her.

“Who?” She sat very straight.

“Phoebe,”—he took her face between his hands; his kind blue eyes searched hers, shining upon her with infinite love; “Phoebe, how about Miss Ruth?”

She started. “Miss Ruth!” And that moment a strange thing happened to Phoebe. The forbidding step-mother figure which had haunted her so long—the tall, bony, heavy-shouldered woman whose arms were like the arms of a gorilla that Phoebe had once seen at the Zoo in Bronx Park, in New York; that gray-haired, sullen-eyed, formidable, silent creature made out of childish imaginings—now stepped backward, as it were, out of Phoebe’s brain; and to take the place that was left, there came forward Ruth Shepard, a tender smile lighting her eyes and curving her mouth—Ruth Shepard, with hands outstretched.

Phoebe drew a sobbing breath of relief. “She’d be perfect!” she declared. “She loves me, and I love her. And—and Daddy——”

“Phoebe,” went on Uncle Bob, “your daddy loves Miss Ruth.”

Phoebe blinked, trying to understand. “Daddy loves her?”

“Devotedly.”

“And—you love her.”

“I don’t count.”

Phoebe was puzzling something out: “You love her, and Daddy loves her, and you’re two brothers——”

“And each wants the other to be happy,” said Uncle Bob, as if completing the sentence. “But you see, Miss Ruth loves your daddy; she’s never loved anyone else—not since she wore braids down her back. So that’s how it is, old dumpling. And you’ll understand why my own brother pulls back, and says No, and——” His voice broke.

“Uncle Bob,” she asked tenderly, “are you sure you want Daddy to marry Miss Ruth? Because—because you’re crying.”

His eyes were indeed brimming. But through the tears shone a smile. He caught her to him, laughing down at her, pressing her head against his shoulder, pressing his cheek against her cheek. “Of course I’m crying,” he said, not even trying to keep his voice even. “Because I know why you asked what you did. You think—you’re afraid that old Uncle Bob will be terribly hurt, broken-hearted. And so your tender, precious thought is for him. Oh, little Phoebe! My sweet girl!” He choked. And fell to rocking her back and forth, not being able to go on.

“Yes,” she whispered up to him. “That’s why. Oh, dear Uncle Bob!”

“Well, Phoebe,”—he set her free, found his handkerchief, mopped his eyes with it, blew a resounding blast, and took on a wider smile than ever—“this is the truth, little woman: I want Daddy to marry Miss Ruth better than anything else in the world.”

Phoebe smiled back at him. Only fourteen years had those gray-blue eyes looked upon the big world, yet those years had brought Phoebe something of that age-long wisdom of woman which is called intuition. And as she looked at Uncle Bob, she knew that he was, at one and the same time, telling the whole truth and a great falsehood.

She put a hand against his cheek. “Precious Uncle Bob!” she whispered tremulously. And lowering her head, hid her face against his breast. He had freed her from the ugly vision that haunted: he had given her the promise of love and peace and joy. He had said he would do anything in the world to make her happy. Now he was keeping his word—he was giving up his hope of happiness in giving up Miss Ruth.

“More than anything, Phoebe,” he repeated huskily.

She moved her head in assent “Then he will,” she said simply.

“But there isn’t any time to lose!” Uncle Bob stood up, wound his watch-chain round a finger, pulled the big silver time-piece from its pocket, consulted it hastily, and shoved it back. “I must get Miss Ruth. I’ll telephone her house.”

“Oh, but suppose she won’t come,” suggested Phoebe.

“What shall I say to her?” Uncle Bob looked suddenly helpless.

“I know!” A mischievous twinkle came back into Phoebe’s eyes. “If she holds back you scare her!”

He gasped. “Scare her?”

“Once I saw it—in the movies,” she confided excitedly. “Oh, Uncle Bob, you say to her, ‘Poor Phoebe is dying!’”

He joined in her laughter. “You muggins! If I have to, I’ll do it!” Then gravely, “When she gets here, go awful slow—take your time.”

Phoebe gave him a wise smile. “At first, I’ll just hint.”

“Good. And—and there’s something else: If I were you I wouldn’t tell Miss Ruth that you’ve talked this over with me.”

“I won’t,” she promised, understanding.

“Let her—and Daddy—think it was all your idea.”

“If you think I’d better.”

“I do. And, Phoebe, I’m not going to tell you what to say, or how to say it; I’m just going to let you follow your own blessed ideas.”

Her eyes grew solemn. “You needn’t be afraid,” she answered reassuringly. “I know just how to do it. I’ve got a wonderful plan.”

“Ah, fine!” Then a little awkwardly, “But—er—I wonder if you could manage (just this once) to tell a—a sort of a fib.”

Phoebe laughed. “I guess so.” And added, roguishly, “If it’s a little one.”

He sobered and leaned down to her, taking her hands. “It’s important. Even if you don’t understand why, oh, remember and believe what I tell you—it’s very important. Phoebe, if Miss Ruth asks you who wanted you to do this, you must say it was Daddy.”

“It was Daddy,” she repeated.

He put a hand under her chin and lifted her face to his. He was smiling. The tears in his eyes were tears of joy. “Oh, my little girl,” he said tenderly, “this is going to make everybody happy.”

She looked up at him, not smiling, and not in the least deceived. She understood his sacrifice. It was made for her father, for Miss Ruth, for her. And that moment, Uncle Bob, ageing, growing stout, getting bald, was transformed to Phoebe, through her grateful love, into a figure all knightly and splendid and beautiful.

“I love you,” she told him.

He swept her to him in another embrace. “Good luck!” he whispered. “Good luck, and God bless you!”—and was gone.