Phoebe, standing at the center of her own room, slowly turned herself about, as if taking a farewell look at the big, old bed—so forbidding when contrasted with the dainty, bewreathed, ivory-tinted “twin” in which she had slept beside her mother; at the low heavy chest of drawers that held water-pitcher and bowl; at the marble-topped “dresser”, equally ugly, with its slab of stone like something out of a cemetery; at the tall, dark doors; the clothes-closet, that abode of fearful shapes; the high-backed chairs; and the ancient sofa.

And yet she was not saying good-bye to the room and the familiar objects in it so much as she was to the life she had led there. A swift change was coming. But not a change merely from the big room in the big, lonely house to the dear surroundings in New York. That transfer was indeed to be made. But there was more about to happen—a glorious thing! And it was she, Phoebe Shaw Blair, who was to bring it to pass!

She laughed a little, out loud. Then suddenly, for no reason, she covered her face with both hands, and kissed her palms as if they were the palms of another’s hands. “Oh, she must say Yes!” she cried. “Uncle Bob wants her to!”

She was all ready. Her face was rosy after a quick wash in the bowl. Her hair glistened even with a hurried brushing. She had on white stockings, and her newest black pumps, and a fresh smock-dress that was pale blue.

She looked down at herself and laughed again. Here she was, who had wept and worried at the mere idea of a step-mother, and had even been glad that Miss Ruth was rather cool to Daddy—here she was, actually scheming to get a step-mother, which step-mother was to be that same Miss Ruth!

She went up to the mirror and looked into it. “Phoebe!” she whispered. “Oh, you’re such a funny girl!”

She sobered. Her glance had caught her mother’s photograph. She took it up, holding it in both hands, close, and speaking to it as if to the living. “Oh, you won’t mind?” she faltered. “Oh, Mother, try to tell me that you won’t mind!”

She held the photograph against her. Was she being faithless to her own mother, in taking a new one? She turned to an open window, and looked up.

Somewhere in the vast sky was her dear one, more beautiful now, and always to be beautiful and young. Uncle John said this was true of all who died. And even though Uncle John did not like her mother he could not say that she fared any differently than all the others who went away. Out of the great blue was Mother looking down now upon her little girl? And how? Happily? Or in sorrow?

Phoebe looked at the picture again. There was a tender smile on the lovely face. The eyes looked full into her daughter’s.

“Oh, I know you don’t mind!” cried Phoebe. “You don’t mind!” She knelt at the open window. Great white clouds lay against the blue. Phoebe understood that her mother was beyond them—farther. She shut her eyes, praying.

“Oh, Mother, thank you!” she whispered. “It isn’t about Daddy you mind—I know that. But about me—you believe I won’t love you any less, ever. Oh, Mother, you’ll see I won’t forget you even for Miss Ruth. Don’t let it hurt, will you? Don’t be a weeny speck jealous. Oh, precious Mother!”

She kissed the picture, and got up, strangely comforted. There was some pink tissue-paper in the bottom drawer of the dresser. She took it out and carefully wrapped the photograph. Then she opened the clothes-closet and found the suit-case.

The lining of the cover was loose at one corner, and two or three little things were under there, hidden! A valentine from a boy! Some hair-pins, picked up now and then, and useful, on occasions, for trial attempts at putting up her hair. And there was a picture post-card. A girl had given it to her—one of Miss Simpson’s girls. Phoebe did not quite understand the meaning of the picture on that card. But from the look in the girl’s eyes, from the curious expression of her mouth, Phoebe had sensed that the post-card was not nice.

Now she tore it up, with a smart ripping of the pasteboard that had not a little resentment in it. They were so “select”, those Simpson girls! Yes! But one of them had pictures like this! Well, it could not stay in the same place with Mother’s photograph!

The secret little place cleansed of its evil holding, Phoebe pressed the pink-wrapped photograph to her breast, and to her lips; then slipped it under the loosened lining. For with more understanding than fourteen may be credited with, Phoebe realized that any picture of Mother had best be put away, kept for herself only—not for her father, or for the dear presence that was to share a new happy home.