"I wish I were a flower," Phebe said moodily; "only Allyn would tear it to pieces. I'd rather be a vine; that's tougher."
"What has Allyn done?" Hope asked.
"I don't tell tales, Hope McAlister." And Phebe departed with her chin in the air, leaving Hope to console herself for the rebuke with the reflection that Phebe's code of honor, in such cases, varied according to her own share of the blame.
Half an hour later, Phebe appeared to Billy, who sat in an easy-chair before a crackling fire in the library.
"Hullo, Phebe!" he exclaimed. "How you was?"
"All right. I thought I'd come over and see you, a while."
"That's good. You don't often come. Sit down, won't you?" He waved his book hospitably in the direction of a chair. "Where's Teddy? She hasn't been over here for an age."
"She's—busy." Phebe spoke with a tone of conscious mystery.
"What do you mean?" Billy turned to look at his guest in astonishment.
"Oh—nothing."