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 Phœbe’s father was out of the tonneau and up the steps to the kitchen before anyone could follow them.
In the rear hall, Phœbe 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! Phœbe, 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 Phœbe “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.
Phœbe knew who it was; she held her breath.
“Little old dumpling!”
Phœbe 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!”