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.
Phœbe 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 Phœbe from the sofa and held her at arm’s length. His face—Phœbe 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.
“Phœbe,” 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. Phœbe 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?”