“In here?” she asked, swinging an arm.
“Yes, dumpling!”
“No,” answered Phœbe, as certain as before. “I’d bother Uncle John when he’s writing a sermon. So Saturdays, when I’m here, I just stand at a window if I can’t play out in the yard. I just stand and look out. But I can’t see much—even upstairs. Because this house is so awfully low down, next the ground.”
“Low down!” ejaculated her uncle, amazed.
“Yes. In New York, our apartment was ’way high up in the building, and we could look over the tops of houses to the River. And the other direction, oh, there was a wonderful moving-picture theatre, and——” She stopped, suddenly remembering.
But her Uncle Bob smiled at her kindly. “And what about that theatre?”
“I went lots of evenings, before Mother was so sick—just Mother and I went, or Sally took me. My! but I love the movies!” Then, fearing he might misjudge her, “I loved the nights we stayed at home, too. They were so cosy. Daddy would be gone, or busy, or just downtown. So Mother would sit at the window in her room, in a big chair, and I’d sit on her knees. Of course, my legs are long, and they hung over. So we just put a stool close by to hold up my feet, and then—then Mother would sing to me.” Her lips trembled.
“Darling!” said Uncle Bob, tenderly. There were tears in her eyes, but she was smiling through them bravely at this uncle who seemed always to understand her. Whereupon he smiled, too, and kissed her. “Maybe Grandma can hold you like that, in a big chair, sometimes.”
“I’m afraid she isn’t strong enough,” answered Phœbe. “And then, maybe she wouldn’t know just how to sing.”
“I see.” He pondered the problem a moment. “Well, of course, I can hold you. But about the singing—just what was it that Mother sang?”