“Oh, she just made it up as she went along—to suit the occasion.”
He put his arms about her then, and held her close. And there was a long pause.
Her eyes were brimming. And presently, with a long sigh, she spoke again: “Oh, how I like my mother to hold me!”—it was scarcely more than a whisper. “I like her arms, and the place just here on her shoulder.” The coat under her cheek was checked. She touched a black square with a finger. “And she uses perfumery on her hair. Oh, Uncle Bob, I love her hair! I—I love my mother!”
She wept then, without restraint. And the Judge, awkwardly, and puffing not a little with the effort, gathered her up in his arms and held her, whispering to her, straining the little figure to his breast.
“I can’t say anything to Daddy,” she sobbed. “Oh, Uncle Bob! Uncle Bob!”
He patted her shoulder. He laid a big cheek against her wet, baby-soft face. He rocked her gently, yearning over her with all the fatherliness of his big heart. How many times, as Grandma told her, had tearful little ones cried out to him where he sat in his lofty chambers at the Court House! How often had his tender sympathy wrapped them about like a robe—the mistreated, the lonely, the children that lacked love! But here, calling upon him for help in her suffering, was one dearer than all others, of his own blood. And what would he do to help her?
“When can I see Mother?” she asked. “When?”
“Give us all time,” he pleaded. “I know how it is, but try to bear it—try to wait. It’ll all come out right somehow—it’s got to, Phœbe. Oh, it’s got to!”
She felt that he understood, that he grieved with her, that her heartache was his own.