She had not many dresses in the closet. She touched each in turn. Then she stood for a few minutes on the threshold of the closet to get a general and comprehensive idea of her little wardrobe. After which, hunting her old doll, she went back to the window to think.
Grandma, weeping—that seemed, to her, the thing most significant. Why was Grandma weeping? “No,” said Phœbe, solemnly, to the doll, “it isn’t my face, and it isn’t my clothes.” For, after all, when it came to looks, Phœbe felt herself to be better looking than, say, Genevieve. And there were two or three other girls at Miss Simpson’s who were, if proud, quite plain. As for clothes, Grandma had no need to feel badly about them; all she had to do was order more!
It was, indeed, a mystery. Phœbe tried to remember any story that resembled hers among all the moving-pictures she had ever seen. She could remember a little girl who stole jam, and another little girl who stole watermelons. But she had taken nothing, had done no wrong wilfully. At that, the tears of self-pity flowed. She hid her face against the doll.
Then—of a sudden—she felt she knew! Prayers! That was it! The girls had discovered, somehow, that Phœbe had only recently learned to pray! She stood up, dropping the doll to the floor.
Mother had never taught her to pray. And once when Phœbe had asked about prayers (having seen two children kneeling beside their father’s chair in a moving-picture), Mother had answered, rather sharply, “I don’t believe in teaching innocent little tots that they’re full of sin. It’s wicked.” But Grandma—when she found that Phœbe did not know “Now I lay me”—Grandma had knelt down beside Phœbe (they were in Phœbe’s room) and implored God to touch Phœbe’s heart, and claim Phœbe’s love. And a day or two later, Uncle John had called Phœbe into the library, where Phœbe had learned “Now I lay me,” and the Lord’s Prayer, and had listened to a very great deal that Uncle John said, the sum and substance of which was that Phœbe’s ignorance in the matter of prayers was so shocking as to be beyond even Uncle John’s power to express. Phœbe gathered further, though her uncle was discreet when it came to naming anyone who should be blamed, that Mother, yes, and Daddy, were equally culpable, and that Phœbe had virtually been snatched from the burning.
So—Phœbe decided—it was the prayers. True, she had prayed faithfully for the past two or three months. But the girls had discovered about the unlucky thirteen years and more that went before!
Something pounded in Phœbe’s throat. And there by the window, one knee on the forgotten doll, she bowed herself....
Later, when she went down to supper, she felt more certain than ever that she was right. It was the prayers! For as she entered the dining-room, guiltily, wistfully, on slow foot, and with lowered look, nobody greeted her cheerily. Her father kissed her, but absent-mindedly. He ate without speaking. Uncle John was silent, too—and stern. Uncle Bob made one or two pathetic attempts to start conversation, but Phœbe could see that even jolly Uncle Bob——! And Grandma, pressing dainties upon Phœbe, and smiling tenderly (with swollen eyes), was plainly anxious and disturbed.
So was Sophie! True, she winked at Phœbe once during the course of the meal. But it was a solemn wink. Her manner was subdued. She moved carefully, rattling no dishes. Phœbe caught the girl’s eyes upon her more than once. Phœbe understood the look—it was all examination, and curiosity.
“Can Sophie take me upstairs?” asked Phœbe, at bedtime. The uncles were back in the library once more, and Phœbe’s father was with them. But there was no sound of argument.