Phœbe did not speak for a minute. While things began to clear for her—the swift packing, the sudden departure from New York, the telegrams that had come, one after another, the fact that she had had no letters, nor been permitted to read those written her father. Stolen! By her father, from her mother!
“Why?” demanded Phœbe, suddenly; then, as Sophie glanced up, “Why did Daddy steal me?”
“Didn’t want you out there in a divorce town, I guess.”
“Oh. And why was I watched so, and never taken anywhere for a long time?”
“If I tell y’, you’ll never, never tell?”
“Never, never, never—cross my heart to die!”
“The folks here was afraid your mamma’d steal you back.”
Phœbe was appalled. She got up, and stood over Sophie, wavering a little, too shocked to speak.
“Phœbe!” comforted Sophie, reaching out her earth-stained hands. “Dear kiddie!”
“They—they don’t want me to be with Mother?—again?”