The girl halted at a little distance, fearfully. Then Phœbe went out to meet her, and also halted. The two looked at each other.
“Won’t you come in?” asked Phœbe at last, politely.
The girl hung her head.
“Come on in,” persisted Phœbe. “Nobody’s going to hurt you.” She turned and led the way, and the girl followed.
She was about Phœbe’s own age, but pale, and looked ill-fed and unhappy. Her eyes were so light a gray that they seemed colorless, and milky. Her under-jaw had a way of dropping. Her hands were soiled, and red.
“You needn’t be afraid, little girl,” declared Phœbe, when they were in the sitting-room, and the door to the lawn was shut. “You just tell me what you want.”
But the other seemed tongue-tied. Her mouth was open, but not a word came forth. She fidgeted, and a blush suffused her many freckles, clothing them from sight.
“Now, what do you want?” encouraged Phœbe again. “Please. Just say it right out.”
“Th’ Judge,”—with not a movement of the lips.
Phœbe stared. She understood. Uncle Bob, reigning over the local Juvenile Court, looked after children exclusively. Here, helpless, homely, and pathetic, was one of his charges. “Have you been a bad child?” she asked sorrowfully.