“Gosh!” breathed Manila. “And what’ll you do if you get a step?”
Phœbe sat back. “Me?” she demanded, and swallowed.
Manila nodded.
Phœbe said nothing. She felt her heart swelling; her ears sang. She wanted to take hold of Manila and pound at her with a fist. She hated her! She hated——!
Sophie came in. “The Judge is in the lib’ry, Manila,” she said, somewhat reprovingly. As Manila rose, Sophie took her by a shoulder and led her hallward.
But Phœbe stayed where she was. A storm was raging in her breast. Sophie had suggested a step-father, and Phœbe had been able to laugh. Did she not know Mother?—dear, beautiful, devoted Mother, who would no more think of doing anything that could hurt her small daughter than of—than of—well, committing the most awful crime: murder, or stealing, or setting some house on fire. Why, who would think of giving the matter of a step-father even a second thought? Besides, the “movies” never pictured wicked, cruel step-fathers. There were, probably, step-fathers in existence. Even so, whoever heard of their being undesirable?
But this was different. Soon that father so dear to Phœbe would be entirely free—it was Mother who was setting him free. (And this gave Phœbe at once a sense of her mother’s generosity.) Once free——!
“O-o-oh!” she gasped, and covered her face.
CHAPTER XII
Her father—hers! And some woman!