There was a moment of silence then, of constrained silence. Phœbe felt that constraint, and glanced at her grandmother—just in time to see a finger lifted in warning at Uncle John, and a shake of the head that was intentional.
Phœbe wondered if something was wrong about Miss Ruth. She made up her mind to ask Sophie.
She thought of Sophie because the girl had just entered, abruptly. She had a yellow envelope in her hand. “Here’s another telegram, Judge,” she announced.
Phœbe rose. “Mother?” she asked, as Uncle Bob tore at the envelope.
“Bob!” said Grandma. She laid an anxious hand on his arm.
From the near distance sounded the long-drawn whistle of a train.
“Listen!” said Uncle John.
“Read the wire,” urged Grandma. “Quick! We can telephone the depot.”
Uncle Bob shook his head. “No, Mother,” he answered. “If this is from Helen, no matter what it says it’s best that Jim should go.” He spread the telegram out.
Afterwards, for the rest of her life, Phœbe was destined never to forget that minute, or the hours and the days that immediately followed. For the minute was to bring a great crisis into her life, and the hours and the days were to be filled with sorrow.