Uncle Bob read the wire. He took, Phœbe thought, a good while to read it. And he made a curious face at it, a grimace that seemed half comical, half sad. Then he handed the paper to Grandma, and turned to lean on the high, leather-covered back of the couch.
Grandma read the telegram and—let it slip from her fingers to the floor.
Ordinarily Phœbe would have sprung to pick up anything that Grandma might drop. What held her back now? She could not have forced herself even to touch that rectangle of paper! She only stared down at it.
“Precious little girl,” faltered Grandma. She sank to a chair—feebly.
“What——?” began Phœbe. “My—my mother——?”
“Phœbe,” said Uncle John, more tenderly than he had ever spoken to her in all the past months. “Phœbe, your mother is—in Heaven.”
Phœbe understood. The blood went out of her face. Something drove through her body from head to foot, like a stroke of lightning. But though she swayed a little, she kept her foothold. Hers was a staunch little soul.
“She’s all Blair,” Uncle Bob had once said of her. Now as she set her teeth together, and clenched her fingers on her palms, she was taking her blow in true Blair fashion.
Uncle Bob came round to the front of the couch. That big, moon-like face of his was working as he, too, strove for control. He sat down, and held out his arms. “Phœbe!” he whispered. “Little, little Phœbe!”
She lifted a hand to her face, brushed at a cheek, tried to straighten, swallowed—then made toward him unsteadily, and stumbled against his breast.