“Don’t encourage Phœbe in that sort of thing!” begged Uncle John.
“They’re a lot of hypocrites,” declared his brother. “And this youngster’s got sense enough to know it. Why didn’t they show some sympathy over the other thing?”
“True,” agreed Uncle John. “For that was worse than death.”
“Exactly. But now, they begin their writing. They were thinking of themselves when they—when I took Phœbe away from there. And now whom are they thinking about?—that Simpson woman’s pocket-book! Confound them!”
Phœbe gave some reflection to that short passage between her uncles. What was worse than death? She knew: scandal!
But the most gratifying thing that happened to her was a surprise. One night she wakened to find her hand in the clasp of a hand smaller than Uncle Bob’s, softer than Sophie’s, firmer than Grandma’s. And without being told who it was, she instantly guessed. “Miss Ruth!” she whispered.
“It is Miss Ruth, Phœbe,” came the whisper back. Velvet lips touched her forehead and her hair. An arm went round her, to pat the slender shoulders and tuck in the covers.
“I love you,” sighed Phœbe, contented, and slept again.
After that Miss Ruth continued to come. Often in the darkness, if Phœbe was wakeful, Miss Ruth would tell her stories—wonderful stories, about princesses and knights, goblins and dwarfs and fairies. These were all new to Phœbe, who knew best the more modern stories of the films.
“Why didn’t you ever come to see us before?” Phœbe wanted to know.