“Because Miss Ruth is good,” Sophie went on. She was oddly grave, for some reason. “Don’t forget that, Phœbe. She’s the nicest woman in this town. But—she’s never been happy.” Sophie sighed. “Things’ve never gone right for Miss Ruth, some way.”
“And she doesn’t love Uncle Bob?” persisted Phœbe.
Sophie drew back. “You know all you oughta know about it,” she said, laughing. “Now run home, dearie, to Grammaw.”
“Uncle Bob isn’t handsome,” conceded Phœbe. “He’s too short, and he’s bald, and a little old, too——”
“Miss Ruth ain’t a girl no more,” reminded Sophie. “She looks awful young. But she was nineteen the year your daddy got married, and so she must be about thirty-three or so.”
“My!” marveled Phœbe. “I thought she was twenty-five, maybe.”
“Bein’ a probation officer don’t take it out of you like housework,” reminded Sophie.
“But she doesn’t hate Uncle Bob, does she?” went on Phœbe.
“Naw! Don’t they see each other every day at the Court House?”
“But she doesn’t come here any more. Why?”