“There! There!” he comforted.
“She died out there alone! Did you all hate her?”
“No! No!”
“What did my mother do that was so bad?”
He made her stand in front of him. “Phœbe,” he began solemnly, “shall I tell you the truth?”
“I want to know.”
“And if I tell you the truth, you’ll never worry about it again?”
“No, I won’t, Uncle Bob.”
“The truth is this:”—looking at her squarely—“your mother just couldn’t do wrong.”
“I love you,” faltered Phœbe, glad and grateful and on the verge of tears—all at the same time.