“If I could only give you back your mother!” went on Uncle Bob, huskily. “To make you happy, there isn’t anything I wouldn’t do—not anything.”
His big chin rested upon his tie. He lost himself in thought, his eyes on the carpet,—they were in the library—his arm about Phœbe.
And then she was reminded all at once of that which could make him happy. For Sophie burst in, her over-curled hair lifting with the speed of her coming, and her eyes dancing with something like mischief.
“Miss Shepard’s callin’, Judge,” she announced.
“Ah!” Uncle Bob sprang up.
“Miss Ruth!” cried Phœbe, joyously.
“Ask Miss Shepard in here, Sophie,” bade Uncle Bob. Then, as Sophie swung herself out, “You love Miss Ruth very much, don’t you, Phœbe?”
“Yes,” answered Phœbe. And then, before she could stop the words, for she was thinking aloud, “So do you.”
“Wha-a-at?” exclaimed Uncle Bob.
“People say so,” defended Phœbe, a little frightened at her own temerity.