“Well, what was better, you threw yourself out. You are the prisoner, Manila, and I’m the heroine.—My, if only somebody could’ve come by with a kodak!”
They crept along by the wall. Manila was sniffing. Phœbe eyed her approvingly. This was better—the proper spirit.
“Sh! Sh!” cautioned Phœbe.
They arrived, bent over, under a window. Phœbe slowly straightened and spied out the ground. The library was empty. Good! She gave a hop, landed on mid-torso across the sill, gave a wriggle, and stood safely within. “Now!” she whispered cautiously, putting forth a hand.
Manila was weeping in good earnest. “She told me, ‘Don’t you budge’.” But she took Phœbe’s hand.
When the two were side by side once more, Phœbe was all tender sympathy. She felt that Manila was really acting very well. At first the latter had given the impression that, after all, Mrs. Botts was not so bad as she had been painted. But of course she was! And this drama was promising excitement.
Manila sought the nearest chair. “Wa-a-ah,” she wept.
“Poor little girl!” said Phœbe, stroking the red hair. “If only we had our mothers—both of us. Manila, do you suppose our mothers are together in Heaven?” Then with a glance at the woebegone figure, “Well, perhaps not exactly together, but close by. Perhaps my mother is in a mansion all of precious stones, and your mother—your mother is walking along the streets of gold.”
Manila cast up one eye, the other being hidden under a damp fist. “How do y’know?” she asked.
“Uncle John tells me,” condescended Phœbe. “Uncle John’s a clergyman, and he knows all about Heaven. ‘The twelve gates of the City are twelve pearls,’ he says. Oh, Manila, if you and I could only go to Heaven to our mothers!”