“Up in your house?” faltered Manila.
“No! Somewhere in the sky.”
“How do we get there? Airplanes?”
“The minute you die, Manila, you’re an angel, and you grow wings.”
“I don’t wanta die!”
Phœbe put her arms about the shaking figure. “There! There!” she comforted. “What you need is mothering. I know. It’s what I want when I feel blue. Manila, I’m going to mother you.”
And then—! Up to now Phœbe had felt that from the standpoint of drama there had been not a little lacking in this rescue of an imprisoned stepdaughter. She was to feel this no longer. For the exciting now took place.
Phœbe never did quite figure out how it happened. But first there was a quick slamming of doors, and a shrilling of voices—Sophie’s, Grandma’s, and another, a strange woman’s. Then as Manila leaped from Phœbe’s hold, the door opened with a fling, so that the window-curtains billowed and swung, and into the room, stamping and panting, with eyes bulging and lips puffed out, and a very torrent of threatening cries, came the Rat-Woman!
Phœbe knew her instantly, even before Manila cried “Mrs. Botts!” And Phœbe faced her, bravely, with dislike and reproof in her look. Crouched behind her was Manila, sobbing wildly.
“So-o-o!” cried the Rat-Woman, advancing upon Phœbe. “I find out if someone can come into my house to steal!”