“Miss—Simpson!” gasped Phœbe, staring.
“In the sittin’-room with Grammaw and Dr. Blair.”
Phœbe stood up. The bow on the front of her middy-blouse rose and fell. Her eyes swam. It was all very well to be independent, to say she did not want friends or acquaintances. But she had lived through scores of dull days—days that were all the harder to endure because she was a product of a metropolis. She had not even seen as much of Manila as she would have liked. Miss Ruth, too, came only when she had to. And when Uncle Bob had suggested asking little girls in, Phœbe had proudly said no—but said it with a bursting heart.
But now the time was come when she could stand out against her loneliness no longer. “Oh, Sophie! Sophie!” she cried, clasping her hands. “It’s just splendid! No more tutoring with Uncle John! Oh, how I hate it! No more Dickens’s ‘Child’s History of England,’ or these awful classics! Miss Simpson’s come to ask me——”
She paused. It was the look on Sophie’s face that made her pause. Resentment was written large on that countenance framed by the tousled hair. Phœbe understood the resentment. She shared it. “But she didn’t want me when my mother was—West,” she said.
Sophie’s arms were folded. “Now, you’re talkin’!” she replied admiringly. “When you needed these fine ladies, they didn’t stand by y’.”
Phœbe nodded. “I know. I’ve thought about it lots since my mother died. And I know there was something the matter.” She looked down at the carpet, restraining herself from questioning Sophie. What was it that Mrs. Botts had said—while Uncle Bob covered Phœbe’s ears? Something very ugly, Phœbe was sure. And Phœbe would have liked to ask now, yet shrank as ever from discussing her mother with a servant. But Uncle Bob had said that Mother could not do wrong——
“Sophie!” she whispered. “I hadn’t done anything, had I? And Miss Simpson sent home my books!” Her voice broke. She sank to the chair.
“Phœbe,” said Sophie, gently. Then to rouse her, “Keep your chin up, Kiddie! Don’t you let that Finnegan girl see that you care!”
“I don’t care,” protested Phœbe, with spirit. “You just watch me! Go on—bring her in. I’m ready!” She caught up a volume of Scott from where she had deposited it when Lillian had proved the more enthralling.