“No, Cousin Judith. Phil is all right. He’s doing splendid work, as you may know from the fact that Mr. Spaythe has raised his salary.”
“But the boy is unhappy, nevertheless,” persisted the Little Mother, musingly.
Phœbe sighed. She knew it was true.
“As for you, my dear,” continued Judith, “you are a mere bundle of nerves lately, and start and grow pale if anyone speaks to you. What has happened, Phœbe?”
The girl darned industriously for a time. Then she said earnestly:
“You trust me, Cousin Judith, do you not?”
“You know I do, Phœbe.”
“Then please do not question me to-day. I don’t want to mislead you, or deceive you, and Judge Ferguson has asked me not to confide in anyone—not even you.”
“Judge Ferguson!” exclaimed Judith, relieved. “Is it his secret, then?”
“Just now it is,” answered Phœbe. “But there is nothing to worry about, dear. That’s what I told Phil, just after dinner.”