Phœbe thought about that, wondering what Uncle Bob meant. Something kept
her from asking him. Was it the strange look on his face as he watched
Miss Ruth go? Or was it the way in which he went out, hands stuffed in
pockets, head down, grave—curiously unlike his usual smiling self? And
how did he want Miss Ruth to live at Grandma’s? As a sort of helper,
like Sophie? That was not likely. Perhaps Miss Ruth boarded nearby, and
Uncle Bob wanted her to board at the Blair house. Phœbe made up her mind
to ask Sophie, source of all confidential information. She stored up
Uncle Bob’s last words so that she could not fail to remember them:
“_Yes, I’ve been saying that for years, and years,—and years._”
But before her opportunity came to question Sophie, and while she was
still watching out in the direction Miss Ruth had gone, she saw a
strange little figure coming across the grass—coming slowly, in fact
almost sidling, with glances up at the higher windows of the house, and
those formidable gingerbread turrets.
At first Phœbe was sure that it was a boy, all dressed up grotesquely,
as New York boys dressed themselves every Thanksgiving Day. For surely
(the figure was close now) no young person ever could have _real_ hair
that was so red, or wear a hat, except in fun, that was so queer and
green. And then the dress—too loose, and too long. And the shoes—! So
large!
Suddenly Phœbe’s heart gave a leap. It was not a dressed-up boy: It was
a girl! “A girl in disguise!” concluded Phœbe, excitedly, with
moving-picture plots springing to her mind. “And she’s flying from the
enemy!”
The girl halted at a little distance, fearfully. Then Phœbe went out to
meet her, and also halted. The two looked at each other.
“Won’t you come in?” asked Phœbe at last, politely.
The girl hung her head.
“Come on in,” persisted Phœbe. “Nobody’s going to hurt you.” She turned
and led the way, and the girl followed.
She was about Phœbe’s own age, but pale, and looked ill-fed and unhappy.
Her eyes were so light a gray that they seemed colorless, and milky. Her
under-jaw had a way of dropping. Her hands were soiled, and red.
“You needn’t be afraid, little girl,” declared Phœbe, when they were in
the sitting-room, and the door to the lawn was shut. “You just tell me
what you want.”
But the other seemed tongue-tied. Her mouth was open, but not a word
came forth. She fidgeted, and a blush suffused her many freckles,
clothing them from sight.
“Now, what do you want?” encouraged Phœbe again. “Please. Just say it
right out.”
“Th’ Judge,”—with not a movement of the lips.
Phœbe stared. She understood. Uncle Bob, reigning over the local
Juvenile Court, looked after children exclusively. Here, helpless,
homely, and pathetic, was one of his charges. “Have you been a bad
child?” she asked sorrowfully.
“Naw.”
“Then what—what have you been?”
“L-l-licked!”
“Oh!” Phœbe went to her, taking one of the red hands, and drew her to a
chair. “You poor little girl! Here! Sit down. Now tell me. Who licked
you?”
The pale eyes became suddenly alive with fear. The drooping mouth
tightened, and trembled. “Step-mother!”
“Oh!” cried Phœbe again. “You—so you’ve got a step!”
“Uh-huh.”
Phœbe sat down and regarded her visitor, marveling at her. A
step-mother—a cruel step-mother who beat and tortured, exactly like the
step-mothers in the movies! “Then you’re Manila Botts,” she declared.
“Yop.”
Somehow, Phœbe, hearing the name from Miss Ruth, had thought of Manila
Botts as some one tall and plump—quite a grown person. And here—! “Tell
me about your step-mother,” she bade.
“She’s a woman,” ventured Manila, helplessly.
“Well?”
“And she’s married to my father—but she don’t like him.”
“I know.” Phœbe nodded sadly. “They sit at the table, and don’t speak,
and don’t kiss each other good-night.”
“But she spends all Paw’s money,” went on Manila. “And she hits me.
Look!” She drew up a loose sleeve. There on the thin arm was a dark
welt.
Phœbe gasped.
Manila, pleased with the effect she had produced, warmed to further
details. “She hits me with a piece of harness. It’s half of a tug. And
once she hurt me so bad that I went to Court.”
“But doesn’t your daddy help you?” demanded Phœbe.
“Nope. Just boozes.” She lowered the sleeve resignedly.
Phœbe gave a quick look around. Then, “It’s almost like a picture I once
saw:” she said; “Her Terrible Sin. There was a woman in it who got
whipped by a man who was tipsy.”
“Gosh!” breathed Manila. “And what’ll you do if _you_ get a step?”
Phœbe sat back. “_Me?_” she demanded, and swallowed.
Manila nodded.
Phœbe said nothing. She felt her heart swelling; her ears sang. She
wanted to take hold of Manila and pound at her with a fist. She hated
her! She hated——!
Sophie came in. “The Judge is in the lib’ry, Manila,” she said, somewhat
reprovingly. As Manila rose, Sophie took her by a shoulder and led her
hallward.
But Phœbe stayed where she was. A storm was raging in her breast. Sophie
had suggested a step-father, and Phœbe had been able to laugh. Did she
not know Mother?—dear, beautiful, devoted Mother, who would no more
think of doing anything that could hurt her small daughter than of—than
of—well, committing the most awful crime: murder, or stealing, or
setting some house on fire. Why, who would think of giving the matter of
a step-father even a second thought? Besides, the “movies” never
pictured wicked, cruel step-fathers. There were, probably, step-fathers
in existence. Even so, whoever heard of their being undesirable?
But this was different. Soon that father so dear to Phœbe would be
entirely free—it was Mother who was setting him free. (And this gave
Phœbe at once a sense of her mother’s generosity.) Once free——!
“O-o-oh!” she gasped, and covered her face.