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Yes, Phebe's had a narrow escape, and one she'll likely bear the marks of to her dying day. Let it be a warning to you, young ladies, to be prepared. There's no knowing how soon some one of you may not be carried off in the same way, just as you are dressed for a dance, maybe." Her tone implied that death could not overtake them at a more sinful moment. "Hullo, up there!
As soon as she caught sight of Phebe's pitiful face she ran to her, and clasping her in her arms, burst into a passion of tears and sobs. "My son!" she cried; "what can have become of him, Phebe? Where can he be gone? If he would only come home, all these people would be satisfied, and go away. They don't know Mr. Clifford, but they know Roland; he is so popular.
The rich folds of her velvet dress, and the soft and costly lace of her head-dress, distinct from though resembling a widow's cap, set off both her face and figure to the utmost advantage. Phebe's eyes seemed to behold her more distinctly and vividly than they had done for some years past; for she was looking through them with a dark background for what she saw in her own brain.
On one scorching July morning, Phebe and Phebe's own familiar friend, Isabel St. John, had roused their respective households at four o'clock in order that they might catch the six-thirty train for New York. Once there, they betook themselves to Hester Street in order to study the conditions of life in the East Side.
Early, in May she turned into Phebe's studio, which she had seldom entered since her portrait was finished. This portrait was in the Academy Exhibition, and she was constantly receiving empty compliments about it. "Dear Phebe!" she exclaimed, "I have tried fashionable life to see how much it is worth, and oh! it is altogether hollow and inane.
Gerald, my dear sister, is Miss Phebe's idol; I rather think she says her prayers before Gerald's picture every night." "Oh, please!" cried Phebe. "But who is this Gerald?" asked Mrs. Whittridge. "Does he live here?" "No, Soeur Angélique, and by the way he is not he at all, but she, and will be known in history as Miss Geraldine Vernor.
Gifford Barrett came back into the box, trailing after him a huge wreath. He laid it down at Phebe's side. "What in the world is that for?" she demanded. "I didn't write your music for you." "No" he answered, with a queer little smile; "but perhaps you helped it on." "Billy, I am low in my mind." "You look it, Ted; but cheer up. What's the matter?"
Alec, she peeped over the paper with such an anxious face that he put it down at once. "Uncle, this is a serious matter, and we must take our stand at once, for you are Phebe's guardian and I am her sister," began Rose with pretty solemnity.
Clifford's conscience smote him as he listened to Phebe's unworldly comment on Roland Sefton's conduct. If Roland had met him with the announcement of a gain of ten thousand pounds by a lucky though unauthorized speculation, he knew very well his own feeling would have been utterly different from that with which he had heard of the loss of ten thousand pounds.
In the family of Lady D , Phebe's duties were at once easy and agreeable. She waited upon her mistress's bell in the morning, and was soon taught how to assist at the toilet. During the day, she either read aloud, whilst her Ladyship reposed after her forenoon's walk or drive, or looked after the health and comfort of two favourite lap-dogs.
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