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A rain was drenching the blackness of the night as the New York train reached the small city that was Phœbe’s destination. Her father had wakened her a little in advance of their stop, and when she had washed her face and smoothed her hair, she had peered through the double glass of a car window a-stream with water—and then recoiled from the panes with a sinking of the heart. How dark it was out there! how stormy! how lightless after a life-time in a city which, no matter at what hour she might awake, was always alight!

A long whistle made her catch up her hat and adjust its elastic under her chin. The porter had already taken her father’s suit-case and her own to the forward end of the coach. With a wild thumping in her breast and a choking in her throat, she followed her father to the vestibule, where the porter waited with the suit-case and a small, square stool upon which, presently, she stepped down to meet the rain.

There was a single light in the station, and beside it leaned a young man in an agent’s cap. With her hand on her father’s arm—for he was carrying both of the cases—she crossed a double line of glistening rails to the depot, not taking her eyes from the agent, who represented to her, at the moment, the sole sign of life and refuge in that black, roaring downfall.

Then, “Jim!”

“Hello, Bob!” Her father dropped the luggage and stretched both hands out to a figure that had emerged, in a shining raincoat, from the blackness.

“And Phœbe!” exclaimed Uncle Bob, lifting Phœbe from her feet and at the same time turning himself about, so that she was carried forward to the shelter of a roof. “God bless her! We’ll jump into the surrey, Jim, and I’ll have you home in a jiffy. What a ghastly night!—It’ll take the snow off, Phœbe. But we’ll have more. And then for some sleigh-rides!”

The train was gone, booming into the distance, with parting shrieks that grew fainter and fainter. As Phœbe was helped to the rear seat of the surrey, Uncle Bob holding aside the curtains that shut out the storm, she turned her head to look through the night to where great sparks were going up with the smoke of the engine. The train was leaving her—that train which seemed her only link with New York, with the beloved apartment that was to her the home-nest, with her mother—her dear, beautiful mother.

Phœbe gulped.

From the front seat sounded her uncle’s voice—a nice voice, she concluded, though not at all like Daddy’s. As if he understood something of what she was feeling—the lostness, the loneliness, the sensation of being torn up and thrust out—her father had taken his seat beside her and put an arm about her, drawing her so closely to him that, for comfort, she was forced to take off her hat. The surrey was moving. And its two side-lamps were casting a rain-blurred light upon the flanks of a bay horse. Phœbe peered forward at the horse. She had pictured him after horses she had seen in Central Park—shiny-coated saddlers, or carriage pairs, proud and plump and high-stepping, with docked tails and arching necks. But this horse was almost thin, and moved slowly, with a plop-plop-plop through the miry puddles of the unpaved street. This horse had a long tail, and his head was on a level with his back. Phœbe was disappointed.

The drive took some time. Yet conversation lagged, and was a one-sided affair between Uncle Bob and the horse, in which the former urged the latter to “Get up” and “Go ’long.” Here and there a street light shone with a sickly yellow flame through the pelting drops. Phœbe tried to see something of the town, to right and left over Uncle Bob’s wide shoulders. But only the dim outlines of buildings were discernible. Strange and stormy was the little she could see. And there rose in her a feeling against this town into which she was come; so that, with Grandma and Uncle John still to meet and know, she yet longed for a quick turnabout, and a train that would carry her away again—away and away to the great city, to her little bed and her pretty mother.

The surrey drew up beside a large house that showed a dozen glowing windows, and as the wheels scraped the boards of a step, voices called out in greeting, and Uncle Bob answered them. “I’ve got ’em!” he cried. Whereupon a hand pulled at the curtain of the surrey on Phœbe’s side, and here, under an umbrella, was a tall, thin gentleman in black, who wore eye-glasses and had large teeth. “Our dear little niece!” he exclaimed. And Phœbe climbed down to him, steadying herself by his hand, and was led by him to a wide door where Grandma was waiting—a slender little lady in a gray dress.

Phœbe permitted herself to be kissed, first by Grandma, then by Uncle John, as the man with large teeth proved to be, then by Uncle Bob, who had shed his raincoat and now stood forth, a heavy-set person, quite bald, and apple-cheeked, with smiling blue eyes.

The greetings over, Phœbe fell back a step, felt for and found her father’s hand, and then lost herself in contemplation of the trio of new relatives. Of them, Daddy had, assuredly, spoken frequently. But, man-like, he had never essayed a description of them, never endowed them either with virtues or faults, never taught her in advance to render to the three any love or loyalty. So that now, appraising them, Phœbe was unprejudiced in her judgment, and viewed them as she might have viewed three strangers who were not related. How very old Grandma was! Phœbe noted that the white head trembled steadily, as if Grandma were, perhaps, cold. As for Uncle John, there was something altogether forbidding about him—eye-glasses, teeth and all. Aloofness was a part of her feeling toward this clerical uncle. But Uncle Bob—upon his apple-round cheeks glistened drops that Phœbe knew were not rain. And his eyes were shining with something that Phœbe recognized—the something she knew as love. He was big, he was round, he was, oh, so very homely. But straightway, with a child’s true instinct, Phœbe loved him.

Behind the three was another figure. Phœbe first glimpsed the white apron, which to her city-bred eyes meant that here was a maid. And such a funny maid, in a lavender dress, with no cap on tousled yellowish hair that had been kinked rather than curled. The maid had a wide, grinning mouth, and eager, curious, hazel eyes. Yet altogether she was a likeable person, Phœbe decided. Youth spoke to youth across the Blair sitting-room. So that when all were seated in the high-ceilinged dining-room for a bite of supper, Phœbe answered Sophie’s smile with one of her own, and for the cup of steaming chocolate that was set at her plate murmured a friendly “Thank you.”

The supper was a quiet affair. Grandma bobbed and nodded over her chocolate, speaking only when Sophie was to fetch something or when one of the three men needed to be urged to another helping. Uncle John spoke not at all—after he had said what Phœbe afterwards learned was “a blessing”. He looked at his food crossly. Phœbe’s father had little to say, too. He looked tired and white. And when he smiled at Phœbe, he seemed not to see her, but to be looking beyond somehow. Only Uncle Bob appeared cheerful. His eyes danced when Phœbe lifted her eyes to him shyly. Every now and then he patted her shoulder. But—compared by her New York standards—Phœbe voted the supper altogether dreary—the result, she felt sure, of having Uncle John present.

A little later, she was conducted to her room by Sophie. How unlike was that strange bed-chamber to the wee, cosy place, all rose hangings and sheer white, which for as long as her memory could trace had held her white bed and the twin one that was her mother’s! The new room was at the top of a long, wide stairway that wound back upon itself. The new room was high, and surely as large, Phœbe thought, as all of the New York apartment made into one. It had lace curtains at both windows, and there was an old-style dressing-table, slabbed over its top with mottled marble. When Phœbe touched the marble, she drew back from it, and stared, a little amazed. It was so cold!

Sophie seemed to guess something of what was passing through Phœbe’s mind. “I’ll just put a fancy towel on it t’morra,” she promised. “Ain’t had time today.”

“Thank you,” murmured Phœbe. Certainly the dressing-table needed something.

Sophie hung about for a little, shifting her weight from one substantial foot to the other, and making offers of aid. Could she unpack Phœbe’s jo-dandy suit-case? Phœbe replied with a polite, “No, thank you.” Could she unbutton the blue linen dress? (“My, it’s pretty!”) Again, “No, thank you.” Then the windows had to be raised a trifle, and lowered again because of the rain. There were two windows, great, high affairs against which tall green blinds were fastened. Next, Sophie displayed the clothes-closet, and hung Phœbe’s serge coat on a nail. Last of all, she caught up the two thick pillows on the wide bed, beat them as a baker beats his dough (and with a touch of something almost like temper), flung them down into place once more, and grudgingly sidled to the door.

Phœbe, standing in the middle of the floor, hat still in hand, made a pathetic little figure that appealed to Sophie’s heart. “Ain’t there anything I can do?” she inquired, persisting.

Phœbe nodded. “If—if Daddy will please come up to kiss me good-night,” she answered, choking; “and—and put out my light.”

“I’ll tell him, you betcha,” declared Sophie, heartily. She went out, turning her tousled head to smile a good-night.

Phœbe hurried with her undressing. There was no running water in the big room, and she could not bring herself to open her door and call down, or go down, in quest of it. Presently, however, she caught sight of a tall pitcher standing in a wide, flowered bowl, both atop what seemed to be a cupboard. She went to peer into the pitcher. Sure enough! The pitcher was full of water; and Phœbe, using all the strength of her slender arms, heaved it up and out and filled the bowl.

“How funny!” she marveled. And once in bed, with a single electric light shining full into her face from where it hung on a cord from the high center of the ceiling, she studied the room itself, walls, furniture, curtains, carpet. “How queer!” she murmured, over and over.

“Well, big eyes!” hailed her father, when he came in.

She raised on an elbow. “Daddy,” she whispered, “isn’t it so—so different here—everything. Why, in New York nobody has water-pitchers.”

Her father laughed. “This is a wonderful old house,” he declared. He sat down beside her.

“It’s so big!” Phœbe lay back. Her hand crept into her father’s and she looked up at the high ceiling, with its covering of wall-paper in a wavy, watered design.

“You’ll get used to it,” he promised, “and you’ll like it. And do you know how happy Grandma is to have you?—Uncle John and Uncle Bob, too? I can see they love my little girl already.”

“And they’ll love Mother,” added Phœbe, stoutly “You just wait till she comes back well again. Won’t they, Daddy?”

Her father rose, and the smile in his eyes gave place to an expression of sudden pain. “I don’t doubt it,” he answered hastily. Then leaning to smooth back the hair from her brow, “You’re tired, aren’t you, darling? And so is Daddy. We’ll say good-night now, and in the morning there’ll be so much to see, and do, and talk about.”

“Yes, sir.”

He laid his cheek against hers, so babyish still. “God bless my daughter,” he said tenderly.

Her arms went round his neck then. “Oh, Daddy,” she implored brokenly, “how long will I be away from mother? Oh, Daddy, just one day and I miss her so!”

He soothed her. “I can’t tell, Phœbe,” he asserted. “But will you trust me to do the best that I know how?”

With her wide eyes upon him, he stood at the middle of the room, his right arm raised to put out the electric light. He pulled at the cord, and the room went dark. He felt his way to the door then, and went out with a last affectionate good-night which Phœbe answered cheerily enough.

But when the sound of his footsteps died away in the hall, she stared into the blackness, seeing him still there at the room’s center with his arm upraised. And her loneliness and loss she told silently to that picture of her father which still remained under the swinging globe in the blackness.

“I want Mother,” she said, over and over. “Oh, Daddy, I want to go back to New York, to Mother. Oh, Daddy, don’t leave me here without Mother.” Then, “Oh, Mother, if I could only be with you! Oh, dear, dear Mother!”

The tears came then,—tears of weariness as well as grief. And Phœbe, curled up in the wide bed, her face buried in the curve of an arm, sobbed herself to sleep.