“_Dear little daughter_,” ran the telegram, “_when you get this, fill a suit-case with a few things that you’ll need most, and leave with Daddy for Grandma’s.—Mother._” The train was already moving. Phœbe, with all the solemnity of her fourteen years, puckered her brows over the slip of yellow paper, winked her long lashes at it reflectively, and pursed a troubled mouth. How strange that dear Mother should leave the New York apartment in mid-morning, with the usual gay kiss that meant short separation; and then in that same hour should send this message—this command—which was to start Phœbe away from the great city, where all of her short life had been spent, toward that smaller city where …
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