by Ned Thurber.
“I’ll go and talk to father about it at once,” he said.
That same day Mr. Spaythe was approached by no less than four people in the interests of Phil Daring. First, came his son Eric, who told him Phil was a prince of good fellows. Then Ned Thurber pointed out the fact that the popularity of the Darings would add prestige to the bank. Presently, Judge Ferguson walked in and vouched for Phil’s character and ability, offering to stand sponsor for the boy, if he was given the place. Finally, Phœbe Daring stole into the bank and timidly asked to see Mr. Spaythe.
He looked at her curiously as she entered his private room; a pretty and modest young girl, he thought.
“I met Mr. Thurber a little while ago, and he says that he is going away to St. Louis,” she began. “So I thought I would come here and ask if you won’t take brother Phil in his place. I’m Phœbe Daring, you know.”
Mr. Spaythe nodded.
“I know. You’ve often been here with your father, in the old days. But you’re growing fast now, Miss Phœbe.”
“I need to grow, sir, for I must mother the other children. Of course you know how poor we are. Father always banked here, I remember; so you know, perhaps better than I do, our present circumstances.”
“How old is Phil now?”
“Sixteen, sir.”
“H – m. That is rather young.”
“But he is big for his age, Mr. Spaythe. He’s nearly six feet tall, and as strong as anything.”
“Do you think we bank by main strength, Miss Daring?”
“Phil will graduate next week, at High. He hopes to be at the head of his class.”
Mr. Spaythe drummed thoughtfully on the desk with his fingers.
“I’m going to consider your application, my dear,” he said, quite genially for him. “Ask your brother to come and see me.”
Phœbe hurried away, overjoyed at her success. She astonished Phil that evening by saying that she had made an appointment for him to see Mr. Spaythe. He tore up the little note that he had intended to mail to the banker, then kissed his twin sister and thanked her for her assistance. Only Mr. Spaythe knew whose influence had induced him to consider giving the position to an inexperienced, untried youth, fresh from high school. Perhaps, after all, it was the remembrance of his old friendship for the elder Daring.
Anyhow, Phil had a long interview with the old banker and came away engaged to fill the vacancy made by Ned Thurber’s withdrawal. As soon as school closed he was to begin work.
There was great rejoicing among the Darings that evening. Aunt Hyacinth made them one of her famous shortcakes for supper, to celebrate the occasion, and Phil became a hero to his younger brother and sisters, because he was about to step from youth to manhood and become a breadwinner.
CHAPTER VII
THE COMING OF COUSIN JUDITH
Next morning while they were at breakfast, the doorbell rang and Auntie answered it. A moment later a comely young woman entered the room, gazed smilingly at the circle of young faces and advanced to kiss Phœbe, as the eldest, first of all.
“Don’t you remember me?” she asked. “I’m your Cousin Judith.”
“Cousin Judith Eliot!” cried Phœbe, delightedly. And then there was a rush to greet this newly found relative, all the Darings crowding around her in a mob.
“I thought you were still in Europe, Cousin Judith,” said Phil. “Have you been long in America?”
“Just four days,” she replied, throwing off her wrap and sitting down in the place Aunt Hyacinth had prepared for her. “I hurried here as soon after landing as possible.”
“But what good fortune brought you to Riverdale?” inquired Phœbe, looking with pleasure at the beautiful, refined face of the elder woman and noting the daintiness of her attire – dainty and fresh, although she was just out of a sleeping coach, after a long journey.
Cousin Judith, although almost the only relative which the Darings possessed, and familiar to them by name since their infancy, was nevertheless almost a stranger to them all. She was their mother’s cousin and, although much younger, had always been Mrs. Daring’s closest and warmest friend. For years past, however, she had resided in some small European town, studying art while she painted portraits and copies of the Madonna on porcelain. She had never married; dimly, Phœbe remembered hearing of some tragedy in Cousin Judith’s life when her fiancé had died on the eve of their approaching marriage. She was now but twenty-four; although, in the eyes of her young cousins, she appeared very mature indeed.
“I came here,” said Cousin Judith, smilingly, yet with a serious ring in her sweet-toned voice, “at the call of duty. I wanted to come to you the moment I heard of your dear father’s death, but it takes some little time to break up an establishment even as modest as mine, when it is in far-away Italy. But here I am, at last.”
“Going to stay?” asked Sue, softly.
“I think so. Is there any room for me, here?”
“Plenty, Cousin Judith!” cried five voices.
“Then, while I drink my coffee, tell me all the news about yourselves. How is Gran’pa Eliot? – he’s my uncle, you know – and who takes care of him?”
Becky began the story, but talked so excitedly that she made a sad jumble of it. Then Phil picked up the narrative, telling the simple facts that Cousin Judith might be interested in, and Phœbe concluded the recital.
“I remember Elaine Halliday,” said the new arrival, musingly. “She was Aunt Eliot’s maid when I was a young girl, and whenever I visited here I used to fight with the woman continually. She had a rather sour disposition, then.”
“It’s worse now,” declared Becky. “She’s a reg’lar Tartar; and a – a – an autocrat, and an anarchist and traitor, and – ”
“Afterward, she was housekeeper,” continued Judith. “I saw her more seldom, then, but she ran the household in an able manner while Aunt Eliot was so much of an invalid.”
“She has been a faithful servant, I’m sure,” said Phœbe, “and if she happens to be a bit cranky with us at times we ought to put up with it. I don’t know what gran’pa would do without her. She’s the only one who can understand him, and she attends to him and all his affairs – cooks the things he can eat – feeds him with a spoon, and all that.”
“Don’t you all live together, then?” asked Miss Eliot.
“No,” replied Phœbe. “We’ve been given a certain part of the house, and run our own establishment, while Miss Halliday runs her part. We are ordered not to go near gran’pa’s rooms, or pick the fruit or berries – or steal the hen’s eggs. If we behave, she will let us stay here, rent free; but if we don’t mind her, or dare to intrude on gran’pa, out we go, neck and crop.”
Judith Eliot looked thoughtful. But she avoided carrying the conversation farther in the presence of the younger children. There was little time, indeed, to talk much with any of them, as they were obliged to run off to school.
