"Mammy Cely," said Philip one day after a thoughtful consideration of her face, "what makes you black?"

"I can't he'p it, honey. God made me that way."

The child looked at her in perplexity.

"Well, what did he do it for?"

There was no answer to this somewhat difficult question, and he continued, "Wouldn't you rather be white?"

"Co'se I'd ruther be white," replied Mammy Cely, "but when the Lord made me He wasn't askin' 'bout my druthers."

"Oh!" said Philip, wondering what her "druthers" were, but adding after a while in extenuation of the Almighty's ways, "Perhaps he forgot it."

He felt convinced that it was a mistake and it might not be too late yet to remedy it. He determined to incorporate into his nightly prayer for her a petition for a change of color. He was careful never to voice this when he was saying his prayers to her for he wanted it to come to her as a surprise. Every morning his first concern was to see whether the transformation had been wrought in the night. Mammy Cely could not understand his eager look into her face each day and his subsequent look of disappointment. Still he prayed on.

One day a sudden thought came to him and he hunted her up.

"Mammy Cely, I know now what will make you white!"

"Well, 'fo' the Lord!" said Mammy Cely to herself. "He's still harpin' on that same ole string." Then with animation, "What is it, honey? What gwineter work that meracle?"

"You must wash in the blood of a lamb. I've thes 'membered about it. And it will make you whiter than the snow."

"That's so!" said the old woman, reverently. "Bless the Lord, I gwineter be white some day!"

She said it so confidently that Philip was still looking for the time to come.

He was a mature child for his years, like most children reared without companions of their own age. To Mr. De Jarnette, unaccustomed as he was to children, it seemed sometimes that the things he said were positively uncanny, when in fact they were but the natural working of a childish brain. Mammy Cely told him what Philip had said about the lamb.

"Where in the world did he get that?" he asked, wonderingly.

"I reckon he had heared the song and thought it meant changin' of the skins 'stidder the hearts."

The child had settled down now in his new home and seldom made any protest. Mammy Cely was very good to him and he followed her about from morning till night. His Uncle Richard had fallen into the habit of having him in the library with him for an hour after dinner, a privilege which Philip greatly valued and did not abuse. He seldom cried now or asked for his mother, appearing to understand instinctively that this was a subject which his uncle would not like. But he talked freely of "Sous Haven" and the life there, the boats—particularly the "Gwand Wapids"—about the turtles that Mr. Harcourt caught for him, the forts he made him, and the bonfires they had on the beach. Mr. Harcourt was in most of his tales and Richard read a good deal between the lines.

One cool autumn night Philip sat in front of the library fire in his little chair that Richard had brought out for him.

"Unker Wichard, do you ever woast marsh-mallows in your fire?"

"I never have—no."

"I think this would make a dandy beach fire," said Philip, suggestively. "We used to woast marsh-mallows at Sous Haven. We had a big fire on the beach and Mr. Harcourt and me worked hard and hard getting brush for it, and Mr. Harcourt got us some sticks and we woasted 'em in the fire."

"The sticks?"

"No, sir, the marsh-mallows. And Gwamma Pennybacker was there. And—d—Mr. Harcourt chased me wound the fire and we had lots of fun. And—d—then my mama and Mr. Harcourt and Bess singed songs. That's the way you have a marsh-mallow woast." He sat still for a moment and then said persuasively, "Unker Wichard, s'pose we play that you was Mr. Harcourt, and the big chair was Gwamma Pennybacker, and the little one was Bess, and—Unker Wichard, what could we have for mama? We would most have to have mama."

It was a dangerous subject. "We'll arrange about that to-morrow," said Richard, hastily, "when we have the marsh-mallows. Now tell me what you've been doing to-day."

"I've been keeping off the calves," Philip said promptly, thinking of the latest feat. His mind was easily diverted now.

"Aha! and have you learned to milk?"

"No, sir. I can't make them little things go."

Mr. De Jarnette threw his head back with a laugh that woke the echoes in the silent old room. His nephew surveyed him with mild wonder.

"Aunt Dicey can though," he added.

"How does she do it?"

"Oh, she puts her bucket down and gives old Spot a slap wiv her hand and says, 'stan' over!'—an—d—then she stoops down and—groans—and says, 'Oh—h, my Lord!'—and then—"

"Well?"

"Then she thes pulls the triggers."

Mammy Cely, coming at that moment to take Philip to bed, stopped short in the doorway. She had not heard her Marse Richard laugh like that for many a long year.

Richard found himself smiling over his paper when they were gone. The child said such unexpected things. He recalled the beach scene too. Philip had made it stand out vividly. He hardly thought he could take Mr. Harcourt's place.

In about an hour Mammy Cely returned. Philip was restless and would be satisfied with nothing but his Uncle Richard.

"He 'low he wants to say his prayers to you."

"His prayers?" repeated Mr. De Jarnette in perplexity—there were always some new developments about this child—"what does he want to say his prayers to me for? This is incipient Catholicism."

"Marse Richard, a chile always has to say his prayers to some person. He don't know nothin' 'bout sayin' 'em to God. God done put the mother of a chile in His place—He knows how chil'n is. And when the mother is tuk away—"

"That will do—" interrupted Mr. De Jarnette, curtly.

"Scuse me, Marse Richard," Mammy Cely returned, humbly, "I didn't mean nothin'—"

"Yes, I know. You didn't mean anything except to say exactly what you wanted to say. And you've said it now. So go on!... Tell him I will be there after a little," he added as she left the room.

He felt that it was a weakness in him to go. He had told Philip that he must never send for him again. If he went now he would probably be expected to do so every night, and that he certainly should not do. But for the life of him he could not refuse the child's request. Philip's tyranny was so affectionate, so gentle, the flattery of it was so insidious that it was simply irresistible. Besides,—there was something in what Mammy Cely had said.

"Well, Philip, they tell me you've got balled up in your devotions," he said, sitting down by the little white bed.

"Sir?"

"Couldn't you say your prayers to Mammy Cely?"

"No, sir, I—I can't say 'em very good—to any—black person." In the next room Mammy Cely was chuckling to herself.

He did not seem very particular about saying them to any white person. He talked instead about all the things he could think of to ward off the evil hour of going to sleep. And Richard, his heart strangely soft toward this mite of humanity who wanted him and called for him, defied all the rules of hygiene demanding early hours and let him talk. Mammy Cely was gone, having petitioned to go down to "Sist' Dicey's" on an errand. It was her policy to leave uncle and child together as much as possible at this hour.

At length Mr. De Jarnette said firmly, "Now, Philip, you really must go to sleep."

"I have to say my pwayers first," said Philip. "I can't never go to sleep wivout saying my pwayers." He knew that this was an exercise which could be prolonged indefinitely.

"Well, go on."

"I have to kneel down first."

"Kneel down then."

Philip slipped out of bed and stood before him.

"I have to put my head on somebody's lap."

"Put it against my knee."

"I can't. It has to be somefin' soft."

"Kneel down by the bed then."

"I can't say my pwayers to the bed," Philip said reproachfully. Then, catching sight of a comforter across the bed, he suggested, "Maybe you could make a lap."

To humor him Mr. De Jarnette threw the comforter across his knees, conveniently spread apart. Philip dropped his head upon the manufactured substitute to its immediate undoing.

"My mama's lap don't come to pieces," he remarked critically.

"Wait till I get this thing under my feet," retorted his uncle. "I ought to be able to make a lap that will stand you. Now, sir, I'm ready for you."

It sounded like a challenge. His nephew, hungry for a romp, made a battering ram of himself and again the lap caved in. When it was reconstructed, Philip put his head down very gently, increasing the pressure with every word.

There was a gurgle of laughter down in the comforter.

"Unker Wichard, it's giving way!"

"Philip, you rascal! You're making it give way. Wait! Now I've got it!"

With the comforter under both feet he made a lap that could withstand a small boy even, and Philip, recognizing the fact that his romp was over, folded his hands and bowed his head, saying reverently the sweet prayer that so many infant lips have lisped:

It came into Richard De Jarnette's mind as he sat thus what a ridiculous figure he would cut if any of his business friends should see him at this moment. And yet, strange to say, the situation was not all ludicrous to him. He had never listened to a child's prayers before.

"Good-night, Philip," he said, softly.

Philip raised his head but made no motion to raise.

"I'm not through yet. I haven't said the 'God bless 'em'."

Then lowering his curly head again he repeated in an entirely conversational tone:

"God bless my mama and bwing her back to her dear little boy; and God bless Gwanma Pennybacker; and God bless Bess and make her a good girl; and God bless Mammy Cely and make her white—be sure to make her white, cause she wants to be, and you forgot her druthers when you made her; and God bless Uncle Wichard, and take away his stony heart."

He stopped suddenly, thinking that perhaps he ought not to have said this.

"Where did you hear that, Philip?"

"My mama said so. Unker Wichard, what is a stony heart?"

Richard De Jarnette laughed a rather mirthless laugh, but did not answer the question.

"I suppose your mama has told you a number of pleasant things about me," he said, and his tone had an infusion of bitterness in it. The opinion of this midget was becoming important to him.

"She said she didn't believe that anything would ever change your heart; but Gwanma Pennybacker said God could do anything—He could change it—and I must ask Him every night to take away your stony heart and give you a—a—" he was trying very hard to recall the words—"a heart—of—I don't know—somefin'—but it wasn't stone."

"I am afraid you have two rather tough propositions, Philip,—my heart and Mammy Cely's skin."

"But she's turning, Unker Wichard," the child declared eagerly. "She is! I saw it on the inside of her hands when she was washing. They are 'most white now." Then earnestly, "Unker Wichard, is yo' heart stone?"

"I guess my heart is not very different from other men's, Philip, though it would be hard to make some people think so."

"But ever'body don't have the same kind of hearts," the child persisted. He had got up from his knees and climbed into his uncle's lap. He looked around the room in a half scared way and said almost in a whisper,

"Some people have wolf hearts."

"Nonsense."

"They do! Honest, Unker Wichard!"

"Philip," said his uncle, sternly, "where did you get all that from?"

"Mammy Cely says so. I asked once did she ever have any little child like me, and she said once she did but a man with a wolf heart came and took it away from her. Unker Wichard, do people that take little chilwuns from their mamas—gypsies and ever'body like that—do they always have wolf hearts?"

"I am afraid I am not authority, Philip, on the subject. I have never known anybody with a wolf heart. In fact, there is no such thing. You must not believe all Mammy Cely's stories."

The boy snuggled down closer.

"You haven't any wolf heart, have you, Unker Wichard? Or any stone heart either."

"No. Neither one."

Philip gave a sigh of relief.

"I'm awful glad! 'Cause if it was stone I feel 'most sure it would hurt you sometimes. My heart thes thumps when I run. And if it was a wolf heart maybe you might hurt somebody else—like that other man."

The organ in question was beating rather tumultuously just now. Was it possible that it was giving its impassive owner a few unseen blows? Or was it that the fair head of his nephew was pressing upon it overhard?

"It seems to me you have been having a good deal of heart talk lately," commented Mr. De Jarnette, grimly. "I think I'll be looking after some of it."

He looked after it the next day by demanding sternly of Mammy Cely, "What do you mean by telling Philip all this stuff about men with wolf hearts? Don't you know he will believe it? I won't have him frightened with your bug-a-boo stories." Then, thinking of her rooted antipathy to his father, he added, "And I won't have you saying anything to him about the De Jarnettes, either."

Since finding from the child's talk that the Varnums were held up constantly before him, he had felt a growing jealousy for the De Jarnette name.

Mammy Cely replied with her accustomed freedom.

"I ain't tole him 'bout the Jarnettes havin' wolf hearts. I done kep' it f'um him! Nobody ever heared me runnin' down my own white folks." Which was true, but she had never acknowledged the family into which she had been adopted as hers, save the one lone descendant of her young mistress—Richard himself. The rest to her were as Scythians and Barbarians. "I suttingly ain't gwine do it to they offspringers."

But Richard was not entirely satisfied.

"Well, don't let me hear of his getting any more such notions in his head."

"Marse Richard, how I gwineter he'p the convolvolutions of that chile's brain? Why, he axed me the other day is you God."

"Asked you what?"

"Axed me 'is you God?' Yes, sir, he did. Hit's the truth as I'm standin' here. His ma had tole him there wa'n't nobody could help 'em now but God (it was one er them days she looked lak she was gwineter die, she was so low down), and the next day when he come to me and ax me, wouldn't I please ma'am take him to his mama, just for a little while. I says, not knowin' she done put it on the Almighty,—'Honey,' I say, 'that's fur your Uncle Richard to say.' And at that he look kinder scared, and he crope up close to me, he did, and he say, sorter low like, 'Mammy Cely, is Uncle Richard God?'... So thar now, Marse Richard, you done stan' in the place of his Maker to that chile!"

"Go along to your work," said Richard De Jarnette with unwonted roughness, which Mammy Cely did not resent. In fact it rather pleased her. She looked after him as he strode across the lawn.

"I reckon I'm 'tendin' to it right now," she observed with an astute nod. "He ain't gwineter furgit that. When a person know he stands in the place of God to a child, he gwineter walk straight—less'n he's mons'ous low down."