on. Philip
stared in astonishment at the sturdy figure, the childish face with its
wide forehead and level, strong brows; its dark eyes straight-gazing and
smiling.

"Mother--who is he? Who is he?" he demanded.

"Why, my lamb, don't you know? It's your little uncle Philip--my
brother, for whom you were named--Philip Fairfield the sixth. There was
always a Philip Fairfield at Fairfield since 1790. This one was the
last, poor baby! and he died when he was five. Unless you go back there
some day--that's my hope, but it's not likely to come true. You are a
Yankee, except for the big half of you that's me. That's Southern, every
inch." She laughed and kissed his fresh cheek impulsively. "But what
made you so excited over this picture, Phil?"

Philip gazed down, serious, a little embarrassed, at the open case in
his hand. "Mother," he said after a moment, "you'll laugh at me, but
I've seen this chap in a dream three times now."

"Oh!" She did laugh at him. "Oh, Philip! What have you been eating for
dinner, I'd like to know? I can't have you seeing visions of your
ancestors at fifteen--it's unhealthy."

The boy, reddening, insisted. "But, mother, really, don't you think it
was queer? I saw him as plainly as I do now--and I've never seen this
picture before."

"Oh, yes, you have--you must have seen it," his mother threw back
lightly. "You've forgotten, but the image of it was tucked away in some
dark corner of your mind, and when you were asleep it stole out and
played tricks on you. That's the way forgotten ideas do: they get even
with you in dreams for having forgotten them."

"Mother, only listen--" But Mrs. Beckwith, her eyes lighting with a
swift turn of thought, interrupted him--laid her finger on his lips.

"No--you listen, boy dear--quick, before I forget it! I've never told
you about this, and it's very interesting."

And the youngster, used to these wilful ways of his sister-mother,
laughed and put his fair head against her shoulder and listened.

"It's quite a romance," she began, "only there isn't any end to it; it's
all unfinished and disappointing. It's about this little Philip here,
whose name you have--my brother. He died when he was five, as I said,
but even then he had a bit of dramatic history in his life. He was born
just before war-time in 1859, and he was a beautiful and wonderful baby;
I can remember all about it, for I was six years older. He was incarnate
sunshine, the happiest child that ev