t
nod upon the quartette. "You may go now, boys," she said cooingly; "I'll
speak to you later."

Bobbie found his voice. "Yes, ma'am. Thank you!"--and took one long
step churchward. The tow-headed boy moved with him.

This left unshielded the erstwhile contesting twain. Mrs. Milo's look
seemed to fall upon them like a blow. "Oh! Oh!" she cried in horror,
pointing.

As one, Ikey and Clarence began rubbing tell-tale streaks from their
countenances with their rumpled cottas, and pressing down their
upstanding hair.

"No! No-o-o!" cried Mrs. Milo. "That photograph! What are you doing
with it?"

In sudden panic, Bobbie shifted the photograph from hand to hand; tried
to force it into the hands of the tow-headed boy, then bent to consign it
to the carpet.

Sue was beforehand. She caught the picture away from the small trembling
hand, and smiled upon her mother. "Oh--I--I was just going to look at
it," she explained. "Thank you, Bobbie.--Isn't it good of father! So
natural, and--and----"

Mrs. Milo was not deceived. "Give it to me," she said coldly. And as
Sue obeyed, "Now, go, boys. Dora, poor child, works so hard to keep this
drawing-room looking well. We can't have you disarrange it. Come! Be
prompt!"

Sue urged the four passageward. "They were just going, mother.--Don't
touch the woodwork; use the door knob."

And now, when it seemed that even Ikey and Clarence might escape
undetected, Mrs. Milo gave another cry. "Oh, what's the matter with
those two?" she demanded.

There was no long term of orphanage life to quiet the young savage in
Ikey. And with his much-prized voice, he was even accustomed to being
listened to on more than musical occasions. Now he bolted forward,
disregarding Sue's hand, which caught at him as he passed. "Missis,"
began the borrowed soloist, meeting Mrs. Milo's horrified gaze with
undaunted eye, "Clarence, he is jealousy dat I sing so fine."

To argue with Sue, or to subdue her, that was one thing; to come to cases
with Ikey was quite another. He had an unpleasant habit of threatening
to betake himself out and away to his aunt, or to go on strike at such
dramatic times as morning service. Therefore, it seemed safer now to
ignore the question of torn and muddied cottas, and seize upon some other
pretext for censure. "What kind of language is that?" questioned Mrs.
Milo, gently chiding. "'He is jealousy'!"

"Yes, quaint, isn't it, mother?" broke in Sue. "R