lchisedek, who appeared to be secreting
an anatomical collection beneath them, and spent long hours on guard
above his latest addition to his hoard. It offended Phebe to be growled
at, just at the moment when her foot struck a heap of sand and bones
which should have had no place in a well-ordered home; it offended her
still more to listen to Mac's shrill unbraidings, when he found her
ruthlessly sweeping the whole deposit out of doors. Hence Mac's blow.
Hence his forgiveness.

"I wish you were my brother, and I would see if this couldn't be
stopped," Phebe had said, in the fulness of her wrath.

Mac surveyed her blandly.

"But I don't want you for a brovver. You're nofing but a girl, and if I
had a little brovver, I'd ravver have a he-brovver," he returned
dispassionately.

"All the same, I'd make you mind me," she said vengefully, as she gave
the broom a final flirt.

"But you doesn't own me, Aunt Babe; every one else doesn't own me,
just myse'f."

What remote memory of past Sunday stories had asserted itself, the next
day, it would be impossible to tell; but Mac suddenly projected himself
into the long-ago, and out from the long-ago he addressed Phebe.

"You are Pharaoh, you know, and you kills babies."

"Don't be silly, Mac." Phebe was writing a letter and was in no mood for
historical conversation.

Sitting on the floor at her feet, Mac clasped his shabby brownie to
his breast.

"Yes, you are Pharaoh, you know; naughty old Pharaoh! But you wouldn't
kill vis little baby; would you, Pharaoh?"

"I'd like to, if it would clean him up a little," Phebe returned, for
she had an antipathy to the brownie which usually took its meals in
company with Mac.

"Do peoples be clean, all ve time, in heaven?"

"Of course."

"Ven I don't want to go vere, Pharaoh."

"Mac, you must stop calling me Pharaoh. Aunt Phebe is my name."

The next instant, the baby came flying straight into Pharaoh's face, and
Mac fled, weeping, to his mother.

"Mam-ma!"

"Yes, Mac."

"I'd be glad if I was dead."

"Why, dear?" Hope looked startled.

"'Cause peoples are happy when vey are up in ve sky."

"But you can be happy here, Mac, if you are good," Hope said gently.

"Yes; but I aren't happy; I are cross."

Hope sighed and laid away the letter she was writing to her husband.
There were days when she regretted that she had brought this restless,
tempestuous child into so large a family circle, days when Mac's cherubic
qual