"Philip! Stop your crying! Stop, I say!" In his desperation Mr. De Jarnette spoke far more sternly than he felt. Philip stopped in sheer astonishment. But his mouth and chin puckered themselves up in that most pitiful of all things--a child's attempts at self control. "I isn't been use--to--scolding," he said, reproachfully. "I don't want to scold you," Mr. De Jarnette hastened to say, for there were signs of another inundation. "You are going to be a good little boy now and--" "Is it bad to want my mama?" asked Philip. "No, but it is foolish to keep on asking for what you can't have." "Why can't I have my mama?" "Because she's not here." "Why ain't she here?" "Because she is at the hospital." "What for?" "She's sick." "What makes her sick?" "Philip, if you will go to sleep now, I will bring you some candy in the morning. Will you do it?" Philip considered. "Would it be gum dwops?" "Yes. Or any other obtainable variety. And some peanuts too--and popcorn balls." "I'd rather have a jack-knife," said Philip, with faintly-reviving interest. "Well, you shall have a jack-knife too--and some--fire-crackers,"--ransacking his memory for childish tastes. "Is it going to be Christmas?" asked his nephew, beginning to feel that life was still worth living. "Yes. We have Christmas once a month at Elmhurst--oftener if needed." "Are you Santa Claus?" asked Philip in an awed voice. "I'm a friend of his," returned Richard gravely, with an odd sense that this was a plagiarism which would be detected. But there is nothing like the trustingness of childhood. "Then can you get anything you want from Santa Claus for little boys?" "Almost anything," said Mr. De Jarnette cautiously, remembering mothers. It was a fruitful vein and Philip worked it for all it was worth. When at last his eyelids closed over the bright eyes and the curly head lay still against his uncle's breast, Santa Claus's friend stood committed to a bushel of candy, a bag of peanuts, some pink lemonade, a balloon (showing the connection of ideas), a dog, two white rabbits, a sure enough engine, and a billy goat. He considered peace cheaply purchased at that. He would have impoverished the exchequer rather than have had another two hours of conflict. "Is he likely to keep this up long?" he asked Mammy Cely whom he met in the hall just as he had laid his young nephew on his bed and tip-toed from the room. He wiped his brow nervously. "Lord, Marse Richard, sometimes a homesick chile will carry on this way for a month. Yes, sir, they will so." The drops broke out on Richard's forehead. "He won't be apt to have a return of it to-night, will he?" "You can't never tell," said Mammy, cruelly. "He may have another spell inside of an hour. Ef he does I'll call you. Seems lak you can pacify him a heap better than what I can. Yes, sir." CHAPTER XXV THE MADONNA PICTURE