Seated at the table with freshly brushed locks and all traces of tears gone, he looked quite the little gentleman. Mammy Cely had cautioned him not to talk too much. But Philip knew enough to hold up his end of the conversation. "Well, Philip, how have you and Mammy Cely got along to-day?" "Pretty well," said Philip, cheerfully. "What have you been doing to amuse yourself?" Philip considered. He had done a great many things, for Mammy Cely had taken a day off to amuse and entertain him. "I can't explain it," he said at length. "I forgot the number." What he meant Richard never knew, and it is quite likely that Philip had no very definite idea himself. Later he remembered about putting the chickens in the "hovels," which he related with animation. After a pause he asked politely: "Do you have any turkles around here?" "Turkeys?" suggested his uncle. "No, sir--turkles--mud-turkles. We had a gweat many in Sous Haven. I had four--only Vi'let got away and Lily got _squshed_." "Did you name your turtles?" "Yes, sir." "What were their names?" Mr. De Jarnette was surprised at his interest in carrying on this conversation. "Rose, and Lily, and Vi'let,--and--Alcohol," said Philip. Richard gave a sudden cough. "Isn't that rather a remarkable combination?" he asked, gravely. "I think Alcohol is a good name for a turkle," said Philip, positively. "It's such a long name. And turkles are round." "What did you say happened to Lily?" "Why, once I took my turkles upstair in a cup so I would have them as soon as I got up, and--they got out and was promenadin' around, and--in the morning Mama didn't see 'em and she stepped on Lily and she _squshed_." Then with a spasm of reminiscence, "Mama don't 'preciate turkles." When Richard De Jarnette went into his library that night it was with a strange feeling of the freshness of life. He had been walking up and down the garden walks for an hour, holding his nephew by the hand. Mammy Cely had come for him at last, saying in an aside. "I'm gwineter git him off while times is good." Then to Philip, "Tell yo' Uncle Richard good-night, honey." "Good-night, Uncle Wichard," he said, obediently. "Good-night, Philip." The child stood as if waiting. "He's waiting fur you to kiss him," prompted Mammy Cely. "He ain't used to goin' off 'thout bein' kissed." Richard De Jarnette stooped down to the little boy, who put his arms around his neck as if that were the only way to do. "Good-night, Philip," he repeated. "Good-night. Uncle Wichard. Now you have to say, 'God bless my boy.'" "God bless my boy," said Richard De Jarnette, after a moment's surprised delay. "God bless my mama--my Unker Wichard," Philip said, as simply as he said it every night, and went away quite satisfied. * * * * * An hour or two later, when darkness had descended upon the land and the whippoorwill was sounding his lonely call, Mammy Cely appeared at the library door.