"Marse Richard, the circus done let in." "He hasn't begun that performance again!" "Well," replied Mammy Cely, conservatively, "not to say the reely pufformance. But the band's chunin' up. And look lak you 's the ring-master. I ain't got no mo' to say now than one of the spotted ponies or the clown. He done call fur _you_." It was inevitable. Mr. De Jarnette laid down his book. "What is it, Philip?" he asked kindly, as he sat down by the bed. "Nothing--only--I thes 'emembered it was Lily instead of Vi'let got away. It was Vi'let that got squshed." "Oh!" "He's jes' makin' talk, Marse Richard," explained Mammy Cely in an undertone. "He can't go to sleep and he wants you to stay with him. I know chil'n." There is something irresistible in a child's turning from some one else to us. It is the subtlest kind of flattery. "I'll stay with him a while. Go on down-stairs if you want to." He half wanted to try the experiment of managing him alone. When she was gone he said quietly, "Philip, would you rather have me stay with you than Mammy Cely?" "Yes, sir. You see--I isn't used to--any black person at night." "I see. If I stay with you will you be a brave little boy and not cry?" "Yes, sir. My mama told me--I must be bwave, but--" one little hand covered his lips in a futile attempt to shut off a sob--"I'm afraid I--can't--be--ver-r-ry bwave!" Richard De Jarnette held out his arms. Coming up the stairs he had vowed he would not do this thing. "Do you want to sit in my lap?" "Yes, sir!" In his uncle's protecting embrace, the nervous, over-wrought child said stoutly: "They isn't any big black dogs 'wound here, is they, Unker Wichard?" "No, indeed." "And they isn't anybody trying to get me away from my--from anybody, _is_ there?" "There is nothing that is going to hurt you, Philip," was the grave, but reassuring reply. Philip lay still a few moments in relieved content. Then he enquired seductively, "You don't know any stories, do you, Unker Wichard?" Adding, with a little catch in his voice, "My mama always tells me stories." "Stories are not much in my line, Philip. But perhaps I could grind out one." "I 'most know I couldn't go to sleep on one," said Philip, with thrifty providence. "Maybe I could if you could 'member three. I'd try." "All right." Philip settled himself for solid comfort. If there was one thing that he loved better than all the world except his mother, it was a good story. "This is a story about a dog I saw to-day on Pennsylvania Avenue." "What was his name?" "I didn't hear his name." "Was it Rover?" "I don't know." "Do you think it was Carlo?" "I told you I didn't know his name." "Well, I never knew any people told stories they didn't know," commented his auditor. Thus chastened at the outset, Richard lost that confidence which is the prime essential to success in the gentle art of story-telling. He proceeded a little doubtfully. "This morning, Philip, as I was getting on a car--" "What car?"