"Bring me his clothes," said Margaret, coldly. "I'll put them in the drawers myself." She did not mean to be unkind, but she was consumed with jealousy. But before she had disposed of the things in the various drawers she felt ashamed of this unworthy feeling. "I am glad it is changed," she said. "It was very--" She could not bring herself to say kind or good or thoughtful. But Mammy Cely supplied the word. "He's mighty good to him, Miss Margaret--ain't he, honey?" "Yes," said Philip. "He bwings me candy. And every night I go down to meet him. _I_ can open the big gate now." And Margaret's heart felt another twinge. "Mama's brought you something, darling. A dear little baby to hang on the wall. He will be company for you." It was a Madonna picture--a Bodenhausen with the flowing tresses and the deep, sad eyes. Philip was full of interest in the baby. "He's thes been havin' a bath," he explained, and Mammy Cely who had little knowledge of art but much of nature, commented, "Jes' look at the creases in the little laig! Aint that natch'el?" "That is the way mama used to hold you, darling, when you were a dear helpless little baby. I am going to hang it over there in front of the bed so you can see it the first thing in the morning." "It looks like you, mama," he said thoughtfully. "It's got the smile of you." The smile of the Bodenhausen is very sad. She caught him passionately to her arms. "Does it look to you like mama? Then every morning when you look at it you must say, 'That is mama and little Philip.'" "I will," he promised eagerly. "And I'll show it to Unker Wichard." "Philip!... Philip!" She felt that he was slipping away from her. "Oh, Mammy Cely, make him remember me!" "I will, Miss Margaret!" the old woman declared, and to Philip's mystification they were both in tears. "The baby in that picture is white and my baby was black, but somehow the crease in that little laig make me think of Cass. _I_ ain't gwineter let him furgit you. No 'm!" In their interest in the picture and all it stood for they forgot the time till Aunt Dicey announced dinner. Margaret looked at her watch in dismay. The noon train was gone. "Go on down to dinner, Miss Margaret," insisted Mammy Cely. "Look to me lak you're cuttin' off yo' nose to spite yo' face. Marse Richard ain't never ast once does you stay. And he ain't gwineter. He jes fix it so you kin and then leave you free. That's Marse Richard's way. He ain't no talker. Why, honey, fum the day he come and foun' Philip gone he ain't never once mention to me yo' catnippin' that chile. No 'm, he ain't!" "I don't want any dinner," said Margaret. "I think Mr. De Jarnette's bread would choke me." "Miss Margaret, honey, that's foolishness! Nothin' ain't gwine choke you after you make up yo' min' to it. Sho's you born, chile, you kin swaller a heap er things in this world you think you can't!"