The child had settled down now in his new home and seldom made any protest. Mammy Cely was very good to him and he followed her about from morning till night. His Uncle Richard had fallen into the habit of having him in the library with him for an hour after dinner, a privilege which Philip greatly valued and did not abuse. He seldom cried now or asked for his mother, appearing to understand instinctively that this was a subject which his uncle would not like. But he talked freely of "Sous Haven" and the life there, the boats--particularly the "Gwand Wapids"--about the turtles that Mr. Harcourt caught for him, the forts he made him, and the bonfires they had on the beach. Mr. Harcourt was in most of his tales and Richard read a good deal between the lines. One cool autumn night Philip sat in front of the library fire in his little chair that Richard had brought out for him. "Unker Wichard, do you ever woast marsh-mallows in your fire?" "I never have--no." "I think this would make a dandy beach fire," said Philip, suggestively. "We used to woast marsh-mallows at Sous Haven. We had a big fire on the beach and Mr. Harcourt and me worked hard and hard getting brush for it, and Mr. Harcourt got us some sticks and we woasted 'em in the fire." "The sticks?" "No, sir, the marsh-mallows. And Gwamma Pennybacker was there. And--d--Mr. Harcourt chased me wound the fire and we had lots of fun. And--d--then my mama and Mr. Harcourt and Bess singed songs. That's the way you have a marsh-mallow woast." He sat still for a moment and then said persuasively, "Unker Wichard, s'pose we play that you was Mr. Harcourt, and the big chair was Gwamma Pennybacker, and the little one was Bess, and--Unker Wichard, what could we have for mama? We would most have to have mama." It was a dangerous subject. "We'll arrange about that to-morrow," said Richard, hastily, "when we have the marsh-mallows. Now tell me what you've been doing to-day." "I've been keeping off the calves," Philip said promptly, thinking of the latest feat. His mind was easily diverted now. "Aha! and have you learned to milk?" "No, sir. I can't make them little things go." Mr. De Jarnette threw his head back with a laugh that woke the echoes in the silent old room. His nephew surveyed him with mild wonder. "Aunt Dicey can though," he added. "How does she do it?" "Oh, she puts her bucket down and gives old Spot a slap wiv her hand and says, 'stan' over!'--an--d--then she stoops down and--groans--and says, 'Oh--h, my Lord!'--and then--" "Well?" "Then she thes pulls the triggers." Mammy Cely, coming at that moment to take Philip to bed, stopped short in the doorway. She had not heard her Marse Richard laugh like that for many a long year. Richard found himself smiling over his paper when they were gone. The child said such unexpected things. He recalled the beach scene too. Philip had made it stand out vividly. He hardly thought he could take Mr. Harcourt's place.