In about an hour Mammy Cely returned. Philip was restless and would be satisfied with nothing but his Uncle Richard. "He 'low he wants to say his prayers to you." "His prayers?" repeated Mr. De Jarnette in perplexity--there were always some new developments about this child--"what does he want to say his prayers to me for? This is incipient Catholicism." "Marse Richard, a chile always has to say his prayers to some person. He don't know nothin' 'bout sayin' 'em to God. God done put the mother of a chile in His place--He knows how chil'n is. And when the mother is tuk away--" "That will do--" interrupted Mr. De Jarnette, curtly. "Scuse me, Marse Richard," Mammy Cely returned, humbly, "I didn't mean nothin'--" "Yes, I know. You didn't mean anything except to say exactly what you wanted to say. And you've said it now. So go on!... Tell him I will be there after a little," he added as she left the room. He felt that it was a weakness in him to go. He had told Philip that he must never send for him again. If he went now he would probably be expected to do so every night, and that he certainly should not do. But for the life of him he could not refuse the child's request. Philip's tyranny was so affectionate, so gentle, the flattery of it was so insidious that it was simply irresistible. Besides,--there was something in what Mammy Cely had said. "Well, Philip, they tell me you've got balled up in your devotions," he said, sitting down by the little white bed. "Sir?" "Couldn't you say your prayers to Mammy Cely?" "No, sir, I--I can't say 'em very good--to any--black person." In the next room Mammy Cely was chuckling to herself. He did not seem very particular about saying them to any white person. He talked instead about all the things he could think of to ward off the evil hour of going to sleep. And Richard, his heart strangely soft toward this mite of humanity who wanted him and called for him, defied all the rules of hygiene demanding early hours and let him talk. Mammy Cely was gone, having petitioned to go down to "Sist' Dicey's" on an errand. It was her policy to leave uncle and child together as much as possible at this hour. At length Mr. De Jarnette said firmly, "Now, Philip, you really must go to sleep." "I have to say my pwayers first," said Philip. "I can't _never_ go to sleep wivout saying my pwayers." He knew that this was an exercise which could be prolonged indefinitely. "Well, go on." "I have to kneel down first." "Kneel down then." Philip slipped out of bed and stood before him. "I have to put my head on somebody's lap." "Put it against my knee." "I can't. It has to be somefin' soft." "Kneel down by the bed then." "I can't say my pwayers to the bed," Philip said reproachfully. Then, catching sight of a comforter across the bed, he suggested, "Maybe you could make a lap."