There was no long term of orphanage life to quiet the young savage in Ikey. And with his much-prized voice, he was even accustomed to being listened to on more than musical occasions. Now he bolted forward, disregarding Sue's hand, which caught at him as he passed. "Missis," began the borrowed soloist, meeting Mrs. Milo's horrified gaze with undaunted eye, "Clarence, he is jealousy dat I sing so fine." To argue with Sue, or to subdue her, that was one thing; to come to cases with Ikey was quite another. He had an unpleasant habit of threatening to betake himself out and away to his aunt, or to go on strike at such dramatic times as morning service. Therefore, it seemed safer now to ignore the question of torn and muddied cottas, and seize upon some other pretext for censure. "What kind of language is that?" questioned Mrs. Milo, gently chiding. "'He is jealousy'!" "Yes, quaint, isn't it, mother?" broke in Sue. "Really quaint." And to Ikey, "Not jealousy--jealous." Ikey bobbed. Before him, like a swathed candle, he upheld his sore finger. "Please, Susan!" begged Mrs. Milo, with a look which made her daughter fall back apologetically. And to Ikey, "How did you come by that wound?" The truth would not do. And the truth was even now on the very tip of Ikey's heedless tongue. Sue gave him a little sidewise push. "Mother dear," she explained, "it was accidental." Aghast at the very boldness of the statement, Ikey came about upon the defender. "Ac-ci-den-tal!" he cried; "dat he smashes me in de hand? Oh, Momsey!" "Sh! Sh!" implored Sue. But the worst had happened. Now, voice or no voice, aunt or no aunt, Ikey must be disciplined. Mrs. Milo caught him by a white sleeve. "Ikey Einstein!" she breathed, appalled. "Yes, Missis?" "Please don't 'Missis' me! What did you call my daughter?" "I--I mean Miss Milo." "What did you call my daughter?" "Mother," pleaded Sue, "it slipped out." "Do not interrupt me." "No, mother." "Answer me, Ikey." "I says to her, Momsey." Mrs. Milo glared at the boy, her breast heaving. There was more in her hostile attitude toward him than the fact that he bore signs of a fracas, or that he had dared in her hearing to let slip the "Momsey" he so loved to use. To her, pious as she was (but pious through habit rather than through any deep conviction), the mere sight of the child was enough to rouse her anger. She resented his ever having been taken into the choir of St. Giles, no matter how good his voice might be. She even resented his having a voice. He was "that little Jew" always, and a living symbol "in our Christian church" of a "race that had slain the Lord." And it was all this which added to his sin in daring to look upon her daughter with an affection that was filial. "Ikey Einstein,"--she emphasized the name--"haven't you been told never to address Miss Susan as 'Momsey'?" "He forgot," urged Sue. "But he won't ever----" "You're interrupting again----" "Excuse me."