"Well, I'm not certain sure, but I think so. She wouldn't open her month more'n a crack for me to look." "I bet she does," little Archie chimed in, "'cause I've seen her my own self. She makes her jaws go just this way--look!" Helen smiled in her sleeve, and laid the little discussion away in her memory for "Motherdie's" delectation. The older boys arrived, and dinner was presently in animated progress, though everybody tried to keep still--and didn't. As by magic the sweet-potatoes vanished under the eager forks and spoons, and the creamy rice followed rapid suit. The Arabs were a hearty little tribe. Nothing pleased Helen more than to have them appreciate her cooking. She sighed a little now over the thought that perhaps Mahala would scorch the rice after she was gone. "Well, I dread her!" suddenly exclaimed Roy, as if in answer to Helen's sigh. "Who?" asked Archie, between mouthfuls. "Mahala. She'll scold us like sixty-nine when we make tracks over her floors, and Helen never does." "She'll wear hoops," said Molly, holding her little silver fork in reflective suspension. "And make-b'lieve bangs." "And cloth slippers, with 'lastics criss-cross over her ankles." "And _white stockings_!" Helen contracted her eyebrows sternly. "Stop, children!" she chided. "Mahala's a good woman from the top of her head--" "Make-b'lieve bangs," murmured irrepressible Archie. "--to the soles of her feet." "Cloth slippers, you mean." Helen's eyes tried not to twinkle. "She's as much better than I am as--as--you can think," she ended, lamely. The Arabs laughed in derisive chorus. "But, honest, Helen, it's goin' to be so lonesome an' poky!" Molly wailed over her empty saucer. "We sha'n't have a speck of fun till you come home again." "A whole year!" "Twelve months. Four times twelve's forty-eight. Forty-eight times seven's--" "Three hundred 'n' sixty-five!" concluded Roy, scornfully. Roy was in the grammar grade, and was regarded as an oracle in arithmetic. The baby woke up and lifted her voice hungrily, and Helen ran away to her. The busy afternoon followed the busy morning on swift wings, and it was almost supper-time before she could sit down and think a minute. Then she held Uncle 'Gene's letter in her lap and thought about that. "Let her come soon," it said, "and stay anyway a year. She has real musical talent, and Bab's Professor Grafmann will develop it if anybody can. He's a genius. Besides, we all want her, and the child must need a breathing-spell after trying so long to tame those wild Arabs. Yon can surely find somebody else to tutor them."