What remote memory of past Sunday stories had asserted itself, the next day, it would be impossible to tell; but Mac suddenly projected himself into the long-ago, and out from the long-ago he addressed Phebe. "You are Pharaoh, you know, and you kills babies." "Don't be silly, Mac." Phebe was writing a letter and was in no mood for historical conversation. Sitting on the floor at her feet, Mac clasped his shabby brownie to his breast. "Yes, you are Pharaoh, you know; naughty old Pharaoh! But you wouldn't kill vis little baby; would you, Pharaoh?" "I'd like to, if it would clean him up a little," Phebe returned, for she had an antipathy to the brownie which usually took its meals in company with Mac. "Do peoples be clean, all ve time, in heaven?" "Of course." "Ven I don't want to go vere, Pharaoh." "Mac, you must stop calling me Pharaoh. Aunt Phebe is my name." The next instant, the baby came flying straight into Pharaoh's face, and Mac fled, weeping, to his mother. "Mam-ma!" "Yes, Mac." "I'd be glad if I was dead." "Why, dear?" Hope looked startled. "'Cause peoples are happy when vey are up in ve sky." "But you can be happy here, Mac, if you are good," Hope said gently. "Yes; but I aren't happy; I are cross." Hope sighed and laid away the letter she was writing to her husband. There were days when she regretted that she had brought this restless, tempestuous child into so large a family circle, days when Mac's cherubic qualities appeared to be entirely in abeyance. Gentle as she was, her own influence over him was of the strongest; but here she felt that she had less chance to exert this influence. In spite of her efforts, Mac was running wild, this summer. The smallest child on the beach, he was petted and spoiled by every one, and Hope disliked the inevitable pertness which followed so much attention. Most of all, she disliked the constant friction with his Aunt Phebe, and she felt that the blame was by no means entirely upon the one side. Mac was no heavenly child, and it was only by dint of much tact that he could be managed at all; but tact in dealing with children was not Phebe's strong point. The summer, then, was not proving altogether restful to Hope. To one person, however, she felt an overwhelming gratitude. Of all the people on Quantuck beach, Gifford Barrett had been the only one who appeared to have either conscience or common sense in dealing with Mac's idiosyncrasies. The child never seemed to bore him, or to come into collision with him, yet there was never any question who was the master. Again and again, Hope had wondered at the dexterity with which the young musician had led Mac away from his small iniquities, had coaxed him into giggling forgetfulness of his bad temper. She wondered yet more at the obedience which Mac readily accorded to his new friend, an obedience which she was accustomed to win only after long and persistent siege.