"But it was—pardon the question, how many years ago?"
"Twenty-three."
Mr. Pinckney sat musingly looking off into the garden where Jack and Jean were hiding Moses in a thicket of presumable bulrushes. They were singing:
"To the side of the river so clear
They carried the beautiful child,"
and their childish voices were drifted toward the listeners on the veranda, with the scent of roses and lilies.
"Twenty-three years," repeated Mr. Pinckney, "and that is all you know."
"All. The subject was tabooed in my uncle's family, but once when some one asked if I resembled my mother my aunt said: 'Yes, in feature and all except hair and complexion, but even her hair is darker than her father's.' So I learned that much."
Mr. Pinckney did not put any more questions, for the triumphant train of maidens came bearing the infant Moses to the palace, and the twins announced that they had decided to make Mr. St. Nick king, pressing upon him such arduous duties that he had no time for further inquiries. For, when a somewhat bald head wears a crown it is apt to sit more uneasily than upon one better covered.
"You must have this serape for a robe," insisted Jack, flinging an Indian blanket around him. "We shall have Miss Dolores for Pharaoh's daughter. The shells are too little. I am to be Miriam and we are going to take the little Chinese image for Moses; Mrs. Bobs said we might."