"But you doesn't own me, Aunt Babe; every one else doesn't own me, just myse'f."
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."