"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.