"God bless my boy," said Richard De Jarnette, after a moment's surprised delay.
"God bless my mama—my Unker Wichard," Philip said, as simply as he said it every night, and went away quite satisfied.
An hour or two later, when darkness had descended upon the land and the whippoorwill was sounding his lonely call, Mammy Cely appeared at the library door.
"Marse Richard, the circus done let in."
"He hasn't begun that performance again!"
"Well," replied Mammy Cely, conservatively, "not to say the reely pufformance. But the band's chunin' up. And look lak you 's the ring-master. I ain't got no mo' to say now than one of the spotted ponies or the clown. He done call fur you."
It was inevitable. Mr. De Jarnette laid down his book.
"What is it, Philip?" he asked kindly, as he sat down by the bed.
"Nothing—only—I thes 'emembered it was Lily instead of Vi'let got away. It was Vi'let that got squshed."