"Oh!"
"He's jes' makin' talk, Marse Richard," explained Mammy Cely in an undertone. "He can't go to sleep and he wants you to stay with him. I know chil'n."
There is something irresistible in a child's turning from some one else to us. It is the subtlest kind of flattery.
"I'll stay with him a while. Go on down-stairs if you want to." He half wanted to try the experiment of managing him alone.
When she was gone he said quietly, "Philip, would you rather have me stay with you than Mammy Cely?"
"Yes, sir. You see—I isn't used to—any black person at night."
"I see. If I stay with you will you be a brave little boy and not cry?"
"Yes, sir. My mama told me—I must be bwave, but—" one little hand covered his lips in a futile attempt to shut off a sob—"I'm afraid I—can't—be—ver-r-ry bwave!"
Richard De Jarnette held out his arms. Coming up the stairs he had vowed he would not do this thing. "Do you want to sit in my lap?"
"Yes, sir!"