In his uncle's protecting embrace, the nervous, over-wrought child said stoutly:
"They isn't any big black dogs 'wound here, is they, Unker Wichard?"
"No, indeed."
"And they isn't anybody trying to get me away from my—from anybody, is there?"
"There is nothing that is going to hurt you, Philip," was the grave, but reassuring reply.
Philip lay still a few moments in relieved content. Then he enquired seductively, "You don't know any stories, do you, Unker Wichard?" Adding, with a little catch in his voice, "My mama always tells me stories."
"Stories are not much in my line, Philip. But perhaps I could grind out one."
"I 'most know I couldn't go to sleep on one," said Philip, with thrifty providence. "Maybe I could if you could 'member three. I'd try."
"All right."
Philip settled himself for solid comfort. If there was one thing that he loved better than all the world except his mother, it was a good story.