"I never have—no."
"I think this would make a dandy beach fire," said Philip, suggestively. "We used to woast marsh-mallows at Sous Haven. We had a big fire on the beach and Mr. Harcourt and me worked hard and hard getting brush for it, and Mr. Harcourt got us some sticks and we woasted 'em in the fire."
"The sticks?"
"No, sir, the marsh-mallows. And Gwamma Pennybacker was there. And—d—Mr. Harcourt chased me wound the fire and we had lots of fun. And—d—then my mama and Mr. Harcourt and Bess singed songs. That's the way you have a marsh-mallow woast." He sat still for a moment and then said persuasively, "Unker Wichard, s'pose we play that you was Mr. Harcourt, and the big chair was Gwamma Pennybacker, and the little one was Bess, and—Unker Wichard, what could we have for mama? We would most have to have mama."
It was a dangerous subject. "We'll arrange about that to-morrow," said Richard, hastily, "when we have the marsh-mallows. Now tell me what you've been doing to-day."
"I've been keeping off the calves," Philip said promptly, thinking of the latest feat. His mind was easily diverted now.
"Aha! and have you learned to milk?"
"No, sir. I can't make them little things go."
Mr. De Jarnette threw his head back with a laugh that woke the echoes in the silent old room. His nephew surveyed him with mild wonder.
"Aunt Dicey can though," he added.