To humor him Mr. De Jarnette threw the comforter across his knees, conveniently spread apart. Philip dropped his head upon the manufactured substitute to its immediate undoing.

"My mama's lap don't come to pieces," he remarked critically.

"Wait till I get this thing under my feet," retorted his uncle. "I ought to be able to make a lap that will stand you. Now, sir, I'm ready for you."

It sounded like a challenge. His nephew, hungry for a romp, made a battering ram of himself and again the lap caved in. When it was reconstructed, Philip put his head down very gently, increasing the pressure with every word.

"Now I lay me down to sleep,

I pway Thee, Lord, my soul—"

There was a gurgle of laughter down in the comforter.

"Unker Wichard, it's giving way!"

"Philip, you rascal! You're making it give way. Wait! Now I've got it!"

With the comforter under both feet he made a lap that could withstand a small boy even, and Philip, recognizing the fact that his romp was over, folded his hands and bowed his head, saying reverently the sweet prayer that so many infant lips have lisped: