"No! No-o-o!" cried Mrs. Milo. "That photograph! What are you doing with it?"
In sudden panic, Bobbie shifted the photograph from hand to hand; tried to force it into the hands of the tow-headed boy, then bent to consign it to the carpet.
Sue was beforehand. She caught the picture away from the small trembling hand, and smiled upon her mother. "Oh—I—I was just going to look at it," she explained. "Thank you, Bobbie.—Isn't it good of father! So natural, and—and——"
Mrs. Milo was not deceived. "Give it to me," she said coldly. And as Sue obeyed, "Now, go, boys. Dora, poor child, works so hard to keep this drawing-room looking well. We can't have you disarrange it. Come! Be prompt!"
Sue urged the four passageward. "They were just going, mother.—Don't touch the woodwork; use the door knob."
And now, when it seemed that even Ikey and Clarence might escape undetected, Mrs. Milo gave another cry. "Oh, what's the matter with those two?" she demanded.
There was no long term of orphanage life to quiet the young savage in Ikey. And with his much-prized voice, he was even accustomed to being listened to on more than musical occasions. Now he bolted forward, disregarding Sue's hand, which caught at him as he passed. "Missis," began the borrowed soloist, meeting Mrs. Milo's horrified gaze with undaunted eye, "Clarence, he is jealousy dat I sing so fine."
To argue with Sue, or to subdue her, that was one thing; to come to cases with Ikey was quite another. He had an unpleasant habit of threatening to betake himself out and away to his aunt, or to go on strike at such dramatic times as morning service. Therefore, it seemed safer now to ignore the question of torn and muddied cottas, and seize upon some other pretext for censure. "What kind of language is that?" questioned Mrs. Milo, gently chiding. "'He is jealousy'!"
"Yes, quaint, isn't it, mother?" broke in Sue. "Really quaint." And to
Ikey, "Not jealousy—jealous."
Ikey bobbed. Before him, like a swathed candle, he upheld his sore finger.