"I am to blame, mother——"
Mrs. Milo returned to the errant soloist. "And you were willfully disobeying, you wicked little boy!"
A queer look came into Ikey's eyes. His angular face seemed to draw up. His ears moved under their eaves of curling hair. "Ye-e-es, Missis," he drawled calmly.
Mrs. Milo was a judge of moods. She knew she had gone far enough. She assumed a tone of deepest regret. "Ungrateful children!" she said, distributing her censure. "Think of the little orphans who don't get the care you get! Think——" And arraigning the sagging Clarence, "Don't lean against Miss Milo."
Ikey grinned. Experience had taught him that when Mrs. Milo permitted herself to halt a scolding, she would not resume it. Furthermore, a loud, burring bell was ringing from somewhere beyond the Church, and that summons meant the choirmaster, a personage who was really formidable. Before Sue, he raised that candle-like finger.
"Practice," announced Mrs. Milo, pointing to the passage.
Three boys drew churchward on sluggish feet. But Sue held Ikey back.
"His finger hurts," she comforted. "Come! We'll get some liniment."
"Susan!"—gently reproving again. "There's liniment in the Dispensary."
Up, as before a teacher, came Ikey's well hand. "Please, Missis, de
Orphan medicine, she is not a speck of good."
Sue added her plea. "No, mother, she is not a speck."