"Now, where on earth," demanded Miss Addison, "did he get all that?"
"Only the special angel that watches over bad little boys knows," said his mother with conviction. "And it won't tell. I know by experience that I'll never get it out of Philip. He'll say, sweetly, 'Oh, I just fought it, Muvver!' in as infantile a voice as possible."
They all three sat and pondered.
"It sounds just like a tract," said Joy at last.
"Exactly like a tract," assented Phyllis. "Do you suppose—in Sunday-school——"
"I'm his Sunday-school teacher," Miss Addison reminded her indignantly. "That settles that!"
"Well, have some more tea, anyway, now the worst is over," said her hostess hospitably.... "A wheelbarrow!"
They continued to sit over their teacups and meditate. Suddenly Phyllis rose swiftly and made a spring for the bookcase, scattering sponge-cake as she went.
"I have it, I believe!" she exclaimed. "Well, who'd think—Viola read this to Philip when he was getting over the scarlatina last winter. There wasn't another child's book in the house that he didn't know by heart, and we couldn't borrow on account of the infection. I took it away from them, but the mischief was done. But he's never spoken of it or seemed to remember it from that day to this, and I'd forgotten it, too."
She held up a small, dingy book and opened it to the title-page.