Her father set
her down, whereat she made a bolt for the dog, the bone, and her
happily engaged brother.
"Do you think there's any way of conveying to him that this is not a
new amusement, Allan?" demanded his mother, half-laughing.
"Don't let's try," said Allan promptly. "Everything's going
beautifully. Philip's happy, and Angela's going to be gloriously
dirty in a minute, which will give her nurse something to wash. You
know how bitter Viola is about never getting the children to herself
for a minute."
Phyllis slipped an arm through her tall husband's, as they stood by
the steps together.
"No, but Allan, what _would_ you do?"
Allan laughed.
"Send him back to Wallraven, and tell Johnny Hewitt to see that he's
plunged into the middle of the chickenpox epidemic we fled from. How
would you like that, young man?"
Philip looked up with deprecating politeness, on being directly
addressed.
"Please, Faver, if you don't mind my name's Jinks! You must say,
'Here, Jinks,' and I say 'Woof! Woof!' and wag my tail."
"Say wuff!" echoed Angela, with a dazzling smile at her elders, and
an effort not to tumble over on the grass.
Phyllis pounced on her babies at Allan's alarming suggestion, and
managed to hug them both at once; an ordeal which Philip stood with
every evidence of pleasure, and Angela under protest.
"My poor little lambs! ... Allan, this is the first chickenpox
they've had up there since the summer we came.
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