“No’m,” the larger one responded; “we’ve only just ’come ’quainted.  He’s only five; I’m five ’an half.  I’m Archibald Sears; his name’s Tommy—­I want my mother!”

Tommy’s blue eyes filled.  “So do I,” he cried.

Totty took up the wail; and the little four-year-old girl on Nell’s lap promptly followed suit.

“What shall we do?” Nell asked, imploringly.

But at that moment Sarah appeared.  She took Tommy up in her strong, motherly arms, soothing him in practised fashion.  “There, there, honey!  Yo’s goin’ have yo’ mother pretty soon.  What yo’ wants now’s yo’ supper, ain’t it, honey?  I reckon ain’t no one had de sense ter gib yo’ chillens a mite ter eat.”

Tommy tucked his head down on Sarah’s broad shoulder with a pathetic little sigh of comfort.  In the home which at this moment seemed very far away to Tommy was an old colored mammy.  He refused to let Sarah put him down, so she took him with her while she got ready the five bowls of warm bread and milk, which she declared the best possible supper for all the children under the circumstances.

“But whatever put such a notion in yo’ head, Miss P’tricia, is more’n I kin figger out,” she declared a few moments later, guiding the sleepy Tommy’s spoon in its journey from bowl to mouth.  “What yo’ reckon yo’ pa’s goin’ say?”

“I think,” Patricia glanced about the table, “that just at present Daddy would say—­bed.”

“H’m,” Sarah grunted, “yo’ knows what I means.  Well, it’s sure got ter be a bath for them all ’fore it kin be bed; so we’d best get started.”

She headed the little procession upstairs, Tommy in her arms, Patricia bringing up the rear with Totty.

“If it hadn’t come about in such a dreadful way, wouldn’t it be perfectly lovely?” Patricia said.  “Think of it, Nell—­five children to spend Christmas with one!”

Nell laughed.  “Your Christmas isn’t over yet, Pat; it won’t be all smooth running.”

“You can’t scare me.  Nell, we’ll hang up their stockings for them.  They must have their Christmas.”

“What yo’ goin’ do fo’ night things fo’ dem, Miss P’tricia?” Sarah asked, suddenly; “‘pears like ain’t none o’ ’em come much laden down wid luggage.”

“N-no,” Patricia answered; “probably their things weren’t very get-atable.  We’ll have to take some of my gowns, Sarah.”

Whereupon Archibald lifted up his voice in swift protestation; he didn’t want to wear a girl’s things; he wanted to go home; he wanted to sleep in his own bed; he wanted his mother!

At that all-compelling word four other voices rose in instantaneous lamentation, even Norma catching the general infection.

“Sarah, can’t you do something?” Patricia implored.  “Nell, what does your mother do when your brothers cry like this?”

“They—­don’t cry like this,” Nell answered, trying desperately to quiet Lydia.

“Mebbe next time, Miss P’tricia,” Sarah’s tone was strictly of the “I-told-you-so” order, “yo’ won’t go ‘vitin’ a whole tribe o’ young uns, widout resultin’ any one.”