“Mother—­who is he?  Who is he?” he demanded.

“Why, my lamb, don’t you know?  It’s your little uncle Philip—­my brother, for whom you were named—­Philip Fairfield the sixth.  There was always a Philip Fairfield at Fairfield since 1790.  This one was the last, poor baby! and he died when he was five.  Unless you go back there some day—­that’s my hope, but it’s not likely to come true.  You are a Yankee, except for the big half of you that’s me.  That’s Southern, every inch.”  She laughed and kissed his fresh cheek impulsively.  “But what made you so excited over this picture, Phil?”

Philip gazed down, serious, a little embarrassed, at the open case in his hand.  “Mother,” he said after a moment, “you’ll laugh at me, but I’ve seen this chap in a dream three times now.”

“Oh!” She did laugh at him.  “Oh, Philip!  What have you been eating for dinner, I’d like to know?  I can’t have you seeing visions of your ancestors at fifteen—­it’s unhealthy.”

The boy, reddening, insisted.  “But, mother, really, don’t you think it was queer?  I saw him as plainly as I do now—­and I’ve never seen this picture before.”

“Oh, yes, you have—­you must have seen it,” his mother threw back lightly.  “You’ve forgotten, but the image of it was tucked away in some dark corner of your mind, and when you were asleep it stole out and played tricks on you.  That’s the way forgotten ideas do:  they get even with you in dreams for having forgotten them.”

“Mother, only listen—­” But Mrs. Beckwith, her eyes lighting with a swift turn of thought, interrupted him—­laid her finger on his lips.

“No—­you listen, boy dear—­quick, before I forget it!  I’ve never told you about this, and it’s very interesting.”

And the youngster, used to these wilful ways of his sister-mother, laughed and put his fair head against her shoulder and listened.

“It’s quite a romance,” she began, “only there isn’t any end to it; it’s all unfinished and disappointing.  It’s about this little Philip here, whose name you have—­my brother.  He died when he was five, as I said, but even then he had a bit of dramatic history in his life.  He was born just before war-time in 1859, and he was a beautiful and wonderful baby; I can remember all about it, for I was six years older.  He was incarnate sunshine, the happiest child that ever lived, but far too quick and clever for his years.  The servants used to ask him, ’Who is you, Marse Philip, sah?’ to hear him answer, before he could speak it plainly, ’I’m Philip Fairfield of Fairfield’; he seemed to realize that, and his responsibility to them and to the place, as soon as he could breathe.  He wouldn’t have a darky scolded in his presence, and every morning my father put him in front of him in the saddle, and they rode together about the plantation.  My father adored him, and little Philip’s sunshiny way of taking possession of the slaves and the property pleased him more deeply, I think, than anything in