tle mortals they would be!

"Dear little mother, poor little mother, I'll shut the door and keep the
Arabs as still as I ever can."

Helen always called them the Arabs when she spoke of them collectively.
It was a family pet name for them. The baby had toppled into the big
pan, and was fast asleep when Helen went out. She picked her up and laid
her tenderly beside the mother. Then with wonderful ease she flew about,
finishing the dishes, setting the table for lunch, and doing three
things at once with nimble dexterity. She met the Arabs at the door with
hushing forefinger. They trooped in on tiptoe, sniffing anxiously for
dinner smells.

"I'm awful hungry!" Archie whispered, shrilly.

"So be I--_awful_!" Harry echoed. "_Are_ there sweet-potatoes, Helen?"

"I smell 'em! I smell 'em!" Molly cried, under her breath, dancing
across the floor.

"'Sh! 'sh! Yes, there are sweet-potatoes, but not for Arabs with dirty
faces. Come here this minute, and let me polish you up. Oh, Harry, where
ever did you tear your trousers so? A great big hog tear!"

"Folks oughter not have fences with splinters to 'em, then," Harry
spluttered, with his mouth full of soapy water. "I was crawlin' under to
see if Pat Curran's cow chews gum. Bill Miller says so."

"Does she?" Molly asked, eagerly.

"Well, I'm not certain sure, but I think so. She wouldn't open her month
more'n a crack for me to look."

"I bet she does," little Archie chimed in, "'cause I've seen her my own
self. She makes her jaws go just this way--look!"

Helen smiled in her sleeve, and laid the little discussion away in her
memory for "Motherdie's" delectation. The older boys arrived, and dinner
was presently in animated progress, though everybody tried to keep
still--and didn't. As by magic the sweet-potatoes vanished under the
eager forks and spoons, and the creamy rice followed rapid suit. The
Arabs were a hearty little tribe. Nothing pleased Helen more than to
have them appreciate her cooking. She sighed a little now over the
thought that perhaps Mahala would scorch the rice after she was gone.

"Well, I dread her!" suddenly exclaimed Roy, as if in answer to Helen's
sigh.

"Who?" asked Archie, between mouthfuls.

"Mahala. She'll scold us like sixty-nine when we make tracks over her
floors, and Helen never does."

"She'll wear hoops," said Molly, holding her little silver fork in
reflective suspension.

"And make-b'lieve bangs."

"And cloth slippers, with '