'What for?' said the stout lady. 'The tree's not till to-morrow. Run away, little boy.'
'Oh, Mrs. Philkins,' said Phyllis, 'he's not a little boy, he's Guy; don't you remember him?'
'I remember him in petticoats,' said Mrs. Philkins: 'he's grown. Good-afternoon.'
'Mother said,' said Guy, keeping his temper beautifully, 'that we might come and help.'
'Very kind of your mother to arrange it like that. But I happen to be in charge of the tree, and I don't want any outside assistance.'
The children turned away without a word. When they got outside Guy said:
'I hate Mrs. Philkins!'
'We oughtn't to hate anybody,' said Mabel.
'She isn't anybody—at least, not anybody in particular,' said Phyllis; 'I heard father say so.'
'She wouldn't have been such a pig to us if she'd known what we'd brought for the tree,' said Phyllis.
'I'm glad she didn't know. I wish we hadn't done the things at all,' said Guy; 'it's always the way if you try to do good to others.'
'It isn't,' said the others indignantly; 'you know it isn't.'
'That's right!' said Guy aggravatingly, 'let's begin to quarrel about it—us—that would just
