Part 26

Sally plucked at his coat-sleeve as they went down-stairs. “My dear,” she whispered, “I think she is asleep.”

“She will have to wake up.”

“But, my dear, she may be nervous. Would it not be better to wait until to-morrow?”

“I think not,” said Edward Patterson. Usually an easy-going man, when he was aroused he was determined to extremes. Into Content's room he marched, Sally following. Neither of them saw their small son Jim peeking around his door. He had heard--he could not help it--the conversation earlier in the day between Content and his mother. He had also heard other things. He now felt entirely justified in listening, although he had a good code of honor. He considered himself in a way responsible, knowing what he knew, for the peace of mind of his parents. Therefore he listened, peeking around the doorway of his dark room.

The electric light flashed out from Content's room, and the little interior was revealed. It was charmingly pretty. Sally had done her best to make this not altogether welcome little stranger's room attractive. There were garlands of rosebuds swung from the top of the white satin-papered walls. There were dainty toilet things, a little dressing-table decked with ivory, a case of books, chairs cushioned with rosebud chintz, windows curtained with the same.

In the little white bed, with a rose-sprinkled coverlid over her, lay Content. She was not asleep. Directly, when the light flashed out, she looked at the rector and his wife with her clear blue eyes. Her fair hair, braided neatly and tied with pink ribbons, lay in two tails on either side of her small, certainly very good face. Her forehead was beautiful, very white and full, giving her an expression of candor which was even noble. Content, little lonely girl among strangers in a strange place, mutely beseeching love and pity, from her whole attitude toward life and the world, looked up at Edward Patterson and Sally, and the rector realized that his determination was giving way. He began to believe in imagination, even to the extent of a sister Solly. He had never had a daughter, and sometimes the thought of one had made his heart tender. His voice was very kind when he spoke.

“Well, little girl,” he said, “what is this I hear?”

Sally stared at her husband and stifled a chuckle.

As for Content, she looked at the rector and said nothing. It was obvious that she did not know what he had heard. The rector explained.

“My dear little girl,” he said, “your aunt Sally”--they had agreed upon the relationship of uncle and aunt to Content--“tells me that you have been telling her about your--big sister Solly.” The rector half gasped as he said Solly. He seemed to himself to be on the driveling verge of idiocy before the pronunciation of that absurdly inane name.

Content's responding voice came from the pink-and-white nest in which she was snuggled, like the fluting pipe of a canary.

“Yes, sir,” said she.

“My dear child,” said the rector, “you know perfectly well that you have no big sister--Solly.” Every time the rector said Solly he swallowed hard.

Content smiled as Sally had described her smiling. She said nothing. The rector felt reproved and looked down upon from enormous heights of innocence and childhood and the wisdom thereof. However, he persisted.

“Content,” he said, “what did you mean by telling your aunt Sally what you did?”

“I was talking with my big sister Solly,” replied Content, with the calmness of one stating a fundamental truth of nature.

The rector's face grew stern. “Content,” he said, “look at me.”

Content looked. Looking seemed to be the instinctive action which distinguished her as an individual.

“Have you a big sister--Solly?” asked the rector. His face was stern, but his voice faltered.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then--tell me so.”

“I have a big sister Solly,” said Content. Now she spoke rather wearily, although still sweetly, as if puzzled why she had been disturbed in sleep to be asked such an obvious question.

“Where has she been all the time, that we have known nothing about her?” demanded the rector.

Content smiled. However, she spoke. “Home,” said she.

“When did she come here?”

“This morning.”

“Where is she now?”

Content smiled and was silent. The rector cast a helpless look at his wife. He now did not care if she did see that he was completely at a loss. How could a great, robust man and a clergyman be harsh to a tender little girl child in a pink-andwhite nest of innocent dreams?