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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-and-white nest of innocent dreams?

Sally pitied him. She spoke more harshly than her husband. “Content Adams,” said she, “you know perfectly well that you have no big sister Solly. Now tell me the truth. Tell me you have no big sister Solly.”

“I have a big sister Solly,” said Content.

“Come, Edward,” said Sally. “There is no use in staying and talking to this obstinate little girl any longer.” Then she spoke to Content. “Before you go to sleep,” said she, “you must say your prayers, if you have not already done so.”

“I have said my prayers,” replied Content, and her blue eyes were full of horrified astonishment at the suspicion.

“Then,” said Sally, “you had better say them over and add something. Pray that you may always tell the truth.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Content, in her little canary pipe.

The rector and his wife went out. Sally switched off the light with a snap as she passed. Out in the hall she stopped and held her husband’s arms hard. “Hush!” she whispered. They both listened. They heard this, in the faintest plaint of a voice:

“They don’t believe you are here, Sister Solly, but I do.”

Sally dashed back into the rosebud room and switched on the light. She stared around. She opened a closet door. Then she turned off the light and joined her husband.

“There was nobody there?” he whispered.

“Of course not.”

When they were back in the study the rector and his wife looked at each other.

“We will do the best we can,” said Sally. “Don’t worry, Edward, for you have to write your sermon to-morrow. We will manage some way. I will admit that I rather wish Content had had some other distant relative besides you who could have taken charge of her.”