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“Oh, of course she couldn’t. But all you have to do is to say that you heard me say she had gone. Don’t you understand?”

“I don’t understand how Content’s big sister Solly could possibly go away if she was never here.”

“Little Lucy, I wouldn’t ask you to tell a lie for the world, but if you were just to say that you heard me say –“

“I think it would be a lie,” said little Lucy, “because how can I help knowing if she was never here she couldn’t –“

“Oh, well, little Lucy,” cried Jim, in despair, still with tenderness — how could he be anything but tender with little Lucy? — “all I ask is never to say anything about it.”

“If they ask me?”

“Anyway, you can hold your tongue. You know it isn’t wicked to hold your tongue.”

Little Lucy absurdly stuck out the pointed tip of her little red tongue. Then she shook her head slowly.

“Well,” she said, “I will hold my tongue.”

This encounter with innocence and logic had left him worsted. Jim could see no way out of the fact that his father, the rector, his mother, the rector’s wife, and he, the rector’s son, were disgraced by their relationship to such an unsanctified little soul as this queer Content Adams.

And yet he looked at the poor lonely little girl, who was trying very hard to learn her lessons, who suggested in her very pose and movement a little, scared rabbit ready to leap the road for some bush of hiding, and while he was angry with her he pitied her. He had no doubts concerning Content’s keeping her promise. He was quite sure that he would now say nothing whatever about that big sister Solly to the others, but he was not prepared for what happened that very afternoon.

When he went home from school his heart stood still to see Miss Martha Rose, and Arnold Carruth’s aunt Flora, and his aunt who was not his aunt, Miss Dorothy Vernon, who was visiting her, all walking along in state with their lace-trimmed parasols, their white gloves, and their nice card-cases. Jim jumped a fence and raced across lots home, and gained on them. He burst in on his mother, sitting on the porch, which was inclosed by wire netting overgrown with a budding vine. It was the first warm day of the season.

“Mother,” cried Jim Patterson — “mother, they are coming!”

“Who, for goodness’ sake, Jim?”

“Why, Arnold’s aunt Flora and his aunt Dorothy and little Lucy’s aunt Martha. They are coming to call.”

Involuntarily Sally’s hand went up to smooth her pretty hair. “Well, what of it, Jim?” said she.

“Mother, they will ask for — big sister Solly!”

Sally Patterson turned pale. “How do you know?”

“Mother, Content has been talking at school. A lot know. You will see they will ask for –“

“Run right in and tell Content to stay in her room,” whispered Sally, hastily, for the callers, their white-kidded hands holding their card-cases genteelly, were coming up the walk.

Sally advanced, smiling. She put a brave face on the matter, but she realized that she, Sally Patterson, who had never been a coward, was positively afraid before this absurdity. The callers sat with her on the pleasant porch, with the young vine-shadows making networks over their best gowns. Tea was served presently by the maid, and, much to Sally’s relief, before the maid appeared came the inquiry. Miss Martha Rose made it.

“We would be pleased to see Miss Solly Adams also,” said Miss Martha.

Flora Carruth echoed her. “I was so glad to hear another nice girl had come to the village,” said she with enthusiasm. Miss Dorothy Vernon said something indefinite to the same effect.

“I am sorry,” replied Sally, with an effort, “but there is no Miss Solly Adams here now.” She spoke the truth as nearly as she could manage without unraveling the whole ridiculous affair. The callers sighed with regret, tea was served with little cakes, and they fluttered down the walk, holding their card-cases, and that ordeal was over.