Jim had gone to Content's door and
tapped and called out, rather rudely: "Content, I
say, put on your hat and come along out in the
garden. I've got something to tell you."
"Don't want to," protested Content's little voice,
faintly.
"You come right along."
And Content came along. She was an obedient
child, and she liked Jim, although she stood much
in awe of him. She followed him into the garden
back of the rectory, and they sat down on the bench
beneath the weeping willow. The minute they were
seated Jim began to talk.
"Now," said he, "I want to know."
Content glanced up at him, then looked down
and turned pale.
"I want to know, honest Injun," said Jim, "what
you are telling such awful whoppers about your old
big sister Solly for?"
Content was silent. This time she did not smile,
a tear trickled out of her right eye and ran over the
pale cheek.
"Because you know," said Jim, observant of the
tear, but ruthless, "that you haven't any big sister
Solly, and never did have. You are getting us all
in an awful mess over it, and father is rector
here, and mother is his wife, and I am his
son, and you are his niece, and it is downright
mean. Why do you tell such whoppers? Out
with it!"
Content was trembling violently. "I lived with
Aunt Eudora," she whispered.
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