"Well, what of that? Other folks have lived
with their aunts and not told whoppers."
"They haven't lived with Aunt Eudora."
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Content
Adams, and you the rector's niece, talking that way
about dead folks."
"I don't mean to talk about poor Aunt Eudora,"
fairly sobbed Content. "Aunt Eudora was a real
good aunt, but she was grown up. She was a good
deal more grown up than your mother; she really
was, and when I first went to live with her I was
'most a little baby; I couldn't speak -- plain, and
I had to go to bed real early, and slept 'way off from
everybody, and I used to be afraid -- all alone, and
so --"
"Well, go on," said Jim, but his voice was softer.
It WAS hard lines for a little kid, especially if she
was a girl.
"And so," went on the little, plaintive voice, "I
got to thinking how nice it would be if I only had
a big sister, and I used to cry and say to myself -- I
couldn't speak plain, you know, I was so little --
'Big sister would be real solly.' And then first
thing I knew -- she came."
"Who came?"
"Big sister Solly."
"What rot! She didn't come. Content Adams,
you know she didn't come."
"She must have come," persisted the little girl,
in a frightened whisper. "She must have. Oh, Jim,
you don't know.
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