"Yes, little twins, talk English and maybe you'll learn something." And for the moment the anxious light in Fairy's eyes gave way to a twinkle. Sad indeed was the day when Fairy could not laugh at the twins.
"Then, in common vernacular, though it is really beneath us, what's up?"
Fairy turned innocently inquiring eyes toward the ceiling. "What indeed?"
"Oh, don't try to be dramatic, Fairy," counseled Lark. "You're too fat for a star-Starr."
The twins beamed at each other approvingly at this, and Fairy smiled. But Carol returned promptly to the charge. "Are Jerry and Prudence having domestic difficulties? There's something going on, and we want to know. Father looks like a fallen Samson, and—"
"A fallen Samson, Carol! Mercy! Where did you get it?"
"Yes, kind of sheepish, and ashamed, and yet hopeful of returning strength. That's art, a simile like that is.—Prudence writes every day, and you hide the letters. And Aunt Grace sneaks around like a convict with her hand under her apron. And you look as heavy-laden as if you were carrying Connie's conscience around with you."
Aunt Grace looked at Fairy, Fairy looked at Aunt Grace. Aunt Grace raised her eyebrows. Fairy hesitated, nodded, smiled. Slowly then Aunt Grace drew one hand from beneath her apron and showed to the eagerly watching twins, a tiny, hand embroidered dress. They stared at it, fascinated, half frightened, and then looked into the serious faces of their aunt and sister.
"I—I don't believe it," whispered Carol. "She's not old enough."
Aunt Grace smiled.