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.