"'Do the tops of the beds in Paris ever come down?'" repeated grandmother. "My dear child, what do you mean?"
"It was a story she heard," began Sylvia, in explanation.
"About somebody being suffocated in Paris by the top of the bed coming down," continued Ralph.
"It was robbers that wanted to steal his money," added Molly.
Grandmother began to look less mystified. "Oh, that old story!" she said. "But how did you hear it? I remember it when I was a little girl; it really happened to a friend of my grandfather's, and afterwards I came across it in a little book about dogs. 'Fidelity of dogs,' was the name of it, I think. The dog saved the traveller's life by dragging him out of the bed."
"Yes," said aunty, "I remember that book too. It was among your old child's books, mother. A queer little musty brown volume, and I remember how the story frightened me."
"There now!" said Molly triumphantly. "You see it frightened aunty too. So I'm not such a baby after all."
"Yes, you are," said Ralph. "People might be frightened without making such a fuss. Molly declared she would rather not go to Paris at all. That's what I call being babyish—it isn't the feeling frightened that's babyish—for people might feel frightened and still be brave, mightn't they, grandmother?"
"Certainly, my boy. That is what moral courage means."
"Oh!" said Molly, as if a new idea had dawned upon her. "I see. Then it doesn't matter if I am frightened if I don't tell any one."