Big Sister Solly
IT did seem strange that Sally Patterson, who,
according to her own self-estimation, was the
least adapted of any woman in the village, should
have been the one chosen by a theoretically selective
providence to deal with a psychological problem.
It was conceded that little Content Adams was a
psychological problem. She was the orphan child of
very distant relatives of the rector. When her par-
ents died she had been cared for by a widowed aunt
on her mother's side, and this aunt had also borne
the reputation of being a creature apart. When the
aunt died, in a small village in the indefinite "Out
West," the presiding clergyman had notified Edward
Patterson of little Content's lonely and helpless
estate. The aunt had subsisted upon an annuity
which had died with her. The child had inherited
nothing except personal property. The aunt's house
had been bequeathed to the church over which the
clergyman presided, and after her aunt's death he
took her to his own home until she could be sent to
her relatives, and he and his wife were exceedingly
punctilious about every jot and tittle of the aunt's
personal belongings. They even purchased two
extra trunks for them, which they charged to the
rector.
Little Content, traveling in the care of a lady who
had known her aunt and happened to be coming
East, had six large trunks, besides a hat-box and two
suit-cases and a nailed-up wooden box containing
odds and ends. Content made quite a sensation
when she arrived and her baggage was piled on the
station platform.
Poor Sally Patterson unpacked little Content's
trunks. She had sent the little girl to school within
a few days after her arrival. Lily Jennings and
Amelia Wheeler called for her, and aided her down
the street between them, arms interlocked. Content,
although Sally had done her best with a pretty
ready-made dress and a new hat, was undeniably a
peculiar-looking child. In the first place, she had
an expression so old that it was fairly uncanny.
"That child has downward curves beside her
mouth already, and lines between her eyes, and what
she will look like a few years hence is beyond me,"
Sally told her husband after she had seen the little
girl go out of sight between Lily's curls and ruffles
and ribbons and Amelia's smooth skirts.
"She doesn't look like a happy child," agreed the
rector. "Poor little thing! Her aunt Eudora must
have been a queer woman to train a child."
"She is certainly trained," said Sally, ruefully;
"too much so. Content acts as if she were afraid to
move or speak or even breathe unless somebody
signals permission. I pity her."
She was in the storeroom, in the midst of Con-
tent's baggage. The rector sat on an old chair,
smoking. He had a conviction that it behooved him
as a man to stand by his wife during what might
prove an ordeal. He had known Content's deceased
aunt years before. He had also known the clergyman
who had taken charge of her personal property and
sent it on with Content.
"Be prepared for finding almost anything. Sally,"
he observed. "Mr. Zenock Shanksbury, as I re-
member him, was so conscientious that it amounted
to mania. I am sure he has sent simply unspeakable
things rather than incur the reproach of that con-
science of his with regard to defrauding Content of
one jot or tittle of that personal property."
Sally shook out a long, black silk dress, with jet
dangling here and there. "Now here is this dress,"
said she. "I suppose I really must keep this, but
when that child is grown up the silk will probably
be cracked and entirely worthless."
"You had better take the two trunks and pack
them with such things, and take your chances."
"Oh, I suppose so. I suppose I must take chances
with everything except furs and wools, which will
collect moths. Oh, goodness!" Sally held up an
old-fashioned fitch fur tippet. Little vague winged
things came from it like dust. "Moths!" said she,
tragically. "Moths now. It is full of them. Ed-
ward, you need not tell me that clergyman's wife
was conscientious. No conscientious woman would
have sent an old fur tippet all eaten with moths into
another woman's house. She could not."
Sally took flying leaps across the storeroom. She
flung open the window and tossed out the mangy
tippet. "This is simply awful!" she declared, as she
returned. "Edward, don't you think we are justi-
fied in having Thomas take all these things out in
the back yard and making a bonfire of the whole
lot?"
"No, my dear."
"But, Edward, nobody can tell what will come
next. If Content's aunt had died of a contagious
disease, nothing could induce me to touch another
thing."
"Well, dear, you know that she died from the
shock of a carriage accident, because she had a weak
heart."
"I know it, and of course there is nothing con-
tagious about that." Sally took up an ancient
bandbox and opened it. She displayed its contents:
a very frivolous bonnet dating back in style a half-
century, gay with roses and lace and green strings,
and another with a heavy crape veil dependent.
"You certainly do not advise me to keep these?"
asked Sally, despondently.
Edward Patterson looked puzzled. "Use your
own judgment," he said, finally.
Sally summarily marched across the room and
flung the gay bonnet and the mournful one out of the
window. Then she took out a bundle of very old
underwear which had turned a saffron yellow with
age. "People are always coming to me for old linen
in case of burns," she said, succinctly. "After these
are washed I can supply an auto da fe."
Poor Sally worked all that day and several days
afterward. The rector deserted her, and she relied
upon her own good sense in the disposition of little
Content's legacy. When all was over she told her
husband.
"Well, Edward," said she, "there is exactly one
trunk half full of things which the child may live to
use, but it is highly improbable. We have had six
bonfires, and I have given away three suits of old
clothes to Thomas's father. The clothes were very
large."
"Must have belonged to Eudora's first husband.
He was a stout man," said Edward.
"And I have given two small suits of men's clothes
to the Aid Society for the next out-West barrel."
"Eudora's second husband's."
"And I gave the washerwoman enough old baking-
dishes to last her lifetime, and some cracked dishes.
Most of the dishes were broken, but a few were only
cracked; and I have given Silas Thomas's wife ten
old wool dresses and a shawl and three old cloaks.
All the other things which did not go into the bon-
fires went to the Aid Society. They will go back out
West." Sally laughed, a girlish peal, and her hus-
band joined. But suddenly her smooth forehead
contracted. "Edward," said she.
"Well, dear?"
"I am terribly puzzled about one thing." The
two were sitting in the study. Content had gone to
bed. Nobody could hear easily, but Sally Patterson
lowered her voice, and her honest, clear blue eyes had
a frightened expression.
"What is it, dear?"
"You will think me very silly and cowardly, and
I think I have never been cowardly, but this is really
very strange. Come with me. I am such a goose,
I don't dare go alone to that storeroom."
The rector rose. Sally switched on the lights as
they went up-stairs to the storeroom.
"Tread very softly," she whispered. "Content is
probably asleep."
The two tiptoed up the stairs and entered the
storeroom. Sally approached one of the two new
trunks which had come with Content from out West.
She opened it. She took out a parcel nicely folded
in a large towel.
"See here, Edward Patterson."
The rector stared as Sally shook out a dress --
a gay, up-to-date dress, a young girl's dress, a very
tall young girl's, for the skirts trailed on the floor as
Sally held it as high as she could. It was made of
a fine white muslin. There was white lace on the
bodice, and there were knots of blue ribbon scattered
over the whole, knots of blue ribbon confining tiny
bunches of rosebuds and daisies. These knots of
blue ribbon and the little flowers made it undeniably
a young girl's costume. Even in the days of all ages
wearing the costumes of all ages, an older woman
would have been abashed before those exceedingly
youthful knots of blue ribbons and flowers.
The rector looked approvingly at it. "That is
very pretty, it seems to me," he said. "That must
be worth keeping, Sally."
"Worth keeping! Well, Edward Patterson, just
wait. You are a man, and of course you cannot un-
derstand how very strange it is about the dress."
The rector looked inquiringly.
"I want to know," said Sally, "if Content's aunt
Eudora had any young relative besides Content. I
mean had she a grown-up young girl relative who
would wear a dress like this?"
"I don't know of anybody. There might have
been some relative of Eudora's first husband. No,
he was an only child. I don't think it possible that
Eudora had any young girl relative."
"If she had," said Sally, firmly, "she would have
kept this dress. You are sure there was nobody
else living with Content's aunt at the time she died?"
"Nobody except the servants, and they were an
old man and his wife."
"Then whose dress was this?"
"I don't know, Sally."
"You don't know, and I don't. It is very strange."
"I suppose," said Edward Patterson, helpless be-
fore the feminine problem, "that -- Eudora got it in
some way."
"In some way," repeated Sally. "That is always
a man's way out of a mystery when there is a mys-
tery. There is a mystery. There is a mystery which
worries me. I have not told you all yet, Edward."
"What more is there, dear?"
"I -- asked Content whose dress this was, and
she said -- Oh, Edward, I do so despise mysteries."
"What did she say, Sally?"
"She said it was her big sister Solly's dress."
"Her what?"
"Her big sister Solly's dress. Edward, has Con-
tent ever had a sister? Has she a sister now?"
"No, she never had a sister, and she has none
now," declared the rector, emphatically. "I knew
all her family. What in the world ails the child?"
"She said her big sister Solly, Edward, and the
very name is so inane. If she hasn't any big sister
Solly, what are we going to do?"
"Why, the child must simply lie," said the rector.
"But, Edward, I don't think she knows she lies.
You may laugh, but I think she is quite sure that
she has a big sister Solly, and that this is her dress.
I have not told you the whole. After she came home
from school to-day she went up to her room, and
she left the door open, and pretty soon I heard her
talking. At first I thought perhaps Lily or Amelia
was up there, although I had not seen either of
them come in with Content. Then after a while,
when I had occasion to go up-stairs, I looked in her
room, and she was quite alone, although I had heard
her talking as I went up-stairs. Then I said: 'Con-
tent, I thought somebody was in your room. I
heard you talking.'
"And she said, looking right into my eyes: 'Yes,
ma'am, I was talking.'
"'But there is nobody here,' I said.
"'Yes, ma'am,' she said. 'There isn't anybody
here now, but my big sister Solly was here, and she
is gone. You heard me talking to my big sister
Solly.' I felt faint, Edward, and you know it takes
a good deal to overcome me. I just sat down in
Content's wicker rocking-chair. I looked at her and
she looked at me. Her eyes were just as clear and
blue, and her forehead looked like truth itself. She
is not exactly a pretty child, and she has a peculiar
appearance, but she does certainly look truthful and
good, and she looked so then. She had tried to
fluff her hair over her forehead a little as I had
told her, and not pull it back so tight, and she wore
her new dress, and her face and hands were as clean,
and she stood straight. You know she is a little
inclined to stoop, and I have talked to her about
it. She stood straight, and looked at me with those
blue eyes, and I did feel fairly dizzy."
"What did you say?"
"Well, after a bit I pulled myself together and
I said: 'My dear little girl, what is this? What do
you mean about your big sister Sarah?' Edward,
I could not bring myself to say that idiotic Solly.
In fact, I did think I must be mistaken and had not
heard correctly. But Content just looked at me
as if she thought me very stupid. 'Solly,' said she.
'My sister's name is Solly.'
"'But, my dear,' I said, 'I understand that you
had no sister.'
"'Yes,' said she, 'I have my big sister Solly.'
"'But where has she been all the time?' said I.
"Then Content looked at me and smiled, and it
was quite a wonderful smile, Edward. She smiled
as if she knew so much more than I could ever
know, and quite pitied me."
"She did not answer your question?"
"No, only by that smile which seemed to tell
whole volumes about that awful Solly's whereabouts,
only I was too ignorant to read them.
"'Where is she now, dear?' I said, after a little.
"'She is gone now,' said Content.
"'Gone where?' said I.
"And then the child smiled at me again. Edward,
what are we going to do? Is she untruthful, or has
she too much imagination? I have heard of such a
thing as too much imagination, and children telling
lies which were not really lies."
"So have I," agreed the rector, dryly, "but I
never believed in it." The rector started to leave
the room.
"What are you going to do?" inquired Sally.
"I am going to endeavor to discriminate between
lies and imagination," replied the rector.
Sally plucked at his coat-sleeve as they went
down-stairs. "My dear," she whispered, "I think
she is asleep."
"She will have to wake up."
"But, my dear, she may be nervous. Would
it not be better to wait until to-morrow?"
"I think not," said Edward Patterson. Usually
an easy-going man, when he was aroused he was
determined to extremes. Into Content's room he
marched, Sally following. Neither of them saw
their small son Jim peeking around his door. He
had heard -- he could not help it -- the conversation
earlier in the day between Content and his mother.
He had also heard other things. He now felt entirely
justified in listening, although he had a good code
of honor. He considered himself in a way respon-
sible, knowing what he knew, for the peace of
mind of his parents. Therefore he listened, peeking
around the doorway of his dark room.
The electric light flashed out from Content's
room, and the little interior was revealed. It was
charmingly pretty. Sally had done her best to make
this not altogether welcome little stranger's room
attractive. There were garlands of rosebuds swung
from the top of the white satin-papered walls.
There were dainty toilet things, a little dressing-
table decked with ivory, a case of books, chairs
cushioned with rosebud chintz, windows curtained
with the same.
In the little white bed, with a rose-sprinkled cover-
lid over her, lay Content. She was not asleep.
Directly, when the light flashed out, she looked at
the rector and his wife with her clear blue eyes. Her
fair hair, braided neatly and tied with pink ribbons,
lay in two tails on either side of her small, certainly
very good face. Her forehead was beautiful, very
white and full, giving her an expression of candor
which was even noble. Content, little lonely girl
among strangers in a strange place, mutely beseech-
ing love and pity, from her whole attitude toward
life and the world, looked up at Edward Patterson
and Sally, and the rector realized that his determina-
tion was giving way. He began to believe in imagi-
nation, even to the extent of a sister Solly. He had
never had a daughter, and sometimes the thought
of one had made his heart tender. His voice was
very kind when he spoke.
"Well, little girl," he said, "what is this I hear?"
Sally stared at her husband and stifled a chuckle.
As for Content, she looked at the rector and said
nothing. It was obvious that she did not know
what he had heard. The rector explained.
"My dear little girl," he said, "your aunt Sally"
-- they had agreed upon the relationship of uncle and
aunt to Content -- "tells me that you have been
telling her about your -- big sister Solly." The rector
half gasped as he said Solly. He seemed to himself
to be on the driveling verge of idiocy before the pro-
nunciation of that absurdly inane name.
Content's responding voice came from the pink-
and-white nest in which she was snuggled, like the
fluting pipe of a canary.
"Yes, sir," said she.
"My dear child," said the rector, "you know
perfectly well that you have no big sister -- Solly."
Every time the rector said Solly he swallowed hard.
Content smiled as Sally had described her smiling.
She said nothing. The rector felt reproved and
looked down upon from enormous heights of inno-
cence and childhood and the wisdom thereof. How-
ever, 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 funda-
mental truth of nature.
The rector's face grew stern. "Content," he said,
"look at me."
Content looked. Looking seemed to be the in-
stinctive action which distinguished her as an indi-
vidual.
"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.
Content smiled. However, she spoke. "Home,"
said she.
"When did she come here?"
"This morning."
"Where is she now?"
Content smiled and was silent. The rector cast
a helpless look at his wife. He now did not care
if she did see that he was completely at a loss.
How could a great, robust man and a clergyman
be harsh to a tender little girl child in a pink-and-
white nest of innocent dreams?
Sally pitied him. She spoke more harshly than
her husband. "Content Adams," said she, "you
know perfectly well that you have no big sister
Solly. Now tell me the truth. Tell me you have
no big sister Solly."
"I have a big sister Solly," said Content.
"Come, Edward," said Sally. "There is no use
in staying and talking to this obstinate little girl
any longer." Then she spoke to Content. "Before
you go to sleep," said she, "you must say your
prayers, if you have not already done so."
"I have said my prayers," replied Content, and
her blue eyes were full of horrified astonishment at
the suspicion.
"Then," said Sally, "you had better say them
over and add something. Pray that you may always
tell the truth."
"Yes, ma'am," said Content, in her little canary
pipe.
The rector and his wife went out. Sally switched
off the light with a snap as she passed. Out in the
hall she stopped and held her husband's arms hard.
"Hush!" she whispered. They both listened. They
heard this, in the faintest plaint of a voice:
"They don't believe you are here, Sister Solly,
but I do."
Sally dashed back into the rosebud room and
switched on the light. She stared around. She
opened a closet door. Then she turned off the light
and joined her husband.
"There was nobody there?" he whispered.
"Of course not."
When they were back in the study the rector
and his wife looked at each other.
"We will do the best we can," said Sally. "Don't
worry, Edward, for you have to write your sermon
to-morrow. We will manage some way. I will admit
that I rather wish Content had had some other
distant relative besides you who could have taken
charge of her."
"You poor child!" said the rector. "It is hard
on you, Sally, for she is no kith nor kin of yours."
"Indeed I don't mind," said Sally Patterson, "if
only I can succeed in bringing her up."
Meantime Jim Patterson, up-stairs, sitting over
his next day's algebra lesson, was even more per-
plexed than were his parents in the study. He paid
little attention to his book. "I can manage little
Lucy," he reflected, "but if the others have got hold
of it, I don't know."
Presently he rose and stole very softly through
the hall to Content's door. She was timid, and
always left it open so she could see the hall light
until she fell asleep. "Content," whispered Jim.
There came the faintest "What?" in response.
"Don't you," said Jim, in a theatrical whisper,
"say another word at school to anybody about your
big sister Solly. If you do, I'll whop you, if you
are a girl."
"Don't care!" was sighed forth from the room.
"And I'll whop your old big sister Solly, too."
There was a tiny sob.
"I will," declared Jim. "Now you mind!"
The next day Jim cornered little Lucy Rose under
a cedar-tree before school began. He paid no atten-
tion to Bubby Harvey and Tom Simmons, who were
openly sniggering at him. Little Lucy gazed up
at Jim, and the blue-green shade of the cedar seemed
to bring out only more clearly the white-rose softness
of her dear little face. Jim bent over her.
"Want you to do something for me," he whis-
pered.
Little Lucy nodded gravely.
"If my new cousin Content ever says anything
to you again -- I heard her yesterday -- about her
big sister Solly, don't you ever say a word about it
to anybody else. You will promise me, won't you,
little Lucy?"
A troubled expression came into little Lucy's kind
eyes. "But she told Lily, and Lily told Amelia, and
Amelia told her grandmother Wheeler, and her
grandmother Wheeler told Miss Parmalee when she
met her on the street after school, and Miss Parma-
lee called on my aunt Martha and told her," said
little Lucy.
"Oh, shucks!" said Jim.
"And my aunt Martha told my father that she
thought perhaps she ought to ask for her when she
called on your mother. She said Arnold Carruth's
aunt Flora was going to call, and his aunt Dorothy.
I heard Miss Acton tell Miss Parmalee that she
thought they ought to ask for her when they called
on your mother, too."
"Little Lucy," he said, and lowered his voice,
"you must promise me never, as long as you live,
to tell what I am going to tell you."
Little Lucy looked frightened.
"Promise!" insisted Jim.
"I promise," said little Lucy, in a weak voice.
"Never, as long as you live, to tell anybody.
Promise!"
"I promise."
"Now, you know if you break your promise and
tell, you will be guilty of a dreadful lie and be very
wicked."
Little Lucy shivered. "I never will."
"Well, my new cousin Content Adams -- tells lies."
Little Lucy gasped.
"Yes, she does. She says she has a big sister
Solly, and she hasn't got any big sister Solly. She
never did have, and she never will have. She makes
believe."
"Makes believe?" said little Lucy, in a hopeful
voice.
"Making believe is just a real mean way of lying.
Now I made Content promise last night never to
say one word in school about her big sister Solly, and
I am going to tell you this, so you can tell Lily and
the others and not lie. Of course, I don't want to
lie myself, because my father is rector, and, besides,
mother doesn't approve of it; but if anybody is
going to lie, I am the one. Now, you mind, little
Lucy. Content's big sister Solly has gone away,
and she is never coming back. If you tell Lily and
the others I said so, I can't see how you will be lying."
Little Lucy gazed at the boy. She looked like
truth incarnate. "But," said she, in her adorable
stupidity of innocence, "I don't see how she could
go away if she was never here, Jim."
"Oh, of course she couldn't. But all you have to
do is to say that you heard me say she had gone.
Don't you understand?"
"I don't understand how Content's big sister Solly
could possibly go away if she was never here."
"Little Lucy, I wouldn't ask you to tell a lie for
the world, but if you were just to say that you heard
me say --"
"I think it would be a lie," said little Lucy, "be-
cause how can I help knowing if she was never here
she couldn't --"
"Oh, well, little Lucy," cried Jim, in despair, still
with tenderness -- how could he be anything but
tender with little Lucy? -- "all I ask is never to say
anything about it."
"If they ask me?"
"Anyway, you can hold your tongue. You know
it isn't wicked to hold your tongue."
Little Lucy absurdly stuck out the pointed tip of
her little red tongue. Then she shook her head
slowly.
"Well," she said, "I will hold my tongue."
This encounter with innocence and logic had left
him worsted. Jim could see no way out of the fact
that his father, the rector, his mother, the rector's
wife, and he, the rector's son, were disgraced by
their relationship to such an unsanctified little soul
as this queer Content Adams.
And yet he looked at the poor lonely little girl, who
was trying very hard to learn her lessons, who sug-
gested in her very pose and movement a little, scared
rabbit ready to leap the road for some bush of hiding,
and while he was angry with her he pitied her. He
had no doubts concerning Content's keeping her
promise. He was quite sure that he would now say
nothing whatever about that big sister Solly to the
others, but he was not prepared for what happened
that very afternoon.
When he went home from school his heart stood
still to see Miss Martha Rose, and Arnold Carruth's
aunt Flora, and his aunt who was not his aunt, Miss
Dorothy Vernon, who was visiting her, all walking
along in state with their lace-trimmed parasols,
their white gloves, and their nice card-cases. Jim
jumped a fence and raced across lots home, and
gained on them. He burst in on his mother, sitting
on the porch, which was inclosed by wire netting
overgrown with a budding vine. It was the first
warm day of the season.
"Mother," cried Jim Patterson -- "mother, they
are coming!"
"Who, for goodness' sake, Jim?"
"Why, Arnold's aunt Flora and his aunt Dorothy
and little Lucy's aunt Martha. They are coming to
call."
Involuntarily Sally's hand went up to smooth her
pretty hair. "Well, what of it, Jim?" said she.
"Mother, they will ask for -- big sister Solly!"
Sally Patterson turned pale. "How do you
know?"
"Mother, Content has been talking at school. A
lot know. You will see they will ask for --"
"Run right in and tell Content to stay in her
room," whispered Sally, hastily, for the callers,
their white-kidded hands holding their card-cases
genteelly, were coming up the walk.
Sally advanced, smiling. She put a brave face
on the matter, but she realized that she, Sally
Patterson, who had never been a coward, was
positively afraid before this absurdity. The callers
sat with her on the pleasant porch, with the young
vine-shadows making networks over their best gowns.
Tea was served presently by the maid, and, much to
Sally's relief, before the maid appeared came the
inquiry. Miss Martha Rose made it.
"We would be pleased to see Miss Solly Adams
also," said Miss Martha.
Flora Carruth echoed her. "I was so glad to hear
another nice girl had come to the village," said she
with enthusiasm. Miss Dorothy Vernon said some-
thing indefinite to the same effect.
"I am sorry," replied Sally, with an effort, "but
there is no Miss Solly Adams here now." She spoke
the truth as nearly as she could manage without
unraveling the whole ridiculous affair. The callers
sighed with regret, tea was served with little cakes,
and they fluttered down the walk, holding their card-
cases, and that ordeal was over.
But Sally sought the rector in his study, and she
was trembling. "Edward," she cried out, regardless
of her husband's sermon, "something must be done
now."
"Why, what is the matter, Sally?"
"People are -- calling on her."
"Calling on whom?"
"Big sister -- Solly!" Sally explained.
"Well, don't worry, dear," said the rector. "Of
course we will do something, but we must think it
over. Where is the child now?"
"She and Jim are out in the garden. I saw them
pass the window just now. Jim is such a dear boy,
he tries hard to be nice to her. Edward Patterson,
we ought not to wait."
"My dear, we must."
Meantime Jim and Content Adams were out in
the garden. 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.
"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. Big sister Solly must have come,
or I would have died like my father and mother."
Jim's arm, which was near her, twitched convul-
sively, but he did not put it around her.
"She did -- co-me," sobbed Content. "Big sister
Solly did come."
"Well, have it so," said Jim, suddenly. "No use
going over that any longer. Have it she came, but
she ain't here now, anyway. Content Adams, you
can't look me in the face and tell me that."
Content looked at Jim, and her little face was
almost terrible, so full of bewilderment and fear
it was. "Jim," whispered Content, "I can't have
big sister Solly not be here. I can't send her away.
What would she think?"
Jim stared. "Think? Why, she isn't alive to
think, anyhow!"
"I can't make her -- dead," sobbed Content. "She
came when I wanted her, and now when I don't so
much, when I've got Uncle Edward and Aunt Sally
and you, and don't feel so dreadful lonesome, I
can't be so bad as to make her dead."
Jim whistled. Then his face brightened up. He
looked at Content with a shrewd and cheerful grin.
"See here, kid, you say your sister Solly is big,
grown up, don't you?" he inquired.
Content nodded pitifully.
"Then why, if she is grown up and pretty, don't
she have a beau?"
Content stopped sobbing and gave him a quick
glance.
"Then -- why doesn't she get married, and go out
West to live?"
Jim chuckled. Instead of a sob, a faint echo of his
chuckle came from Content.
Jim laughed merrily. "I say, Content," he cried,
"let's have it she's married now, and gone?"
"Well," said Content.
Jim put his arm around her very nicely and pro-
tectingly. "It's all right, then," said he, "as all
right as it can be for a girl. Say, Content, ain't it
a shame you aren't a boy?"
"I can't help it," said Content, meekly.
"You see," said Jim, thoughtfully, "I don't, as
a rule, care much about girls, but if you could coast
down-hill and skate, and do a few things like that,
you would be almost as good as a boy."
Content surveyed him, and her pessimistic little
face assumed upward curves. "I will," said she.
"I will do anything, Jim. I will fight if you want
me to, just like a boy."
"I don't believe you could lick any of us fellers
unless you get a good deal harder in the muscles,"
said Jim, eying her thoughtfully; "but we'll play
ball, and maybe by and by you can begin with
Arnold Carruth."
"Could lick him now," said Content.
But Jim's face sobered before her readiness. "Oh
no, you mustn't go to fighting right away," said he.
"It wouldn't do. You really are a girl, you know,
and father is rector."
"Then I won't," said Content; "but I COULD knock
down that little boy with curls; I know I could."
"Well, you needn't. I'll like you just as well.
You see, Content" -- Jim's voice faltered, for he was
a boy, and on the verge of sentiment before which
he was shamed -- "you see, Content, now your big
sister Solly is married and gone out West, why, you
can have me for your brother, and of course a
brother is a good deal better than a sister."
"Yes," said Content, eagerly.
"I am going," said Jim, "to marry Lucy Rose
when I grow up, but I haven't got any sister, and
I'd like you first rate for one. So I'll be your big
brother instead of your cousin."
"Big brother Solly?"
"Say, Content, that is an awful name, but I don't
care. You're only a girl. You can call me any-
thing you want to, but you mustn't call me Solly
when there is anybody within hearing."
"I won't."
"Because it wouldn't do," said Jim with weight.
"I never will, honest," said Content.
Presently they went into the house. Dr. Trum-
bull was there; he had been talking seriously to the
rector and his wife. He had come over on purpose.
"It is a perfect absurdity," he said, "but I made
ten calls this morning, and everywhere I was asked
about that little Adams girl's big sister -- why you
keep her hidden. They have a theory that she is
either an idiot or dreadfully disfigured. I had to
tell them I know nothing about it."
"There isn't any girl," said the rector, wearily.
"Sally, do explain."
Dr. Trumbull listened. "I have known such
cases," he said when Sally had finished.
"What did you do for them?" Sally asked, anx-
iously.
"Nothing. Such cases have to be cured by time.
Children get over these fancies when they grow up."
"Do you mean to say that we have to put up with
big sister Solly until Content is grown up?" asked
Sally, in a desperate tone. And then Jim came in.
Content had run up-stairs.
"It is all right, mother," said Jim.
Sally caught him by the shoulders. "Oh, Jim,
has she told you?"
Jim gave briefly, and with many omissions, an
account of his conversation with Content.
"Did she say anything about that dress, Jim?"
asked his mother.
"She said her aunt had meant it for that out-
West rector's daughter Alice to graduate in, but
Content wanted it for her big sister Solly, and told
the rector's wife it was hers. Content says she knows
she was a naughty girl, but after she had said it she
was afraid to say it wasn't so. Mother, I think that
poor little thing is scared 'most to death."
"Nobody is going to hurt her," said Sally.
"Goodness! that rector's wife was so conscientious
that she even let that dress go. Well, I can send it
right back, and the girl will have it in time for her
graduation, after all. Jim dear, call the poor child
down. Tell her nobody is going to scold her."
Sally's voice was very tender.
Jim returned with Content. She had on a little
ruffled pink gown which seemed to reflect color on
her cheeks. She wore an inscrutable expression, at
once child-like and charming. She looked shy, fur-
tively amused, yet happy. Sally realized that the
pessimistic downward lines had disappeared, that
Content was really a pretty little girl.
Sally put an arm around the small, pink figure.
"So you and Jim have been talking, dear?" she said.
"Yes, ma'am," replied little Content. "Jim is
my big brother --" She just caught herself before
she said Solly.
"And your sister Solly is married and living out
West?"
"Yes," said Content, with a long breath. "My
sister Solly is married." Smiles broke all over her
little face. She hid it in Sally's skirts, and a little
peal of laughter like a bird-trill came from the soft
muslin folds.
-THE END-
Mary E Wilkins Freeman's short story: Big Sister Solly
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