know whether she told the truth or not. "I didn't hear the end."

Father looked quickly from Sylvia's face to her mother's. "What's the
matter?" he asked.

"Sylvia was so concerned because her Aunt Victoria had called our life
idyllic that she couldn't think of anything else," explained Mother
briefly, still smiling. Father did not smile. He sat down by Sylvia
and had her repeat to him what she had said to her mother. When she
had finished he looked grave and said: "You mustn't mind what your
Aunt Victoria says, dear. Her ideas are very different from ours."

Sylvia's mother cried out, "Why, a child of Sylvia's age couldn't have
taken in the significance of--"

"I'm afraid," said Father, "that Sylvia's very quick to take in such a
significance."

Sylvia remained silent, uncomfortable at being discussed, vaguely
ashamed of herself, but comforted that Father had not laughed, had
understood. As happened so frequently, it was Father who understood
and Mother who did the right thing. She suddenly made an enigmatic,
emphatic exclamation, "Goodness _gracious_!" and reaching out her long
arms, pulled Sylvia up on her lap, holding her close. The last thought
of that remembered time for Sylvia was that Mother's arms were very
strong, and her breast very soft. The little girl laid her head down
on it with a contented sigh, watching the slow, silent procession of
the stars.