"Star-light, star-bright, First star I've seen tonight--" She stopped short--it was Aunt Victoria who had taught her that poem, the last time she had come to see them, a year ago, the time when she had brought Sylvia the pink silk dress, the only dress-up dress with lace and ribbons on it Sylvia had had up to that time. As suddenly as the evening star had shone out, another radiant vision flashed across Sylvia's mind, Aunt Victoria, magnificent in her lacy dress, her golden hair shining under the taut silk of her parasol, her white, soft fingers gleaming with rings, her air of being a condescending goddess, visiting mortals ... After a time Mother stepped out on the porch and said, "Oh, quick, children, wish on the shooting star." Judith had dropped asleep like a little kitten tired of play, and Sylvia looked at her mother blankly. "I didn't see any shooting star," she said. Mother was surprised. "Why, your face was pointed right up at the spot." "I didn't see it," repeated Sylvia. Mother fixed her keen dark eyes on Sylvia. "What's the matter?" she asked in her voice that always required an answer. Sylvia wriggled uncomfortably. Hers was a nature which suffers under the categorical question; but her mother's was one which presses them home. "What's the matter with you?" she said again. Sylvia turned a clouded face to her mother. "I was wondering why it's not nice to be idyllic." "_What_?" asked her mother, quite at a loss. Sylvia was having one of her unaccountable notions. Sylvia went to lean on her mother's knee, looking with troubled eyes up into the kind, attentive, uncomprehending face. "Why, the last time Aunt Victoria was here--that long time ago--when they were all out playing ball--she looked round and round at everything--at your dress and mine and the furniture--_you_ know--the--the uncomfortable way she does sometimes--and she said, 'Well, Sylvia--nobody can say that your parents aren't leading you a very idyllic life.'" Mother laughed out. Her rare laugh was too sudden and loud to be very musical, but it was immensely infectious, like a man's hearty mirth. "I didn't hear her say it--but I can imagine that she did. Well, what _of_ it? What if she did?" For once Sylvia did not respond to another's mood. She continued anxiously, "Well, it means something perfectly horrid, doesn't it?" Mother was still laughing. "No, no, child, what in the world makes you think that?" "Oh, if you'd heard Aunt Victoria _say_ it!" cried Sylvia with conviction. Father came out on the veranda, saying to Mother, "Isn't that crescendo superb?" To Sylvia he said, as though sure of her comprehension, "Didn't you like the ending, dear--where it sounded like the Argonauts all striking the oars into the water at once and shouting?" Sylvia had been taught above everything to tell the truth. Moreover (perhaps a stronger reason for frankness), Mother was there, who would know whether she told the truth or not. "I didn't hear the end."