Then she and Judith went to sit on the porch on the little bench Mother had made them.  They tried to see who could catch the first glimpse of the evening star every evening.  Mother was putting Buddy to bed and Father was starting the breakfast cereal cooking on the stove.  After a while he went into the living-room and began to play something on the piano, something full of deep, swaying chords that lifted Sylvia’s heart up and down as though she were floating on the water.  The air was full of the moist fragrance of spring.  When the music held its breath for a moment you could hear the bedtime note of sleepy birds in the oaks.  Judith, who did not care much for music, began to get sleepy and leaned all her soft, warm weight against her big sister.  Sylvia for the first time in her life was consciously aware of being very happy.  When, some time later, the evening star shone out through the trees, she drew a long breath.  “See, Judith,” she cried softly and began to recite,

  “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.’”