Patricia Gordon went out into the brilliant sunset world. She was very nearly perfectly happy: her homey, womanly soul desired no more than a cosy home—she had that in the dear little slate-roofed bungalow that her husband had built for them not so many years ago—a place where all who entered it felt immediately welcome and at ease. That was another thing Pat wanted very much out of life—to have people always glad to come to her and always a little sorry to go away. But not too sorry—she was one of the soft-souled folk who do not like to see others feel pain of any kind. It is safe to say that she succeeded in this endeavor as well, for people who came to visit the Gordons were always very glad they did, and people who went away did so contentedly, and always looked forward to the time of their next visit.

She wanted her home to be lovely, because she loved it; she wanted that love to show in the polished, rosy apple-wood floors, in the shine and luster of the mahogany furniture, in the placement of plump, inviting cushions and the delicate, Japanese-blossom china set on the table for meals. She also wanted the food to go on these plates to be good and beautiful and nourishing to body and soul. It is safe to say again that she very nearly almost succeeded in this as well.

But even more than she loved her home, Pat loved her family. She ran down the lane like a girl each evening at the start of dusk to wait for Hilary—dear, darling Hilary, who had been so steady and patient and loving with her, always. Standing there amid the jonquils that grew tall around the gate she looked every inch the girl she had been many years ago at Silver Bush—oh, still a little pang welted against her heart at the thought of Silver Bush!—but not too much of a pang. Pat's home and life were here now, in the little, quiet, friendly neighborhood just outside of Toronto.

Besides Hilary—whom Pat still referred to affectionately sometimes as 'darling Jingle'—there were the girls. Pat, who could not quite reconcile herself to being grown up at times never had any problem feeling a mother to her girls. Why, she had been their mother for ever and ever in her heart—long before Dr. Rose had placed both of the pink-blanketed bundles in her arms on that day sixteen years ago. Pat had looked into those two pairs of eyes—one pair a shining, shimmering amber, like the color of brook water running over autumn leaves, and the other pair a deep dark gray, like Hilary's behind his spectacles. From that moment on, her home had been wherever they four might be together: Pat, and Hilary and Betsey and Judith.

Except for those mismatched eyes, the Gordon girls were as alike as any two people could be. The same high, white brows, the same little, pointed chins, the same small, kittenish noses and the same red, full lips. Each girl had a sweep of long, dark hair—so dark as to be almost the same color as the lustrous mahogany that Pat shined so often.

But if they looked alike on the outsides, that was where the similarities ended. Betsey was—well, she was Betsey. She was as sweet and wholesome and good as her name implied. She had the tendency to love things fiercely and utterly, as Pat had in her childhood, and in quiet moments she poured her soul into the little sketchbook which held a dozen drawings of fairyland—that was Hilary's gift to her. Pat had never had any trouble with Betsey, except when they had had to cut down three of the old spruce trees by the gate. Oh, Betsey understood that the trees had been carried away with rot, but she could not accept the fact that they should not stand there, always. She loved them and it had been very hard on her to have them cut down and split into kindling for the fire that burned in the wide, sandstone hearth o' winter nights.

"It makes us tree cannibals!" she had cried, and refused for the whole season to gather round the crackling fire, roasting marshmallows and drinking hot cider. But then spring had come, and Betsey began to love the new view that had been created in the tree's absence—one could see all the way to the distant hazy purple hills, now.

If there was anything Pat could have given to Betsey it would have been the gift of confidence—the girl was shy around those whom she did not know intimately—and as a result, she did not know very many people intimately at all. She had no real girl-friends, and oftentimes seemed solitary almost to the point of loneliness. Almost—but not quite. For Betsey could never be really lonely—not with Judith around.

Judith had been bold from the day she was born—at scarce than a minute or two old she had raised her head to take keen look of her surroundings with those gray eyes of hers. At an hour old she had bitten the doctor's finger with her tough little gums. She had learnt to run before she learnt to walk, began to talk at eleven months, when it had taken Betsey sixteen. Dr. Rose had been afraid that Betsey never would learn to talk, since she had Judith to do it for her. This had resulted in Judith being taken away to the neighbor's house for a week, but in the end the experiment had not worked: neither twin would speak at all except to sob for the other.

The girls had never been separated again—not even for a night. And they had never spent the night away from home. Judith, who had a gaggle of girl-friends from the time she could walk and talk and go to school, was always being invited somewhere or another for a 'sleepover.' But she always refused to go. She didn't care to sleep anywhere but her own bed. Judith was very particular about her bed and would not go to sleep unless she was tucked snugly in by her father under the silk sheets that Aunt Rae had given her, from China. Even at sixteen she had a nightly ritual of saying good-night to all the things she loved—her Teddy bears and the framed photo of Aunt 'Cuddles,' the potted geranium on her night-table that had really lived remarkably longer than any potted geranium should, and the slim birch tree outside her window, which grew a little too close to the house so that it always seemed as though it were a part of it.

That birch tree should really have been cut down years ago. Pat, who hated to have any beautiful thing changed, admitted it readily. Hilary said that its roots were interfering with the house's foundation. Even Betsey, who considered the killing of a tree to be a mortal sin, would rather save her dear home, in the end.

But Judith loved the birch tree, and would not have it cut down. When the subject had been broached, over dinner one night, she did not cry or wail or beseech—she simply put her fork down by her plate and announced that she would not eat ever again if the tree was cut. They had not really believed her, but then Judith took nothing but milk and water for almost a week. She had grown pale and haggard and the bones in her face began to stand out sharply. Once again, Dr. Rose was called.

"Leave her be," he said, after a quick examination of the patient. "She'll eat when she gets hungry enough."

But Judith did not. Her hunger-strike continued. Dr. Rose was called again and this time when he came down he sighed.

"It's a good shade tree," he said finally. "You might as well keep it—it can't be too bad for the place."

This was Dr. Rose's way of saying that Judith had won. The tree stayed where it was, even though a significant portion of the dining room floor now sloped sharply upwards a few inches.

Judith was extremely stubborn when she wanted to be. This, Pat thought, clasping her hands around her knees, was the one thing she would take from her daughter. It did not do to be so stubborn about things. And though she hated to admit it—she loved both of her girls equally and fiercely—Judith was the reason why she couldn't be perfectly happy.

It wasn't only that her manner of dress had become a bit more on the daring side. While Betsey still clung to her kilts and saddle-shoes, Judith wore culottes and shorter skirts, and dresses that were—well, that were almost backless. She had traded her oxfords for heels. And then there was the makeup.

"Darling," Pat said in faint alarm, watching her daughter apply a thick ring of kohl around her eyes. "You are so pretty, just the way you are. Do you really think that you need to make up your face so heavily?"

Judith looked at her scornfully before adding a layer of red lip-stick.

Hilary had put his foot down. No daughter of his was going to go out in that get-up, he vowed. So Judith would not go out. He sent her to her room and bade her stay there.

When Pat came up to check on her, she found the window open and Judith gone. The birch tree, about which there had been so much contention, had served another purpose.

Judith was 'grounded.' But one could not ground one's daughter indefinitely. Little by little, and without meaning to, Pat and Hilary relented. And resigned themselves to the fact that Judith would almost always get her way.

But now—Pat sighed, the deepening twilight matching her gloomy mood. She could stand the make-up and the dresses and the heels and—and almost anything else. But what she could not stand was Everett Miles. He was a crass, boorish boy. There were rumors that he smoked—and drank—and frequented clubs in the 'bad' part of town. Why—why—should Judy choose to go around with such a boy?

Hilary again had put his foot down and he had meant it this time. Judy should never see Everett Miles again. Judith only shrugged—and then came home with a small diamond winking on her hand. They did not notice it for a while, until Hilary again forbade her from seeing him. Then Judy smiled.

"It'll be awfully hard for us not to see each other when we're husband and wife," she said, and then held up her hand so they all might see.

That had been last night. What a terrible row had ensued! Hilary had shouted—and Hilary never shouted. Betsey had been in tears, too upset to eat a bite of her supper. And Pat—Pat had lain awake all night thinking and thinking, trying to come up with an answer to the question that went over and over in her mind: What shall we do with Judith?

"What shall we do with Judith?" she asked Hilary, when she met him at the gate that night. A little frown line had appeared between her lovely brows and Hilary longed to sooth it away with a kiss. But the truth was, it would not go away until they found a satisfactory answer to the question: What should they do with Judith?

There did not seem to be much to do. They thought about it over dinner, and after, while they were sitting by the fire. Pat's heart twisted in her chest. She knew her daughter was a good girl—she thought about how fiercely loyal Judy was, how tender to her sister. How she could lose herself for hours in a book. But the truth remained that she almost didn't recognize Judith now—and, at times, when she caught her daughter unawares, something almost reminded her of Doreen Garrison.

"I don't want Judy to end up like Jingle's mother!" said Pat to herself. In her heart she knew what she must do. She climbed the stairs to Hilary's study and outlined her plan.

By the end of it, her eyes were brimming with tears. Hilary caught Pat in his arms and held her close. "I know you don't want to do it—but I think it is for the best."

"It will be so hard, not having her near-by." Pat wiped the tears from her lashes as they fell. "And it will be hard on Betsey, as well. Oh, Jingle—I remember how I used to hate being 'sent to Coventry'—and that was in my own home!"

"Nonetheless, Pat," Jingle reassured her, "I think we have run out of options."

Pat knew that he was right, even though her heart was heavy. She went down to her little writing desk and penned a short letter to Mrs. Frank Russell, Bay Shore, PEI. Asking if Judy might come to stay with them—just for a little while.