Judith broke in, her nostrils distended, “And they never sassed back, or hit anybody or anything—­just crumpled up and cried!”

Sylvia was aghast with bewilderment.  “Why, I thought you were on their side!”

“Well, I am!” asserted Judith, beginning to stammer again.  “But I don’t have to like ’em any better, do I—­because I get mad when a l-l-lot of mean, n-nasty girls that have b-b-b-been s-s-spongin’ off—­” She stopped, balked by her infirmity, and appealed to her parents with a silent look of fury.

“What shall we do, Mother?” asked Sylvia despairingly, looking up into her mother’s face from the comfortable shelter of her long, strong arms.  Mrs. Marshall looked down at her without speaking.  It occurred to Sylvia disquietingly that her mother’s expression was a little like Judith’s.  But when Mrs. Marshall spoke it was only to say in her usual voice:  “Well, the first thing to do is to have something to eat.  Whatever else you do, don’t let a bad condition of your body interfere with what’s going on in your mind.  Lunch is getting cold—­and don’t talk about trouble while you’re eating.  After you’re through, Father’ll tell you what to do.”

Professor Marshall made a gesture of dismay.  “Good Lord, Barbara, don’t put it off on me!”

His wife looked at him with smoldering eyes.  “I certainly have nothing to say that would be fit for children to hear!” she said in an energetic tone, beginning to serve the baked beans, which were the main dish for the day.

After the meal, always rather hasty because of the children’s short noon-hour, Sylvia and Judith went to sit on their father’s knees, while he put an arm about each and, looking from one serious expectant face to the other, began his explanation.  He cleared his throat, and hesitated before beginning, and had none of his usual fluency as he went on.  What he finally said was:  “Well, children, you’ve stumbled into about the hardest problem there is in this country, and the honest truth is that we don’t any of us know what’s right to do about it.  The sort of thing that’s just happened in the Washington Street School is likely to happen ’most anywhere, and it’s no harder on these poor little playmates of yours than on all colored people.  But it’s awfully hard on them all.  The best we can do is to hope that after a great many people have lived and died, all trying to do their best, maybe folks will have learned how to manage better.  Of course, if grown men and women don’t know how to help matters, you little girls can’t expect to fix things either.  All you can do is to go on being nice to Camilla and—­”

Judith broke in here hotly, “You don’t mean we oughtn’t to do something about the girls being so mean to them—­not letting Camilla go to the picnic and—­”