While Molly had not got further than opening wide her eyes, and not unfrequently her mouth too, Sylvia, practical in the way that only people of lively imagination can be so, had taken in the whole case, whatever it might be, and set her ready wits to work as to the best thing to be said or done.

And Molly would wonderingly admire, and wish she could manage to "think of things" the way Sylvia did.
They loved each other dearly, these two--but to-night they were tired, and when people, not children only, big people too, very often--are tried, it is only a very little step to being cross and snappish.

And when aunty, tired too, and annoyed by the unamiable tones, turned round to beg them to "_try_ to leave off squabbling; it was so thoughtless of them to disturb their grandmother," two or three big tears welled up in Molly's eyes, though it was too dark in the omnibus, which was taking them and their luggage from the station, for any one to see, and she thought to herself what a terrible disappointment it would be if, after all, this delightful, long-talked-of visit to Paris, were to turn out not delightful at all.

And through Sylvia's honest little heart there darted a quick sting of pain and regret for her sharpness to Molly.

How was it that she could not manage to keep the resolutions so often and so conscientiously made?
How was it that she could not succeed in remembering at the time, the very moment at which she was tempted to be snappish and supercilious, her never-_really_-forgotten motive for peculiar gentleness and patience with her younger sister, the promise she had made, now so many years ago, to the mother Molly could scarcely even remember, to be kind, _very_ kind, and gentle to the little, flaxen-haired, toddling thing, the "baby" whom that dear mother had loved so piteously.
"Eight years ago," said Sylvia to herself.