Thomas Jefferson pecked
his way towards the open door, and the lean figure there started back
guiltily; Aunt Olivia did not want to be recognized.
"You there under the quilt, Thomas Jefferson?" The little voice
put on tenderness. "Because I'm a-going to tell you something.
Once Aunt 'Livia gave ME a birthday present and it was YOU. Such a
little mite of a yellow chicken! That's why I'm making the quilt
for Aunt 'Livia. It was three years ago; I've loved you ever since,"
added Rebecca Mary, simply.
For an instant Aunt Olivia stopped being a Plummer. A sob crept
into her throat. "Rebecca! Rebecca Mary! Rebecca Mary Plummer!" she
cried, involuntarily. Then she stepped back hastily, glad for the
cotton in Rebecca Mary's ears. For the surprise--she must not spoil
the child's hard-earned surprise. And, besides, Aunt Olivia wanted
to be surprised.
It was a relief to get away. She could not look any longer at the
picture in the great cobwebby barn--the gorgeous quilt spread out
to its full extent, the empty scaffolds above Rebecca Mary stooping
to her work, Thomas Jefferson pecking about the floor. Aunt Olivia
was not old; through all the years ahead of her she would remember
that picture.
She went straight to the southern boundary fence and looked across
at the jubilant little Tony Trumbullses.
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