He gave a protesting croak, and then, because he
was acquainted with the clasp of the two small hands, and night or day
liked it, he went back to his interrupted dreams and said not another
word. Thomas Jefferson had never dreamed a Bible dream--never heard of
Abraham or Isaac, had no soul to be disquieted.
With her burden against her breast Rebecca Mary pushed back through
the darkness, up to the black little room under the eaves. She felt
about for her little carpet-covered shoe box and gently crowded the
great white bulk into it. Then she crept back into bed and lay on the
outer edge with her loving, light little hand on Thomas Jefferson's
feathers. The trouble in her burdened soul poured itself out.
"Oh, Thomas Jefferson," she whispered down to the heap of soft
feathers, "I'm going to smooth you this way all night for tomorrow
you die!" Her voice even in a whisper had a solemn, inspired note.
"There's no other way; you'll have to make up your mind to be
willing. It's going to break my heart, and, oh, I'm afraid it will
break yours! I'm afraid it will kill us both!"
Thomas Jefferson uttered a mournful little croaky sound that might
have been "ET TU, BRUTE?" It pierced Rebecca Mary's breast. "There,
hush, poor dear, poor dear, and rest. You'll need all your sleep,"
she crooned softly and brokenly.
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