For, she reasoned, it was the Lord part of Aunt
Olivia which had given Thomas Jefferson to her. In the primitive
little creed of Rebecca Mary every one had a Lord part, but some
people's was very small. Not Aunt Olivia's--she had never gauged Aunt
Olivia's Lord part; it would not have been consistent with her ideas
of loyalty.
It was very lonely, as Rebecca Mary had known it would be. At best
her life had never been overfull of companionships, and the sudden
taking-off--it seemed sudden, as all deaths do--of Thomas Jefferson
was hard to bear. Strange how blank a space one great, white rooster
can leave behind him!
The yard and the orchard seemed full of blank spaces, though in a way
Thomas Jefferson's soul seemed to frequent his old beloved haunts.
Rebecca Mary could not see it pecking daintily about, but she felt it
was there.
"His soul isn't dead," she persisted, gently. She clung to the
comfort of that. And one morning she thought she heard again Thomas
Jefferson's old, cheery greeting to the sunrise. The sound she thought
she heard woke her instantly. Was it Thomas Jefferson's soul crowing?
"Aunt Olivia isent sorry," chronicled the diary, sadly. "Prehaps shes
glad. Once she wished the Lord had forgot to create roosters. But she
was ever kind to Tomas Jefferson, considdering the seeds he scrached
up.
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