That was his besittingest sin and I know he is sorry now. I wish
Aunt Olivia was sorry."
Nothing was ever said between the two about Rebecca Mary's loss, but
Aunt Olivia recognized the keenness of it to the child. She worried
a little about it; it reminded her of that other time of worry when
Rebecca Mary and she had nearly starved. Sheets and roosters--there
were so many worries in the world.
That other time she went to the minister, this time to the minister's
wife. One afternoon she went and carried her work.
"You know about children," she began, without loss of time. "What
happens when they lose their appetite over a dead rooster?"
"Thomas Jefferson?" breathed the minister's wife, softly.
"Yes--he's dead and buried, and she's mourning for him. I set three
tarts on for dinner today, and I set three tarts AWAY after dinner.
Rebecca Mary is fond of tarts. What should you do if it was Rhoda?"
"Oh---Rhoda--why, I think I should get her another rooster, or a cat
or something, to get her mind off. But Rhoda isn't Rebecca Mary--"
Aunt Olivia folded up her work. She got up briskly.
"They've got a white rooster down to the Trumbullses'," she said.
"I guess I better go right down now; Tony Trumbull is liable to
be at home just before supper. I'm very much obliged to you for
your advice.
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