"
"Did I advise her?" murmured the minister's wife, watching the resolute
swing of Aunt Olivia's skirts as she strode away. "I was going to tell
her that what would cure my Rhoda might not cure Rebecca Mary. Well, I
hope it will work," but she was sure it wouldn't. She had grown a
little acquainted with Rebecca Mary.
It was the new, white rooster crowing, instead of the soul of Thomas
Jefferson. Rebecca Mary found out after she had dressed and gone
downstairs. Soon after that she appeared in the kitchen doorway with
an armful of snowy feathers. Aunt Olivia, over her muffin pans, eyed
her with secret delight. The cure was working sooner than she had
dared to expect.
"This is the Tony Trumbullses' rooster; if I hurry I guess I can
carry him back before breakfast," Rebecca Mary said from the doorway.
"I'll run, Aunt Olivia."
"Carry him back!" Aunt Olivia's muffin spoon dropped into the bowl
of creamy batter. One look at Rebecca Mary convinced her that the
cure had not begun to work. Imperceptibly she stiffened. "He ain't
anybody's but mine. I've bought him," she explained, briefly.
"You set him down and feed him with these crumbs--he ain't human if
he don't like cloth-o'-gold cake."
But the child in the doorway, after gently releasing the great fellow,
drew away quietly.
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