Rhoda pulled away the
concealing cover and regarded the stolid doll with tilted head.
"She's 'nough like my Pharaoh's Daughter to be a blood relation,"
she remarked. "She's got the Pharaoh complexion."
"Spoken like MY daughter!" laughed the minister. "But I thought
new dolls in this house were always surprises. And here's Mrs.
Minister making doll petticoats out in the open!"
"This is Rebecca Mary's--I'm dressing a doll for Rebecca Mary,
Robert. She's eleven years old and never had a doll! Rhoda's ten
and has had-- How many dolls have you had, Rhoda?"
"Gracious! Why, Pharaoh's Daughter, an' Caiapha, an' Esther the
Beautiful Queen, an' the Children of Israel--five o' them--an'
Mrs. Job, an'--"
"Never mind the rest, dear. You hear, Robert? Do you think Rhoda
would be alive now if she'd never had a doll?"
The minister pondered the question. "Maybe not, maybe not," he
decided; "but possibly the dolls would have been."
"Don't make me smile, Robert. I'm trying to make you cry. If
Rebecca Mary were sixty instead of eleven I should dress her a
doll."
"Then why not one for Miss Olivia?"
"I may dress her one," undauntedly, "if I find out she never had
one in her life."
"She never did." The minister's voice was positive. "And for that
reason, dear, aren't you afraid she would not approve of Rebecca
Mary's having one? Isn't it rather a delicate mat--"
"Don't, Robert, don't discourage me.
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