There was not a device known to the minister's wife that
she did not use to make that room pleasant.
"Shall I take your pincushion, Rhoda?" Rhoda had come up to help.
"Yes," eagerly, "and I'll write Welcome with the pins."
"And the little fan to put on the wall--the pink one?"
"Yes, yes; let me spread it out, mamma!"
"That's grand. Now if we only had a pink quilt--"
"I 'only have' one!" laughed Rhoda, hurrying after it.
The whole little room when they left, like the pins in the
pincushion, spelled "WELCOME."
Aunt Olivia got up earlier than usual one day and went about the
house for a survey. The valise and the little carpetbag she
carried downstairs and out on to the front steps. Her face was
whitened as if by a long night's vigil. When she called Rebecca
Mary it was with a voice strained hoarse. The beautiful being
Olivicia watched her with intent, unwinking gaze. Could it be
Olivicia understood?
"Hurry and dress, Rebecca Mary; there's a good deal to do," Aunt
Olivia said at the door. She did not go in. "Yes, in your second-
best--don't you see I've put it out. You can wear that every day
now, till--for a while." Something in the voice startled Rebecca
Mary out of her subdued ecstasy and sent her down to breakfast
with a nameless fear tugging at her heart.
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