You'll be like one o' the family, and they're nice folks, but I
want you to keep right on being a Plummer."
Years afterwards Rebecca Mary remembered the dizzy dance of the
bottles in the caster--they seemed to join hands and sway and
swing about their silver circlet and how Aunt Olivia's buttons
marched and countermarched up and down Aunt Olivia's alpaca
dress. She did not look above the buttons--she did not dare to.
If she was to keep right on being a Plummer, she must not cry.
"That's all," she heard through the daze and dizziness, "except
that I can't tell when I'll be back. It--ain't decided. Likely I
shan't be able--there won't be much chance to write, and you
needn't expect me to. No need to write me either. That's
all, I guess."
The stage that came for Aunt Olivia dropped the little carpetbag
and Rebecca Mary at the minister's. In the brief interval between
the start and the dropping, Rebecca Mary sat, stiff and numb, on
the edge of the high seat and gazed out unfamiliarly at the
familiar landmarks they lurched past. At any other time the
knowledge that she was going to the minister's to stay--to live--
would have filled her with staid joy. At any other time--but THIS
time only a dull ache filled her little dreary world. Everything
seemed to ache--the munching cows in the Trumbull pasture, the
cats on the doorsteps, the dog loping along beside the stage, the
stage driver's stooping old back.
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