Her eyes grew a little
wistful.
"There is now, perhaps, but I haven't noticed--I won't look!" she
murmured. "And, anyway, Robert, Rhoda will give us a little time
to get used to it in. But Rebecca Mary isn't the Rhoda kind--I
don't believe Rebecca Mary will give us even three days of
grace!"
"I always supposed Rebecca Mary was born that way--grown up," the
minister remarked, tucking a gloved hand comfortably close under
his arm. "I wouldn't let it worry me, dear."
"Oh, I don't--not worry, really," she said, smiling--"only her
legs startled me a little today. If she were mine, I should let
her dresses down."
"If she were Rhod--"
"She isn't, she's Rebecca Mary. Probably if I were Miss Olivia I
would let Rhoda's down!" And she knew she would.
Rebecca Mary on the woodshed floor sat and thought "deep-down"
thoughts. Her eyes were fixed dreamily on a big knothole before
her, and the thoughts seemed to come out of it and stand before
her, demanding imperiously to be thought. One after another--a
relentless procession.
"Think me," the first one had commanded. "I'm the Thought of
Growing Up. I saw you measuring your legs, and I concluded it was
time for me to introduce myself. I had to come some time, didn't
I?"
"Oh yes," breathed Rebecca Mary, sadly. "I don't suppose I could
expect you to stay in there always; but--but I'm not very glad
to see you.
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