She had Rebecca Mary's
hair, Rebecca Mary's eyes, mouth, little pointed chin. But not
Rebecca Mary's legs--unless the long skirts covered them. She was
rather comely and pleasant to look at. But Rebecca Mary tried not
to look.
"She's got a lover---some day she'll be getting married," the new
Thought said more abruptly, startlingly, than grammatically. And
then with a little muffled cry Rebecca Mary put out her hands and
pushed the woman-girl away--back into the knothole whence she had
come. The Thought, too, for she had no room in her mind for
thoughts like that.
"My aunt Olivia wouldn't allow me to think of you," she explained
in dismissing them. "And," with dignity she added, "neither would
Rebecca Mary."
It was to be as the minister's wife had prophesied--there were to
be not even the three days of grace allowed by law when Rebecca
Mary grew up. Sitting there with her legs, her poor little
unappreciated legs, the innocent cause of the whole trouble,
curled out of sight, Rebecca Mary planned that there should be
but one day of grace. She would allow one day more to be a little
girl in, and then she would grow up. But that one day--Rebecca
Mary got up hastily and went to find Aunt Olivia.
"Aunt Olivia," she began, without preamble--Rebecca Mary never
preambled--"Aunt Olivia, may I have a holiday tomorrow?"
Aunt Olivia was rocking in her easy chair on the porch.
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