It had
taken her sixty-two years to learn to sit in an easy chair and
rock. Even now, and she had been home from the hospital many
months, she felt a little as though the friendly birds that
perched on the porch railing were twittering tauntingly, "Plummer!
Plummer! Plummer!--rocking in an easy chair!"
"May I, Aunt Olivia?" It was an unusual occurrence for Rebecca
Mary to ask again so soon. But this was an unusual occurrence.
Aunt Olivia's thin face turned affectionately towards the child.
"School doesn't begin again tomorrow, does it?" she said in
surprise. Weren't all Rebecca Mary's days now holidays?
"Oh no---no'm. But I mean may I skip my stents? And--and may I
soak the kettles and pans? Just tomorrow."
"Just tomorrow," repeated bewildered Aunt Olivia--"soak your--
stents--"
"Because it's going to be a pretty busy day. It's going to be a--
a celebration," Rebecca Mary said, softly. There was a strangely
exalted look on her face. Oddly enough she was not afraid that
Aunt Olivia would say no.
Aunt Olivia said yes. She did not ask any questions about the
celebration, on account of the exalted look. She could wait. But
the bewildered look stayed for a while on her thin face. Rebecca
Mary was a queer child, a queer child--but she was a dear child.
Dearness atoned for queerness in Aunt Olivia's creed.
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