" It was
going to be the most difficult thing of all the articles.
Olivicia had existed so short a time comparatively--it might not
have been as difficult if there had always been an Olivicia. "Or
it might have been harder," Rebecca Mary said. She went towards
that article with reluctant feet. But it had to come.
The bureau drawer was all ready. Rebecca Mary had lined it with
something white and soft and sweetened it with dried rose petals
spiced in the century-old Plummer way. It bore rather grewsome
resemblance to Olivicia's coffin, but it was not grewsome to
Rebecca Mary. She laid the doll in it with the tender little
swinging motion mothers use in laying down their tiny sleepers.
"There, there the-re!" crooned Rebecca Mary, softly, brooding
over the beautiful being. "You'll rest there sweetly after your
mother is grown up. And you'll try not to miss her, won't you?
You'll understand, Olivicia?--oh, Olivicia!" But she did not cry.
Her eyes were very bright. For several minutes she stood there
stooped over painfully, gazing down into the cof--the bureau
drawer, wherein lay peaceful Olivicia. She was saying good-bye in
her heart--she never said it aloud.
"Dear," very softly indeed, "you are sure you understand?
Everybody has to grow up, dear. It--it hurts, but you have to.
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