The
little teacher went away in some sort comforted for having taught
Rebecca Mary all she knew. She even hummed a relieved little tune
on her way home, because of the pleasant tingle in the hand that
Rebecca Mary's aunt had squeezed. After all, no matter how much
you dreaded doing it, it was better to tell the truth.
Aunt Olivia hummed no relieved little tune. The pride in her
heart battled with the Dread there and went down. Aunt Olivia did
not call the Dread by any other name. It was Duty who dared.
Confronting Aunt Olivia: "I suppose you know what it means?
I suppose you know it means you've got to give Rebecca Mary a
chance? When are you going to send her away to school?"
"Oh--don't!" pleaded Aunt Olivia. "You don't give me any time.
There's no need of hurry--"
"I'm still a Plummer, if you're not," broke in Duty, with ironic
sharpness. "The Plummers were never afraid to look their duty in
the face."
"I'm--I'm looking at you," groaned Aunt Olivia, climbing painfully
back on to her pedestal. "Go ahead and say it. I'm ready--only I
guess you've forgot how long I've had Rebecca Mary. When you've
brought a child up--"
"I brought her up myself," calmly. "I ought to know. She wouldn't
have been Rebecca Mary, would she, if I hadn't been right on hand?
Who was it taught her to sew patchwork before she was four years old?
And make sheets--and beds--and bread? Who was it kept her from being
a little tomboy like the minister's girl? Who taught her to walk
instead of run, and eat with her fork, and be a lady? Who was it--"
"Oh, you--you!" sighed Aunt Olivia, trembling for her balance.
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