l. When she plays with the
children it's only the outside of her that plays."

"Only the outside," he nodded.

"Last night I went in, Robert, and--and tried the Rhoda way. I think
she liked it, but it didn't comfort her. I am sure now that it is
homesickness, Robert." They were both sure, but the grim little spectre
sat on, undaunted by all their kindnesses.

"When thy father and thy mother forsake the," wrote Rebecca Mary in the
cookbook diary, "and thy Aunt Olivia for I know it means and thy Aunt
Olivia then the Lord will take the up, but I dont feal as if anyboddy
had taken me up. The ministers wife did once but of course she had to
put me down again rite away. She is a beutiful person and I love her but
she is differunt from thy father and thy mother and thy Aunt Olivia. Ide
rather have Aunt Olivia take me up than to have the Lord."

It was when she shut the battered little book this time that Rebecca
Mary remembered one or two things that had happened the morning Aunt
Olivia went away. It was queer how she HADN'T remembered them before.

She remembered that Aunt Olivia had taken her sharp little face between
her own hands and looked down wistfully at it--wistfully, Rebecca Mary
remembered now, though she did not call it by that name. She remembered
Aunt Olivia had said, "You needn't hem anything unless it's for the
minister's wife--never mind the towels I put in." That was almost the
last thing she had said. She had put her head out of the stage door to
say it. Rebecca Mary had hemmed a towel each day. There were but two
left, and she resolved to hem both of those tomorrow. A sudden little
longing was born within her for more towels to hem for Aunt Olivia.

It was nearly three weeks after Rebecca Mary's entrance into the
minister's family when the letter came. It was directed to Rebecca Mary,
and lay on her plate when she came home from school.

"Oh, look, you've got a letter, Rebecca Mary!" heralded Rhoda, joyfully.
Then her face fell, for maybe the letter would say Aunt Olivia was
coming home.

"Is it from your aunt Olivia?" she asked, anxiously.

"No," Rebecca Mary said, in slow surprise. "The writing isn't, anyway,
and the name is another one--"

"Oh! Oh! Maybe she's got mar--"

"Rhoda!" cautioned the minister.

This is the letter Rebecca Mary read:

"Dear Rebecca Mary,--You see I know your name from your aunt. She talked
about you all the time, but I am writing you of my own accord. She does
no