n't imagine, sitting there at that desk, what the
temptation was--Robert, you don't suppose Rebecca Mary has gone crazy?"

"Felicia! You frighten me!"

"No, _I_ don't suppose either. But it was certainly very strange. It was
almost ALARMING, Robert. And she didn't know how at all. I wanted to go
down and show her!"

"It seems to me"--the minister spoke impressively "that it is not
Rebecca Mary who has gone crazy--"

"Why, the idea! Haven't I made it plain?" laughed she. "I'll speak in A
B C's then. Rebecca Mary was SKIPPING, Robert--skipping skipping."

"Then it's Rebecca Mary," the minister murmured.

"That's what I'm afraid--didn't I say so? Or else it's her second
childhood--"

"First, you mean. If THAT'S it, don't let's say a word, dear--don't
breathe, Felicia, for fear we'll stop it."

"Dear child!" the minister's wife said, tenderly. "I wish I'd gone down
there and shown her how. And I'd have told her--Robert, I'd have told
her how to climb a tree! Don't tell the parish."

The day was to end at sunset, from sunrise to sunset, Rebecca Mary had
decreed. The last article on her crumpled little programme was, "Saying
Good-by to Olivicia(Don't cry)." 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,