t's all o' QUEER," the Caller's, with mysterious hints in it that
made Rebecca Mary, out on the doorsteps, shudder suddenly and forget
where she was in the tune. Oh, oh, dear, did they s'pose--they couldn't
s'pose it had been STOLEN?

Rebecca Mary's little hard brown hand stopped halfway to the pea-basket
and fell limply at her side on the doorstep. It made a little thud as
it fell. Rebecca Mary's horrified gaze wandered out into the glare of
sunshine where wandered Thomas Jefferson, stepping daintily, hunting
bugs. That was his day's work. Thomas Jefferson was a hard worker.

The voices went on, but Rebecca Mary did not heed them now; she was
looking at Thomas Jefferson, but she did not see him. Not until--it
happened. On a sudden Thomas Jefferson, forgetful of dignity, made a
swoop for something that glittered in the grass. Then Rebecca Mary saw
him--then started to her feet with an inarticulate little cry, while
in her honest brown eyes the horror grew. Oh, oh, dear, what was that
Thomas Jefferson had swooped for? For a brief instant it had glittered
in the grass--Rebecca Mary knew in her soul that it had glittered.

Thomas Jefferson stretched his sheeny neck, curved it ridiculously, and
crowed. It sounded like a crow of triumph; that was the way he crowed
when the bug had been a delicious one.

The Caller was coming out, Aunt Olivia with her. Rebecca Mary could hear
the crackle of their starched skirts; Aunt Olivia's crackled loudest.
Rebecca Mary had always had a queer feeling that Aunt Olivia herself was
starched. There had never been a time when she could not remember her
carrying her head very stiffly and straight and never bending her back.
Nobody else in the world, Rebecca Mary reflected proudly, could pick
up a pin without bending. SHE couldn't, herself, even after she had
privately practiced a good deal.

"Good afternoon, Rebecca Mary; you out here?" the Caller nodded
pleasantly. Folks had such queer ways of saying things. How could you
say good afternoon to anybody if she WASN'T here?

"Didn't you hear Mrs. Dixey, Rebecca Mary? I guess you've forgot your
manners," came in Aunt Olivia's crisp tones.

"Oh yes'm, I have. I mean I DID. Yes'm, thank you, I'm out here,"
quavered Rebecca Mary. She was not afraid of the Caller and she had
never been afraid of Aunt Olivia, but the horror that was settling round
her heart made her clear little voice unsteady. Her eyes were still
following Thomas Jefferson on h