yourself--when you sew every single stitch--" The pride in Rebecca
Mary's grave blue eyes grew and grew.

"Robert," the minister's wife said that night to the minister, "it's
an awful quilt, but you ought to have seen her eyes! It's taken her
three years to make it--maybe you wouldn't be proud yourself!"

"Maybe YOU wouldn't, if Rhoda had made it."

"RHODA! Robert, she sewed one square of patchwork once and it made
her sick. I had to put her to bed. Speaking of 'once' reminds me--
once Rebecca Mary had a birthday present, Robert." She waited a little
anxiously for him to understand. The minister always understood, but
sometimes he made her wait.

"Felicia, are you trying to make me cry?" he said, and she was
satisfied. She went across to him, as she always did when she
wanted to cry herself. The floor was strewn with the tiniest boy's
engine and cars, and she remembered, as she zigzagged among them,
that they had been one of his very last birthday presents.

"It was--Robert, what do you think the present was? I'll give you
three guesses, but I advise you to guess a rooster."

"Thomas Jefferson," murmured the minister, as one who was acquainted.

"Yes, that is his name. How did you remember? She is very fond of
him--he is her intimatest friend, she says. So she is under great
obligations to her aunt. It's a large quilt, but it's none too
large to 'cover' Thomas Jefferson. I'm going to help her buy a