lining and cotton batting."

"Cracked corn will make a good lining, but cotton bat--"

"Robert, this is not a comedy! If you'd seen Rebecca Mary, and
the quilt, you'd call it a tragedy. You couldn't surprise me any
if you told me she'd quilted it herself!"

Down the road from Aunt Olivia's farm, across its southern boundary
fence, romped and shouted all day long the Tony Trumbullses. No one,
except possibly their mother, was quite certain how many of them
there were; it was a dizzy process to take their census. They were
never still, in little brown bare limbs nor shrill voices. From sunup
to sundown the Tony Trumbullses raced and laughed. Certainly they
were happy.

The minister's wife had not dared to tell her Caller of the afternoon
that the minister's children were down there shouting and racing with
the little Tony Trumbullses. Dear, no! --not after Rebecca Mary in
the course of conversation had said that Aunt Olivia did not countenance
the Tony Trumbullses. Rebecca Mary did not say "countenance," but it
meant that.

"Her aunt won't let her play with them, Robert. And she'd like to--
you needn't tell me Rebecca Mary wouldn't like to! I saw it in her
poor little solemn eyes. Besides, she said she asked her aunt once
to let her. Robert, aunts are cruel; I never knew it before. They've
no business bringing up little Rebecca Marys!"

"My dear! Felicia!" But in the minister's eyes was agreement.