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