"'SUNDAY.--I wish the Lord had created mine curly because I dont dass
to ask Aunt Olivia. I don't dass to, so there. It scares my throat.
I supose its because aunts arnt mothers--seems as if youd dass to ask
your MOTHER. I hate to be scart on acount of being a Plummer. Im
afraid Im the only Plummer that ever was--'"

The reading suddenly stopped here. This was Sunday, and the last entry
was fresh from Rebecca Mary's pencil.

"Thomas Jefferson!" stormed Rebecca Mary, in a little gust of passion,
"don't you ever TELL I was scared! As long as you live!--cross your
heart!--oh, I wish I hadn't read that part to you! You're a Plummer
too, and you never were scared, and you can't understand--"

The diary was clutched to Rebecca Mary's little flat breast, and with a
swirl of starched Sunday skirts the child was gone. She went straight
to Aunt Olivia. Red spots of shame flamed in both sallow little cheeks;
resolution sat astride her little uphill nose. She could not bear to
go, but it was easier than being ashamed. The pointing fingers of all
the Plummers pushed her on. Go she must, or be a coward. Long ago--
it seemed long to Rebecca Mary--she had stood up straight and stanch
and refused to make any more sheets. Was that little girl who had
dared, THIS little girl who was afraid? Should that little girl be
ashamed of this one?

"Aunt Olivia," steadily, though Rebecca Mary's heart was pounding
hard-- "Aunt Olivia, are--are you well off?"

She had not meant to begin like that, but afterwards she was glad that