priestly functions. The summoner was Rebecca Mary. She appeared like
a sombre little shadow in his sunny sermon room. The minister's wife
ushered her in, and in the brief instant of opening the door and
announcing her name flashed him a warning glance. He had been
acquainted so long with her glances that he was able to interpret this
one with considerable accuracy. "All right," he glanced back. No, he
would not smile--yes, he would remember that it was Rebecca Mary.

"Do what she asks you," flashed the minister's wife's glance.

"All right," flashed the minister. Then the door closed.

"Thomas Jefferson is dying," Rebecca Mary began, hurriedly. "I came
to see if you'd come."

In spite of himself the minister gasped. Then, as the situation dawned
clearly upon him, his mouth corners began--in spite of themselves--to
curve upward. But in time he remembered the minister's wife, and drew
them back to their centres of gravity. He waited a little. It was safer.

"Aunt Olivia isn't at home and I'm glad. She doesn't care. Perhaps
she would laugh. Oh, I know," appealed Rebecca Mary, piteously,
"I know he's a rooster! It isn't because I don't know--but he's FOLKS
to me! You needn't do anything but just smooth his feathers a little
and say the Lord bless you. I thought perhaps you'd come and do that.
_I_ could, but I wanted you to, because you're a minister. I thought--
I thought perhaps you'd try and forget he's a rooster."

"I will," the minister said, gently. Now his lips were quite grave.
He took Rebecca Mary's hand and went with her.