happens when they lose their appetite over a dead rooster?"

"Thomas Jefferson?" breathed the minister's wife, softly.

"Yes--he's dead and buried, and she's mourning for him. I set three
tarts on for dinner today, and I set three tarts AWAY after dinner.
Rebecca Mary is fond of tarts. What should you do if it was Rhoda?"

"Oh---Rhoda--why, I think I should get her another rooster, or a cat
or something, to get her mind off. But Rhoda isn't Rebecca Mary--"

Aunt Olivia folded up her work. She got up briskly.

"They've got a white rooster down to the Trumbullses'," she said.
"I guess I better go right down now; Tony Trumbull is liable to
be at home just before supper. I'm very much obliged to you for
your advice."

"Did I advise her?" murmured the minister's wife, watching the resolute
swing of Aunt Olivia's skirts as she strode away. "I was going to tell
her that what would cure my Rhoda might not cure Rebecca Mary. Well, I
hope it will work," but she was sure it wouldn't. She had grown a
little acquainted with Rebecca Mary.

It was the new, white rooster crowing, instead of the soul of Thomas
Jefferson. Rebecca Mary found out after she had dressed and gone
downstairs. Soon after that she appeared in the kitchen doorway with
an armful of snowy feathers. Aunt Olivia, over her muffin pans, eyed
her with secret delight. The cure was working sooner than she had
dared to expect.