"My grief!" she ejaculated, suddenly, as if just aware of it.
"I declare I believe I miss him, too! I believe to my soul I'd
like to hear him crow--I wouldn't mind if he came strutting in here!"
And "in here" was Aunt Olivia's beloved garden of flowers. Surely she
was being sorry now!

It was the next day that Rebecca Mary's bitterness was sweetened--
that she began to be cured. She and the little, white cat went down
together to Thomas Jefferson's resting place. When they went home--
and they went soon--Rebecca Mary got her diary and began to write in
it with eager haste. Her sombre little face had lighted up with some
inner gladness, like relief:

"Shes been there and put some lavvender on and pinks. I mean Aunt
Olivia. And shes the very fondest of her pinks and lavvender. So she
must have loved Tomas Jefferson. Shes sorry. Shes sorry. Shes sorry.
And Ime so glad."

Rebecca Mary caught up the little, white cat and cried her first tear
of joy on its neck. Then she wrote again:

"Now there are two morners instead of one. Two morners seams so mutch
lovinger than only one. I know he must feal better. I think he must
have been hurt before and so was I. I wish I dass tell Aunt Olivia how
glad I am shes sorry."

But she told only the little, white cat. The Plummer mantle of
reticence had fallen too heavily on her narrow little shoulders.
What she longed to do she did not "dass." But that evening in her