long, steady clangs just as usual. But no one responded just as
usual, and by the token she knew Rebecca Mary had not taken the
other stitch that lay between her and supper.

"She's a Plummer," sighed Aunt Olivia, inwardly, unrealizing her own
Plummership, as little Rebecca Mary had unrealized hers. Each
recognized only the other's. The pity that both must be Plummers!

Rebecca Mary stayed out of doors until bedtime. She made but one
confidant.

"I've done it, Thomas Jefferson," she said, sadly. "You ought to be
sorry for me, because if you hadn't crowed I shouldn't have sewed
the hundred and oneth. But you're not really to BLAME," she added,
hastily, mindful of Thomas Jefferson's feelings. "I should have
done it sometime if you hadn't crowed. I knew it was coming.
I suppose now I shall have to starve. You'd think it was pretty
hard to starve, I guess, Thomas Jefferson."

Thomas Jefferson made certain gloomy responses in his throat to the
effect that he was always starving; that any contributions on the
spot in the way of corn kernels, wheat grains, angleworms--any
little delicacies of the kind--would be welcome. And Rebecca Mary,
understanding, led the way to the corn bin. In the dark hours that
followed, the intimacy between the great white rooster and the
little white girl took on tenderer tones.

At breakfast next morning--at dinner time--at supper--Rebecca Mary
absented herself from the house. Aunt Olivia set on the meals
regularly and waited with tightening heartstrings. It did not seem