back in the cheery sitting room. "I suppose you think I'd have
gone in and comforted her, taken her right in my arms and
comforted her the Rhoda way, but I didn't."

"No?" The minister's voice was a little vague on account of the
sermon on his knees.

"I seemed to know--something told me right through that door--
that she'd rather I wouldn't. Robert, if the child is homesick,
it's a different kind of homesickness."

"The Plummer kind," he suggested. The minister was coming to.

"Yes, the Plummer kind, I suppose, Plummers are such--such
PLUMMERY persons, Robert!"

Upstairs under the pink quilt the rigid little figure relaxed
just enough to admit of getting out of bed and fumbling in the
little carpetbag. With her diary in her hand--for Aunt Olivia had
remembered her diary--Rebecca Mary went to the window and sat
down. She had to hold the cookbook up at a painful angle and peer
at it sharply, for the moonlight that filtered into the little
room through the vines was dim and soft.

"Aunt Olivia has gone to the city and I haven't," painfully
traced Rebecca Mary. "She wanted the good time all to herself. I
shall never forgive Aunt Olivia the Lord have mercy on her." Then
Rebecca Mary went back to bed. She dreamed that the cars ran off
the track and they brought Aunt Olivia's pieces home to her. In
the dreadful dream she forgave Aunt Olivia.