It was very pleasant at the minister's and the minister's wife's.
Rebecca Mary felt the warmth and pleasantness of it in every
fibre of her body and soul. But she was not happy nor warm. She
thought it was indignation against Aunt Olivia--she did not know
she was homesick. She did not know why she went to the old home
every day after school and wandered through Aunt Olivia's flower
garden, and sat with little brown chin palm-deep on the
doorsteps. Gradually the indignation melted out of existence and
only the homesickness was left. It sat on her small, lean face
like a little spectre. It troubled the minister's wife.

"What can we do, Robert?" she asked.

"What?" he echoed; for the minister, too, was troubled.

"She wanders about like a little lost soul. When she plays with
the children it's only the outside of her that plays."

"Only the outside," he nodded.

"Last night I went in, Robert, and--and tried the Rhoda way. I
think she liked it, but it didn't comfort her. I am sure now
that it is homesickness, Robert." They were both sure, but the
grim little spectre sat on, undaunted by all their kindnesses.

"When thy father and thy mother forsake the," wrote Rebecca Mary
in the cookbook diary, "and thy Aunt Olivia for I know it means
and thy Aunt Olivia then the Lord will take the up, but I dont
feal as if anyboddy had taken me up. The ministers wife did once