For an instant Aunt Olivia stopped being a Plummer. A sob crept into her throat. “Rebecca! Rebecca Mary! Rebecca Mary Plummer!” she cried, involuntarily. Then she stepped back hastily, glad for the cotton in Rebecca Mary's ears. For the surprise—she must not spoil the child's hard-earned surprise. And, besides, Aunt Olivia wanted to be surprised. It was a relief to get away. She could not look any longer at the picture in the great cobwebby barn—the gorgeous quilt spread out to its full extent, the empty scaffolds above Rebecca Mary stooping to her work, Thomas Jefferson pecking about the floor. Aunt Olivia was not old; through all the years ahead of her she would remember that picture. She went straight to the southern boundary fence and looked across at the jubilant little Tony Trumbullses. The one in a red dress like Rebecca Mary's she singled out with a pointing finger. “YOU come here,” she called. “I won't hurt you; no need to look scairt. Do you know who I am? I'm Rebecca Mary's aunt. You know who Rebecca Mary is, don't you?” “Gracious!” shrilled the little red Tony Trumbull, which Aunt Olivia took for yes. “Well, then, you know where I live. You see here—I want you all, the whole kit o' you, to come to my house tomorrow morning to see Rebecca Mary. I'm going to say it over again. Tomorrow morning, to see Rebecca Mary!” setting apart the syllables with the pointing finger. “You can play in my back yard,” said Aunt Olivia, sublimely unconscious of slang. The Bible Dream Rebecca Mary sat on the kitchen steps, shelling peas and trying not to listen. She had begun a hummy little tune to help out, but in the interstices of rattling peas and the verses of the tune she could distinctly hear some of the things Aunt Olivia and the Caller were saying. This was one of the things: “She's offered a reward, but I don't calculate there's much chance she'll ever see it again.” A sigh followed. The voice was the Caller's, the sigh Aunt Olivia's. “It's queer where it ever went to!” Aunt Olivia's voice. “Yes, it's all o' QUEER,” the Caller's, with mysterious hints in it that made Rebecca Mary, out on the doorsteps, shudder suddenly and forget where she was in the tune. Oh, oh, dear, did they s'pose—they couldn't s'pose it had been STOLEN? Rebecca Mary's little hard brown hand stopped halfway to the pea-basket and fell limply at her side on the doorstep. It made a little thud as it fell. Rebecca Mary's horrified gaze wandered out into the glare of sunshine where wandered Thomas Jefferson, stepping daintily, hunting bugs. That was his day's work. Thomas Jefferson was a hard worker.