“Oh! Then you're—why, I didn't think about your being poor! I shouldn't have thought of asking—that makes a great difference. I never thought of THAT!” She was off before Aunt Olivia had fully recovered her breath, and the stumping of her heavy little shoes going upstairs was the only distinctly audible sound. In her own room Rebecca Mary stopped, panting. “Oh, I'm glad I didn't get as far as ASKING!” she breathed aloud. “I never thought about her being poor—of course then I wouldn't ask!” But she squared her shoulders and stood up, straight and unashamed. For she had vindicated herself. She had been ready to ask. She could look that other little girl of the sheets in the face. The Other Little Girl was there, coming to meet her as she advanced to the little looking glass above the table. But Rebecca Mary waved her back peremptorily. “Go right back!” she said. “I only came to tell you I wasn't a coward—that's all. Good-bye. For I'm not coming any more. You're sorry I'm homely, and I'm sorry you are, but it doesn't do any good for us to look at each other and groan. It will make us unsatisfied. So I shall turn you back to the wall—good-bye.” But for a very [long] instant they looked sadly into each other's little lean brown-yellow faces. It was a brief ceremony of farewell. “Good- bye,” smiled Rebecca Mary, bravely. And the lips of The Other Little Girl moved as though saying it too. The Other Little Girl smiled. And neither of them knew that just then she was beautiful. Aunt Olivia was trying to meet her own courage test. She had been trying a good many days. Duty—stern, unswerving duty—bade her inspect Rebecca Mary's little cookbook diary. Should she not know—ought she not to know the thoughts that were brewing in the child's mind? How else could she bring her up properly? “Read it,” Duty said, “find out. Are you afraid?” “I'm ashamed,” groaned Aunt Olivia. “Do you think Rebecca Mary would read my diary?” “Is Rebecca Mary bringing you up?” Aunt Olivia sometimes thought so. The puzzle that she had begun to try to solve when Rebecca Mary's white, death-struck mother had laid her baby in Aunt Olivia's unaccustomed arms was getting a little more difficult every day. Some days Aunt Olivia wondered if she ought to give it up. Oh, this bringing up—this bringing up of little children! “If I must,” groaned Aunt Olivia, and got as far as taking the little diary in her hands. But she got no farther. She laid it gently down again. “I can't,” she said, firmly, but she could not look Duty in the face as she said it. She had always listened to Duty before. “You know you ought to—” “Yes, I know, but I can't! It seems a shameful thing to do. I'm sure I've tried often enough—you know I've tried—” “I know—that was good practice. Now stop trying and read it!” Aunt Olivia flamed up. “I tell you I won't! It's a shameful thing. If I found Rebecca Mary reading one of my diaries, I should send her to bed—”