Rebecca Mary hunted bugs and angleworms and arranged them temptingly in rows, but the big, white rooster passed them by with a feeble peck or two. Bits of bread failed to tempt him, or even his favorite cooky crumbs. His eighth appetite departed—his seventh, sixth, fifth, fourth. “He lost his third one yesterday,” lamented Rebecca Mary, “and today he's lost his second. It's pretty bad when he hasn't only one left, Aunt Olivia.” “Pretty bad,” nodded Aunt Olivia. She was stirring up a warm mush. When Rebecca Mary had gone upstairs she took it to Thomas Jefferson and commanded him to eat. He was beyond coaxing—perhaps he needed commanding. Rebecca Mary thought Aunt Olivia did not care, and it added a new sting to her pain. There was that time that Aunt Olivia said she wished the Lord hadn't ever created roosters—Thomas Jefferson had just scratched up her pansy seeds. And the time when she wished Thomas Jefferson was dead; did she wish that now? Was she—was she glad he was going to be dead? For Rebecca Mary had given up hope. She was not reconciled, but she was sure. She spent all her spare time with the big, gaunt, pitiful fellow, trying to make his last days easier. She knew he liked to have her with him. “You do, don't you, dear?” she said. She had never called him “dear” before. She realized sadly that this was her last chance. “You do like to have me here, don't you? You'd rather? Don't try to crow—just nod your head a little if you do.” And the big, white fellow's head had nodded a little, she was sure. She put out her loving little brown hand and caressed it. “I knew you did, dear. Oh, Thomas Jefferson, Thomas Jefferson, don't die! PLEASE don't—think of the good times we'll have if you won't! Think of the—the grasshoppers—the bugs, Thomas Jefferson—the cookies! Won't you think?—won't you try to be a little bit hungry?” Rebecca Mary knew what it was to be hungry and not be able to eat, but to be able to eat and not be hungry—this was away and beyond her experience. The sad puzzle of it she could not solve. One day the minister had a rather surprising summons to perform his priestly functions. The summoner was Rebecca Mary. She appeared like a sombre little shadow in his sunny sermon room. The minister's wife ushered her in, and in the brief instant of opening the door and announcing her name flashed him a warning glance. He had been acquainted so long with her glances that he was able to interpret this one with considerable accuracy. “All right,” he glanced back. No, he would not smile—yes, he would remember that it was Rebecca Mary. “Do what she asks you,” flashed the minister's wife's glance. “All right,” flashed the minister. Then the door closed. “Thomas Jefferson is dying,” Rebecca Mary began, hurriedly. “I came to see if you'd come.”