“Aunt Olivia isent sorry,” chronicled the diary, sadly. “Prehaps shes glad. Once she wished the Lord had forgot to create roosters. But she was ever kind to Tomas Jefferson, considdering the seeds he scrached up. That was his besittingest sin and I know he is sorry now. I wish Aunt Olivia was sorry.” Nothing was ever said between the two about Rebecca Mary's loss, but Aunt Olivia recognized the keenness of it to the child. She worried a little about it; it reminded her of that other time of worry when Rebecca Mary and she had nearly starved. Sheets and roosters—there were so many worries in the world. That other time she went to the minister, this time to the minister's wife. One afternoon she went and carried her work. “You know about children,” she began, without loss of time. “What happens when they lose their appetite over a dead rooster?” “Thomas Jefferson?” breathed the minister's wife, softly. “Yes—he's dead and buried, and she's mourning for him. I set three tarts on for dinner today, and I set three tarts AWAY after dinner. Rebecca Mary is fond of tarts. What should you do if it was Rhoda?” “Oh—-Rhoda—why, I think I should get her another rooster, or a cat or something, to get her mind off. But Rhoda isn't Rebecca Mary—” Aunt Olivia folded up her work. She got up briskly. “They've got a white rooster down to the Trumbullses',” she said. “I guess I better go right down now; Tony Trumbull is liable to be at home just before supper. I'm very much obliged to you for your advice.” “Did I advise her?” murmured the minister's wife, watching the resolute swing of Aunt Olivia's skirts as she strode away. “I was going to tell her that what would cure my Rhoda might not cure Rebecca Mary. Well, I hope it will work,” but she was sure it wouldn't. She had grown a little acquainted with Rebecca Mary. It was the new, white rooster crowing, instead of the soul of Thomas Jefferson. Rebecca Mary found out after she had dressed and gone downstairs. Soon after that she appeared in the kitchen doorway with an armful of snowy feathers. Aunt Olivia, over her muffin pans, eyed her with secret delight. The cure was working sooner than she had dared to expect. “This is the Tony Trumbullses' rooster; if I hurry I guess I can carry him back before breakfast,” Rebecca Mary said from the doorway. “I'll run, Aunt Olivia.” “Carry him back!” Aunt Olivia's muffin spoon dropped into the bowl of creamy batter. One look at Rebecca Mary convinced her that the cure had not begun to work. Imperceptibly she stiffened. “He ain't anybody's but mine. I've bought him,” she explained, briefly. “You set him down and feed him with these crumbs—he ain't human if he don't like cloth-o'-gold cake.” But the child in the doorway, after gently releasing the great fellow, drew away quietly. The second look at her face convinced Aunt Olivia that the cure would never work. “You feed him, please, Aunt Olivia,” Rebecca Mary said; “I—couldn't. I'll stir the muffins up.”