“I'll mix up some pancakes in the morning,” Aunt Olivia said, complacently. “Pancakes may help along. Rebecca Mary is fond of 'em.” The pinks and the fragrant lavender appeared to have established a certain unspoken comradeship between the two “morners” of Thomas Jefferson. Thereafter Rebecca Mary went about comforted, and Aunt Olivia relieved. The little, white cat purred about the skirts of one and the stubbed-out toes of the other in cheerful content. “Well?” the minister's wife queried, in a moment of social intercourse after church. She and Aunt Olivia walked down the aisle together. “She's getting over it—or beginning to,” nodded Aunt Olivia. “That other rooster didn't work, but I think the little cat is going to. She hugs it.” “Good! But she still mourns Thomas Jef—” “Of course!” Aunt Olivia interposed, rather crisply. “You couldn't expect her to get over it all in a minute. He was a remarkable rooster.” “She misses him, herself,” inwardly smiled the minister's little wife. Whether by virtue of her relationship to the minister or by her own virtue, she had learned to read human nature with a degree of accuracy. “I looked at myself in the glass tonight,” confessed Rebecca Mary's diary, “but it was on acount of the rufles. I think Ime not quite so homebly in rufles. I think Aunt Olivia was kind to rufle me. I should like to ware this night gown in the day time. I wish folks did.” The pencil slipped out of Rebecca Mary's fingers and rolled on the floor, to the undoing of the little, white cat, who had gone to bed in his basket. Rebecca Mary caught him up as he darted after the pencil, and hugged him in an odd little ecstasy. She felt oddly happy. “You little, white cat!” she cried, muffledly, her face in his thick coat, “you've waited and waited, but I think I'm going to love you now—you needn't wait any more.” The Feel Doll The minister uttered a suppressed note of warning as solid little steps sounded in the hall. It was he who threw a hasty covering over the doll. The minister's wife sewed on undisturbedly. She did worse than that. “Come here, Rhoda,” she called, “and tell me which you like better, three tucks or five in this petticoat?” “Five,” promptly, upon inspection. Rhoda pulled away the concealing cover and regarded the stolid doll with tilted head. “She's 'nough like my Pharaoh's Daughter to be a blood relation,” she remarked. “She's got the Pharaoh complexion.” “Spoken like MY daughter!” laughed the minister. “But I thought new dolls in this house were always surprises. And here's Mrs. Minister making doll petticoats out in the open!” “This is Rebecca Mary's—I'm dressing a doll for Rebecca Mary, Robert. She's eleven years old and never had a doll! Rhoda's ten and has had—How many dolls have you had, Rhoda?” “Gracious! Why, Pharaoh's Daughter, an' Caiapha, an' Esther the Beautiful Queen, an' the Children of Israel—five o' them—an' Mrs. Job, an'—”