“I unpinned the nightgown,” parried Aunt Olivia, on the defensive. “I never let her make another one.” “But you're weakening now. You want to let her have THIS doll.” “It seems like part of—of her inheritance.” “Lock that drawer!” Aunt Olivia turned the key unhappily. It was not that her “convictions” had changed—it was her heart. She went up at odd times and looked at the doll the minister's wife had dressed. She had an unaccountable, uncomfortable feeling that it was lying there in its coffin—that Rebecca Mary would have said, “She's dead.” It was a handsome doll. Aunt Olivia was not acquainted with dolls, but she acknowledged that. She admired it unwillingly. She liked its clothes—the minister's wife had not spared any pains. She had not stinted in tucks nor ruffles. Once Aunt Olivia took it out and turned it over in her hands with critical intent, but there was nothing to criticise. It was a beautiful doll. She held it with a curious, shy tenderness. But that time she did not sit down with it. It was the next time. The rocker was so near the bureau, and Aunt Olivia was tired—and the doll was already in her arms. She only sat down. For a minute she sat quite straight and unrelaxed, then she settled back a little—a little more. The doll lay heavily against her, its flaxen head touching her breast. After the manner of high-bred dolls, its eyes drooped sleepily. Aunt Olivia began to rock—a gentle sway back and forth. She was sixty, but this was the first time she had ever rocked a chi—a doll. So she rocked for a little, scarcely knowing it. When she found out, a wave of soft pink dyed her face and flowed upward redly to her hair. “Well!” Duty jibed, mocking her. “Don't say a word!” cried poor Aunt Olivia. “I'll put her right back.” “What good will that do?” “I'll lock her in.” “You've locked her in before.” “I'll—I'll hide the key.” “Where you can find it! Think again.” Aunt Olivia thrust the doll back into its coffin with unsteady hands. The red in her face had faded to a faint, abiding pink. She locked the drawer and drew out the key. She strode to the window and flung it out with a wide sweep of her arm. The minister's wife, ignorant of the results of her kind little experiment, resolved to question Rebecca Mary the next time she came on an errand. She would do it with extreme caution. “I'll just feel round,” she said. “I want to know if her aunt's given it to her. You think she must have, don't you, Robert? By this time? Why, it was six weeks ago I carried it over! It was such a nice, friendly little doll! By this time they would be such friends—if her aunt gave it to her. Robert, you think—” “I think it's going to rain,” the minister said. But he kissed her to make it easier. Rebecca Mary came over to bring Aunt Olivia's rule for parson-cake that the minister's wife had asked for.