“Come in, Rebecca Mary,” the minister's wife said, cordially. “Don't you want to see the new dress Rhoda's doll is going to have? I suppose you could make your doll's dress yourself?” It seemed a hard thing to say. Feeling round was not pleasant. “P'haps I could, but she doesn't wear dresses,” Rebecca Mary answered, gravely. “No?” This was puzzling. “Her clothes don't come off, I suppose?” Then it could not be the nice, friendly doll. “No'm. Nor they don't go on, either. She isn't a feel doll.” “A—what kind did you say, dear?” The minister's wife paused in her work interestedly. Distinctly, Miss Olivia had not given her THE doll; but this doll—“I don't think I quite understood, Rebecca Mary.” “No'm; it's a little hard. She isn't a FEEL doll, I said. I never had a feel one. Mine hasn't any body, just a soul. But she's a great comfort.” “Robert,” appealed the minister's wife, helplessly. This was a case for the minister—a case of souls. “Tell us some more about her, Rebecca Mary,” the minister urged, gently. But there was helplessness, too, in his eyes. “Why, that's all!” returned Rebecca Mary, in surprise. “Of course I can't dress her or undress her or take her out calling. But it's a great comfort to rock her soul to sleep.” “Call Rhoda,” murmured the wife to the minister; but Rhoda was already there. She volunteered prompt explanation. There was no hesitation in Rhoda's face. “She means a make believe doll. Don't you, Rebecca Mary?” “Yes,” Rebecca Mary assented; “that's her other name, I suppose, but I never called her by it.” “What did you call her?” demanded practical Rhoda. “What's her name mean?” “Rhoda!”—hastily, from the minister's wife. This seemed like sacrilege. But Rhoda's clear, blue eyes were fixed upon Rebecca Mary; she had not heard her mother's warning little word. A shy color spread thinly over the lean little face of Rebecca Mary. For the space of a breath or two she hesitated. “Her name's—Felicia,” then, softly. “Robert”—the children had gone out together; the minister's wife's eyes were unashamedly wet—“Robert, I wish you were a—a sheriff instead of a minister. Because I think I would make a better sheriff's wife. Do you know what I would make you do?” The minister could guess. “I'd make you ARREST that woman, Robert!” “Felicia!” But she saw willingness to be a sheriff come into his own eyes and stop there briefly. “Don't call me 'Felicia' while I feel as wicked as this! Oh, Robert, to think she named her little soul-doll after me!” “It's a beautiful name.” Suddenly the wickedness was over. She laughed unsteadily. “It wouldn't be a good name for a sheriff's wife, would it?” she said. “So I'll stay by my own minister.” One day close upon this time Aunt Olivia came abruptly upon Rebecca Mary in the grape arbor. She was sitting in her little rocking chair, swaying back and forth slowly. She did not see Aunt Olivia. What was she was crooning half under her breath?