The night the lean old valise took on plumpness, Aunt Olivia went often into Mary's little room. Many of the times she came out very shortly with the child's “best” things trailing from her arms, but once or twice she stayed rather long—long enough to stand beside a little white bed and look down on a flushed little face. A pair of wide-open eyes watched her smilingly from the pillows, but they were not Rebecca Mary's eyes, and Olivicia was altogether trustworthy. An odd thing happened—but Olivicia never told. Why should she publish abroad that she had lain there and seen Aunt Olivia bend once—bend twice—over Rebecca Mary and kiss her? Softly, patiently, very wearily, Aunt Olivia went in and out. The things she brought out in her arms she folded carefully and packed, but not in the lank old valise. She put them all with tender painstaking into a quaint little carpetbag. When the work was done she set the bag away out of sight, and went about packing her own things in the old valise. The day before, she had been to see the minister and the minister's wife. She called for them both, and sat down gravely and made her proposition. It was startling only because of the few words it took to make it. Otherwise it was very pleasant, and the minister and the minister's wife received it with nods and smiles. “Of course, Miss Olivia—why, certainly!” smiled and nodded the minister. “Why, it will be delightful—and Rhoda will be so pleased!” nodded and smiled the minister's wife. But after their caller had gone she faced the minister with indignant eyes. “Why did you let her?” she demanded. “Why did you spoil it all by that?” “Because she was Miss Olivia,” he answered, gently. “Yes—yes, I suppose so,” reluctantly; “but, anyway, you needn't have let her do it in advance. Actually it made me blush, Robert!” The minister rubbed his cheeks tentatively. “Made me, too,” he admitted, “but I respect Miss Olivia so much—” The minister's wife tacked abruptly to her other source of indignation. “Why doesn't she TAKE Rebecca Mary? Robert, wait! You know it isn't because—You know better!” “It isn't because, dear—I know better,” he hurried, assuringly. The minister was used to her little indignations and loved them for being hers. They were harmless, too, and wont to have a good excuse for being. This one, now—the minister in his heart wondered that Miss Olivia did not take Rebecca Mary. “It would be such a treat. Robert, you think what a treat it would be to Rebecca Mary!” “Still, dear—” “I don't want to be still! I want Rebecca Mary to have that treat!” But she kissed him in token of being willing to drop it there—it was her usual token—and ran away to get a little room ready. There was not a device known to the minister's wife that she did not use to make that room pleasant. “Shall I take your pincushion, Rhoda?” Rhoda had come up to help. “Yes,” eagerly, “and I'll write Welcome with the pins.” “And the little fan to put on the wall—the pink one?”