“I brought her up myself,” calmly. “I ought to know. She wouldn't have been Rebecca Mary, would she, if I hadn't been right on hand? Who was it taught her to sew patchwork before she was four years old? And make sheets—and beds—and bread? Who was it kept her from being a little tomboy like the minister's girl? Who taught her to walk instead of run, and eat with her fork, and be a lady? Who was it—” “Oh, you—you!” sighed Aunt Olivia, trembling for her balance. “You did 'em all. I never could've alone.” “Then”—Duty was justly complacent—“Then perhaps you'll be willing to leave Rebecca Mary's going away to school to me. She must go at once, as soon as you can get her read—” Aunt Olivia tumbled off. She did not wait to pick herself up before she turned upon this Duty that delighted in torturing her. “You better get her ready yourself! You better let her down and make her some nightgowns and count her pocket-handkerchiefs! You think you can do anything—no, I'M talking now! I guess it's my turn. I guess I've waited long enough. Maybe you brought Rebecca Mary up, but I'm not going to leave it to you whether she'd ought to go away to school. She's my Rebecca Mary, isn't she? Well? It's me that loves her, isn't it—not you? If I can't love her and stay a Plummer, then I'll—love her. I'm going to leave it to the minister.” The minister was a little embarrassed. The wistful look in Aunt Olivia's eyes said, “Say no” so plainly. And he knew he must say yes—the minister's Duty was imperative, too. “If she can't get any more good out of the school here—” he began. “She can't,” said Aunt Olivia's Duty for her. “The teacher says she can't. Rebecca Mary's smart.” Then Duty, too, was proud of Rebecca Mary! “I know she is,” said the minister, heartily. “My Rhoda—you ought to hear my Rhoda set her up. She thinks Rebecca Mary knows more than the teacher does.” “Rhoda's smart, too,” breathed Duty in Aunt Olivia's ear. “So you see, dear Miss Olivia, the child would make good use of any advantage—” “You mean I ought to send her away? Well, I'm ready to—I said I'd leave it to you. Where shall I send her? If there was only—I don't suppose there's some place near to? Children go home Friday nights sometimes, don't they?” “There is no school near enough for that, I'm afraid,” the minister said, gently. He could not bear the look in Miss Olivia's eyes. “It hurt,” he told his wife afterwards. “I wish she hadn't asked me, Felicia.” “I know, dear, but it's the penalty of being a minister. Ministers' hearts ought to be coated with—with asbestos or something, so the looks in people's eyes wouldn't burn through. I'm glad she didn't ask ME!” “It will nearly kill them both,” ran on the minister's thoughts, aloud. “You know how it was when Miss Olivia was at the hospital.” “Robert!”—the minister's wife's tone was reproachful—“you're talking in the future tense! You said 'will.' Then you advised her to send Rebecca Mary away!”