“You don't—I don't suppose you LOVE me?” panted Rebecca Mary. But Aunt Olivia was gone out of the room in a swirl of white nightgown.
“Everything's on the table,” she called back from the stairs. “I'm going to light a fire. You come right down. I think it's high time—” her voice trailing out thinly.
“She does,” murmured Rebecca Mary, radiant of face.
At half past twelve o'clock they both ate supper, both in their scant, white nightgowns, both very hungry indeed. But before she sat down in her old place at the table, Rebecca Mary went round to Aunt Olivia's place and whispered something rather shyly in her ear. She had been by herself in a corner of the room for a moment.
“I've sewed the hundred and twoth,” Rebecca Mary whispered.
The Thousand Quilt
“Good afternoon,” Rebecca Mary said, politely.
The minister's wife was cutting little trousers out of big ones—the minister's big ones. It was the old puzzle of how to steer clear of the thin places.
“Boys grow so!” sighed, tenderly, the minister's wife, over her work. She had not heard the voice from the doorway.