“Cotton is a very strange ex—exper'ence, Thomas Jefferson,” ran on the little voice. “At first you 'most can't stand it, but you get over the worst of it bymeby. Besides, we're getting 'most through now. Ain't that splendid, Thomas Jefferson? And it's pretty lucky, too, because Aunt 'Livia's birthday is getting very near. It—it almost scares me. Doesn't it you? For I don't know how Aunt 'Livia looks when she's pleased—you think she'll look pleased, don't you, Thomas Jefferson? It's such a long quilt, and when you've sewed every stitch yourself—”
If Rebecca Mary had turned round then she would have seen how Aunt Olivia looked when she was pleased. But the little figure at the quilting-frame bent steadily to its task, only another soft sigh stealing into Aunt Olivia's uncottoned ears. Thomas Jefferson pecked his way towards the open door, and the lean figure there started back guiltily; Aunt Olivia did not want to be recognized.
“You there under the quilt, Thomas Jefferson?” The little voice put on tenderness. “Because I'm a-going to tell you something. Once Aunt 'Livia gave ME a birthday present and it was YOU. Such a little mite of a yellow chicken! That's why I'm making the quilt for Aunt 'Livia. It was three years ago; I've loved you ever since,” added Rebecca Mary, simply.
For an instant Aunt Olivia stopped being a Plummer. A sob crept into her throat. “Rebecca! Rebecca Mary! Rebecca Mary Plummer!” she cried, involuntarily. Then she stepped back hastily, glad for the cotton in Rebecca Mary's ears. For the surprise—she must not spoil the child's hard-earned surprise. And, besides, Aunt Olivia wanted to be surprised.
It was a relief to get away. She could not look any longer at the picture in the great cobwebby barn—the gorgeous quilt spread out to its full extent, the empty scaffolds above Rebecca Mary stooping to her work, Thomas Jefferson pecking about the floor. Aunt Olivia was not old; through all the years ahead of her she would remember that picture.
She went straight to the southern boundary fence and looked across at the jubilant little Tony Trumbullses. The one in a red dress like Rebecca Mary's she singled out with a pointing finger. “YOU come here,” she called. “I won't hurt you; no need to look scairt. Do you know who I am? I'm Rebecca Mary's aunt. You know who Rebecca Mary is, don't you?”
“Gracious!” shrilled the little red Tony Trumbull, which Aunt Olivia took for yes.
“Well, then, you know where I live. You see here—I want you all, the whole kit o' you, to come to my house tomorrow morning to see Rebecca Mary. I'm going to say it over again. Tomorrow morning, to see Rebecca Mary!” setting apart the syllables with the pointing finger. “You can play in my back yard,” said Aunt Olivia, sublimely unconscious of slang.