“Gracious! Why, Pharaoh's Daughter, an' Caiapha, an' Esther the Beautiful Queen, an' the Children of Israel—five o' them—an' Mrs. Job, an'—”
“Never mind the rest, dear. You hear, Robert? Do you think Rhoda would be alive now if she'd never had a doll?”
The minister pondered the question. “Maybe not, maybe not,” he decided; “but possibly the dolls would have been.”
“Don't make me smile, Robert. I'm trying to make you cry. If Rebecca Mary were sixty instead of eleven I should dress her a doll.”
“Then why not one for Miss Olivia?”
“I may dress her one,” undauntedly, “if I find out she never had one in her life.”
“She never did.” The minister's voice was positive. “And for that reason, dear, aren't you afraid she would not approve of Rebecca Mary's having one? Isn't it rather a delicate mat—”
“Don't, Robert, don't discourage me. It's going to be such a beautiful doll! And you needn't tell me that poor little eleven-year-old woman-child won't hold out her empty arms for it. Robert, you're a minister; would it be wrong to give it to her STRAIGHT?”
“Straight, dear?”
“Yes; without saying anything to her aunt Olivia. Tell me. Rhoda's gone. Say it as—as liberally as you can.”