Aunt Olivia began to rock—a gentle sway back and forth. She was sixty, but this was the first time she had ever rocked a chi—a doll. So she rocked for a little, scarcely knowing it. When she found out, a wave of soft pink dyed her face and flowed upward redly to her hair.
“Well!” Duty jibed, mocking her.
“Don't say a word!” cried poor Aunt Olivia. “I'll put her right back.”
“What good will that do?”
“I'll lock her in.”
“You've locked her in before.”
“I'll—I'll hide the key.”
“Where you can find it! Think again.”
Aunt Olivia thrust the doll back into its coffin with unsteady hands. The red in her face had faded to a faint, abiding pink. She locked the drawer and drew out the key. She strode to the window and flung it out with a wide sweep of her arm.
The minister's wife, ignorant of the results of her kind little experiment, resolved to question Rebecca Mary the next time she came on an errand. She would do it with extreme caution.