“I'll just feel round,” she said. “I want to know if her aunt's given it to her. You think she must have, don't you, Robert? By this time? Why, it was six weeks ago I carried it over! It was such a nice, friendly little doll! By this time they would be such friends—if her aunt gave it to her. Robert, you think—”
“I think it's going to rain,” the minister said. But he kissed her to make it easier.
Rebecca Mary came over to bring Aunt Olivia's rule for parson-cake that the minister's wife had asked for.
“Come in, Rebecca Mary,” the minister's wife said, cordially. “Don't you want to see the new dress Rhoda's doll is going to have? I suppose you could make your doll's dress yourself?” It seemed a hard thing to say. Feeling round was not pleasant.
“P'haps I could, but she doesn't wear dresses,” Rebecca Mary answered, gravely.
“No?” This was puzzling. “Her clothes don't come off, I suppose?” Then it could not be the nice, friendly doll.
“No'm. Nor they don't go on, either. She isn't a feel doll.”
“A—what kind did you say, dear?” The minister's wife paused in her work interestedly. Distinctly, Miss Olivia had not given her THE doll; but this doll—“I don't think I quite understood, Rebecca Mary.”
“No'm; it's a little hard. She isn't a FEEL doll, I said. I never had a feel one. Mine hasn't any body, just a soul. But she's a great comfort.”
“Robert,” appealed the minister's wife, helplessly. This was a case for the minister—a case of souls.