“Tell us some more about her, Rebecca Mary,” the minister urged, gently. But there was helplessness, too, in his eyes.
“Why, that's all!” returned Rebecca Mary, in surprise. “Of course I can't dress her or undress her or take her out calling. But it's a great comfort to rock her soul to sleep.”
“Call Rhoda,” murmured the wife to the minister; but Rhoda was already there. She volunteered prompt explanation. There was no hesitation in Rhoda's face.
“She means a make believe doll. Don't you, Rebecca Mary?”
“Yes,” Rebecca Mary assented; “that's her other name, I suppose, but I never called her by it.”
“What did you call her?” demanded practical Rhoda. “What's her name mean?”
“Rhoda!”—hastily, from the minister's wife. This seemed like sacrilege. But Rhoda's clear, blue eyes were fixed upon Rebecca Mary; she had not heard her mother's warning little word.
A shy color spread thinly over the lean little face of Rebecca Mary. For the space of a breath or two she hesitated.
“Her name's—Felicia,” then, softly.
“Robert”—the children had gone out together; the minister's wife's eyes were unashamedly wet—“Robert, I wish you were a—a sheriff instead of a minister. Because I think I would make a better sheriff's wife. Do you know what I would make you do?”