Out in front of the rocking chair, still straight and firm, she told Aunt Olivia.
“It's over—I think I put everything in,” she said. “I thought you ought to know, so I came to tell you. I'm ready to grow up.”
After all, if Rebecca Mary had known, her “programme” had not ended with Article VI. Here was another. Take the pencil in your steady little fingers, Rebecca Mary, and write:
Article VII.—Growing up. (Do not break Aunt Olivia's heart.)
Un-Plummered
Aunt Olivia sighed. It was the third time since she had begun to let Rebecca Mary down. The third sigh was the longest one. Oh, this letting down of children who would grow up!
“I won't do it!” Aunt Olivia rebelled, fiercely, but she took up her scissors again at Duty's nudge.
“You don't want people laughing at her, do you?” Duty said, sensibly. “Well, then, rip out that hem and face up that skirt and stop sighing. What can't be cured must be endur—”
“I'm ripping it out,” Aunt Olivia interrupted, crisply. But Duty was not to be silenced.