“You better get her ready yourself! You better let her down and make her some nightgowns and count her pocket-handkerchiefs! You think you can do anything—no, I'M talking now! I guess it's my turn. I guess I've waited long enough. Maybe you brought Rebecca Mary up, but I'm not going to leave it to you whether she'd ought to go away to school. She's my Rebecca Mary, isn't she? Well? It's me that loves her, isn't it—not you? If I can't love her and stay a Plummer, then I'll—love her. I'm going to leave it to the minister.”
The minister was a little embarrassed. The wistful look in Aunt Olivia's eyes said, “Say no” so plainly. And he knew he must say yes—the minister's Duty was imperative, too.
“If she can't get any more good out of the school here—” he began.
“She can't,” said Aunt Olivia's Duty for her. “The teacher says she can't. Rebecca Mary's smart.” Then Duty, too, was proud of Rebecca Mary!
“I know she is,” said the minister, heartily. “My Rhoda—you ought to hear my Rhoda set her up. She thinks Rebecca Mary knows more than the teacher does.”
“Rhoda's smart, too,” breathed Duty in Aunt Olivia's ear.
“So you see, dear Miss Olivia, the child would make good use of any advantage—”
“You mean I ought to send her away? Well, I'm ready to—I said I'd leave it to you. Where shall I send her? If there was only—I don't suppose there's some place near to? Children go home Friday nights sometimes, don't they?”
“There is no school near enough for that, I'm afraid,” the minister said, gently. He could not bear the look in Miss Olivia's eyes.
“It hurt,” he told his wife afterwards. “I wish she hadn't asked me, Felicia.”