“I know, dear, but it's the penalty of being a minister. Ministers' hearts ought to be coated with—with asbestos or something, so the looks in people's eyes wouldn't burn through. I'm glad she didn't ask ME!”
“It will nearly kill them both,” ran on the minister's thoughts, aloud. “You know how it was when Miss Olivia was at the hospital.”
“Robert!”—the minister's wife's tone was reproachful—“you're talking in the future tense! You said 'will.' Then you advised her to send Rebecca Mary away!”
“Guilty,” pleaded the minister. “What else could I do?”
“You could have offered to teach her yourself”—with prompt inspiration. “Oh, Robert, why didn't you?”
“Felicia!—my dear!”—for the minister was modest.
“You know plenty for two Rebecca Marys,” she triumphed. “Didn't you appropriate all the honors at college, you selfish boy!”
“It's too late now, dear.” But the minister's eyes thanked her, and the big clasp of his arms. A minister may be mortal.
“Maybe it is and maybe it isn't,” spoke the minister's wife, in riddles. “We'll wait and see.”
“But, Felicia—but, dear, they're both them Plummers.”