“Maybe they are and maybe they aren't,” laughed she.
That night Aunt Olivia told Rebecca Mary—after she went to bed, quite calmly:
“Rebecca Mary, how would you like to go away to school? For I'm going to send you, my dear.”
“'Away—to school—my dear!'” echoed Rebecca Mary, sitting upright in bed. Her slight figure stretched up rigid and preternaturally tall in the dim light.
“Yes; the minister advises it—I left it to him. He thinks you ought to have advantages.” Aunt Olivia slipped down suddenly beside the little rigid figure and touched it rather timidly. She felt a little in awe of the Rebecca Mary who knew more than her teacher did.
“They all seem to think you're—smart, my dear,” Aunt Olivia said, and she would scarcely have believed it could be so hard to say it. For the life of her she could not keep the pride from pricking through her tone. The wild temptation to sell her Plummer birthright for a kiss assailed her. But she groped in the dimness for Duty's cool touch and found it. In the Plummer code of laws it was writ, “Thou shalt not kiss.”
“I'm going right to work to make you some new nightgowns,” Aunt Olivia added, hastily. “I think I shall make them plain,” for it was in the nature of a reinforcement to her courage to leave off the ruffles.
Rebecca Mary's eyes shone like stars in the dark little room. The child thought she was glad to be going away to school.
“Shall I study algebra and Latin?” she demanded.
“I suppose so—that'll be what you go for.”