“Yes?” answered Rebecca Mary, and woke up.
There were many preparations to make. The days sped by busily, and to Rebecca Mary full of joyous expectancy. Aunt Olivia made no moan. She worked steadily over the plain little outfit and thrust her Dreads away with resolute courage, to wait until Rebecca Mary was gone. Time enough then.
“You're doing right—that ought to comfort you,” encouraged Duty, kindly.
“Clear out!” was what Aunt Olivia cried out, sharply, in answer. “You've done enough—this is all your work! Don't stand there hugging yourself. YOU'RE not going to miss Rebecca Mary—”
“I shall miss her,” Duty murmured. “I was awake all night, too, dreading it. You didn't know, but I was there.”
The last day, when it came, seemed a little—a good deal—like that other day when Aunt Olivia went away, only it was the other way about this time. Rebecca Mary was going away on this day. The things packed snugly in the big valise were her things; it was she, Rebecca Mary, who would unpack them in a wondrous, strange place. It was Rebecca Mary the minister's wife and Rhoda came to bid good-bye.
Aunt Olivia went to the station in the stage with the child. She did not speak much on the way, but sat firmly straight and smiled. Duty had told her the last thing to smile. But Duty had not trusted her; unseen and uninvited, Duty had slipped into the jolting old vehicle between Aunt Olivia and Rebecca Mary.
“She isn't the Plummer she was once,” sighed Duty.
But at the little station, in those few final moments, two Plummers, an old one and a young one, waited quietly together. Neither of them broke down nor made ado. Duty retired in palpable chagrin.
“Good-bye, my dear,” Aunt Olivia said, steadily, though her lips were white.