“I think it is because the name ‘rooster’ seems rather a funny one,” said Rosemary gravely. “There is something in it that is comical. Now, ‘chicken’ is different. It doesn’t sound so funny to talk of loving a chicken.”
“Adam was the dearest little chicken, Miss West. He was just a little golden ball. He would run up to me and peck out of my hand. And he was handsome when he grew up, too—white as snow, with such a beautiful curving white tail, though Mary Vance said it was too short. He knew his name and always came when I called him—he was a very intelligent rooster. And Aunt Martha had no right to kill him. He was mine. It wasn’t fair, was it, Miss West?”
“No, it wasn’t,” said Rosemary decidedly. “Not a bit fair. I remember I had a pet hen when I was a little girl. She was such a pretty little thing—all golden brown and speckly. I loved her as much as I ever loved any pet. She was never killed—she died of old age. Mother wouldn’t have her killed because she was my pet.”
“If my mother had been living she wouldn’t have let Adam be killed,” said Faith. “For that matter, father wouldn’t have either, if he’d been home and known of it. I’m sure he wouldn’t, Miss West.”
“I’m sure, too,” said Rosemary. There was a little added flush on her face. She looked rather conscious but Faith noticed nothing.
“Was it very wicked of me not to tell Mr. Perry his coat-tails were scorching?” she asked anxiously.
“Oh, terribly wicked,” answered Rosemary, with dancing eyes. “But I would have been just as naughty, Faith—I wouldn’t have told him they were scorching—and I don’t believe I would ever have been a bit sorry for my wickedness, either.”
“Una thought I should have told him because he was a minister.”
“Dearest, if a minister doesn’t behave as a gentleman we are not bound to respect his coat-tails. I know I would just have loved to see Jimmy Perry’s coat-tails burning up. It must have been fun.”
Both laughed; but Faith ended with a bitter little sigh.