it
was there.

"His soul isn't dead," she persisted, gently. She clung to the comfort
of that. And one morning she thought she heard again Thomas Jefferson's
old, cheery greeting to the sunrise. The sound she thought she heard
woke her instantly. Was it Thomas Jefferson's soul crowing?

"Aunt Olivia isent sorry," chronicled the diary, sadly. "Prehaps shes
glad. Once she wished the Lord had forgot to create roosters. But she
was ever kind to Tomas Jefferson, considdering the seeds he scrached up.
That was his besittingest sin and I know he is sorry now. I wish Aunt
Olivia was sorry."

Nothing was ever said between the two about Rebecca Mary's loss, but
Aunt Olivia recognized the keenness of it to the child. She worried
a little about it; it reminded her of that other time of worry when
Rebecca Mary and she had nearly starved. Sheets and roosters--there were
so many worries in the world.

That other time she went to the minister, this time to the minister's
wife. One afternoon she went and carried her work.

"You know about children," she began, without loss of time. "What
happens when they lose their appetite over a dead rooster?"

"Thomas Jefferson?" breathed the minister's wife, softly.

"Yes--he's dead and buried, and she's mourning for him. I set three
tarts on for dinner today, and I set three tarts AWAY after dinner.
Rebecca Mary is fond of tarts. What should you do if it was Rhoda?"

"Oh---Rhoda--why, I think I should get her another rooster, or a cat or
something, to get her mind off. But Rhoda isn't Rebecca Mary--"

Aunt Olivia folded up her work. She got up briskly.

"They've got a white rooster down to the Trumbullses'," she said. "I
guess I better go right down now; Tony Trumbull is liable to be at home
just before supper. I'm very much obliged to you for your advice."

"Did I advise her?" murmured the minister's wife, watching the resolute
swing of Aunt Olivia's skirts as she strode away. "I was going to tell
her that what would cure my Rhoda might not cure Rebecca Mary. Well, I
hope it will work," but she was sure it wouldn't. She had grown a little
acquainted with Rebecca Mary.

It was the new, white rooster crowing, instead of the soul of Thomas
Jefferson. Rebecca Mary found out after she had dressed and gone
downstairs. Soon after that she appeared in the kitchen doorway with an
armful of snowy feathers. Aunt Olivia, over her muffin pans, eyed her
with secret delight. The cure was working