CHAPTER VI
REBA sat a long while that night in the dark, in her rocking chair by the window, but she did not rock. Her palms did not lie upturned in her lap. She sat on the edge of her chair tensely, with her elbows on the window-sill, and tried to warm her cold hands and cool her hot face by pressing her clammy fingers hard against her burning cheeks and forehead. She had slipped the scarab, which was hung onto a string, about her neck. It was carved out of wood—a rough imitation of the genuine thing, but it was curious and foreign, and she picked it up every now and then and held it in her fingers. She had read that in Egypt scarabs were put into the tombs of the dead, as some sort of symbol or sign of the soul's awakening. Had Cousin Pattie left the scarab with her, in her tomb, to suggest her awakening? Were Cousin Pattie's jibes at New England women really thrusts at her? And were Cousin Pattie's interpretations of life correct? Why, if humility before God's will, selflessness, resignation, were unwelcome in His sight, then what refuge was there for her? Surely Cousin Pattie's words were those of a tempter, who would persuade Reba from her straight and difficult path. She would try to forget them. But even in her attempt and while she repeated the words of her favorite hymn, "My Savior, as Thou wilt," her eyes would be seeing Cousin Pattie's symbols—the dead tooth, the silent bell, the
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