Rosellen waited on the porch. Father came out the front door wearing his somber preacher clothes. She handed him the Bible with the bumpy cover.

     Hinging his crisp-cracker frame, he pecked her fuzzy cheek. "Isn't that your best dress?"

     She nodded. "Father, take me with you. I so want to see Elizabeth go to Heaven."

     With a meager shake of his head, he turned from her and descended the porch steps. She watched him march briskly erect toward the horizon, a vanishing black pencil with a gray eraser top.

     Rosellen let out a defeated sigh then went inside and up creaky stairs to her room. Father would expect her to take off her dotted Swiss dress, to put on clothes more everyday. Curds of mutiny clotted behind her eyes. She snatched up her favorite doll and ran downstairs and into the yard.

     With a spoon borrowed from a kitchen drawer when Della's back was turned, she dug a shallow grave where the violets grew. She laid in her doll and covered her with rich, moist dirt. Then squeezing her eyes shut, she prayed like Father did from the pulpit on Sundays.

     "Rosellen." The housekeeper's voice floated across the yard. "Come in, child, out of the heat and eat your lunch."

     Inside the cool kitchen, Della scolded, "Isn't that your Sunday best? Land sakes, child, it's limp as a dish rag."

     Rosellen squirmed in her chair. In her need to bury her doll, she'd forgotten about what she was wearing and had wiped her hands down its front. Would Della know whether Elizabeth was in the ground yet? Or how long it would be before God came and took her away to Heaven?

     "What were you doing? Making mud pies? Slip it off so I can put it to soak."

     All afternoon Rose waited. Still Father did not come. Maybe he was having trouble sending Elizabeth all the way to Heaven. Worms of impatience crawled up her spine. If only she knew when.

     A Model-T drew up. As it moved on, Father mounted the porch steps. Again a dry kiss on her cheek.

     "Has Elizabeth gone to Heaven yet, Father?"

     "Yes, Daughter, she has," he said, going inside.

     Rosellen huddled on the porch, scared, but not sure why. There wasn't much time. Soon Della would call her in to supper. She crossed the yard to the violets. Kneeling, she began to dig, using her hands because she'd forgotten the spoon. Frantically, she scattered the loosened earth. Bits of the doll appeared like random pieces of a crazy quilt. A nose. A toe. A hand.

     Her fingernails felt fat from embedded dirt. Where was Elizabeth really? Sobbing, Rosellen clutched her doll and flung herself down upon the violets.

     Just before the last ray of sun faded, Father came out and carried her inside.