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<title>The Project Gutenberg EBook of Maida’s Little Shop by Inez Hayes Irwin</title>
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<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAIDA'S LITTLE SHOP ***</div>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 428px;">
<img src="images/fpiece.png" width="400" alt="Illustration: Maida’s Little Shop" title="" />
</div>
<hr class="full"/>
<div style="text-align: center; margin-bottom: 4.00em; margin-top: 4.00em;">
<h1>Maida’s Little Shop</h1>
<br />by<br />
<span style="font-size: 140%;">
Inez Haynes Irwin<br />
</span>
<br /><br /><br />
<span style="font-size: 80%">
Author of<br />
MAIDA'S LITTLE HOUSE,<br />
MAIDA'S LITTLE SCHOOL, ETC.
</span>
<br /><br />
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 428px;">
<img src="images/title.png" width="80" alt="Illustration: Image of Girl" title="" />
</div>
<br /><br />
<span style="font-size: 120%">
Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers<br />
New York
</span>
<br /><br />
<span style="font-size: 80%;">
Copyright, 1909, by<br />
B. W. HUEBSCH
</span>
</div>
<hr class="full"/>
<div>
<p style="margin-bottom: 2.00em; margin-top: 2.00em; text-align: center;">
TO<br />
LITTLE P. D.<br />
FROM<br />
BIG P. D.
</p>
</div>
<hr class="full" />
<p> <a name="Contents" id="Contents"></a></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 150%">Contents</span></p>
<ul class="TOC" style="list-style-type:upper-roman;margin-left:1em;font-variant:small-caps;">
<li><a href="#CHAPTER_I">The Ride
<span class="ralign">9</span></a></li>
<li><a href="#CHAPTER_II">Cleaning Up
<span class="ralign">30</span></a></li>
<li><a href="#CHAPTER_III">The First Day
<span class="ralign">49</span></a></li>
<li><a href="#CHAPTER_IV">The Second Day
<span class="ralign">75</span></a></li>
<li><a href="#CHAPTER_V">Primrose Court
<span class="ralign">98</span></a></li>
<li><a href="#CHAPTER_VI">Two Calls
<span class="ralign">116</span></a></li>
<li><a href="#CHAPTER_VII">Trouble
<span class="ralign">138</span></a></li>
<li><a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">A Rainy Day
<span class="ralign">161</span></a></li>
<li><a href="#CHAPTER_IX">Work
<span class="ralign">182</span></a></li>
<li><a href="#CHAPTER_X">Play
<span class="ralign">202</span></a></li>
<li><a href="#CHAPTER_XI">Halloween
<span class="ralign">223</span></a></li>
<li><a href="#CHAPTER_XII">The First Snow
<span class="ralign">243</span></a></li>
<li><a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">The Fair
<span class="ralign">259</span></a></li>
<li><a href="#CHAPTER_XIV">Christmas Happenings
<span class="ralign">275</span></a></li>
</ul>
<hr class="full" />
<p style="text-align: center; font-size: 230%;">Maida’s Little Shop</p>
<div>
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page9">[Pg 9]</a></span>
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I"></a>CHAPTER I</h2>
<h3>THE RIDE</h3>
<p class="returnTOC"><a href="#Contents">Return to Table of Contents</a></p>
</div>
<p>Four people sat in the big, shining automobile.
Three of them were men.
The fourth was a little girl. The little
girl’s name was Maida Westabrook. The
three men were “Buffalo” Westabrook, her
father, Dr. Pierce, her physician, and Billy
Potter, her friend. They were coming
from Marblehead to Boston.</p>
<p>Maida sat in one corner of the back seat
gazing dreamily out at the whirling country.
She found it very beautiful and very curious.
They were going so fast that all the
reds and greens and yellows of the autumn
trees melted into one variegated band. A
moment later they came out on the ocean.
And now on the water side were two other
streaks of color, one a spongy blue that was
sky, another a clear shining blue that was
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page10">[Pg 10]</a></span>
sea. Maida half-shut her eyes and the
whole world seemed to flash by in ribbons.</p>
<p>“May I get out for a moment, papa?” she
asked suddenly in a thin little voice. “I’d
like to watch the waves.”</p>
<p>“All right,” her father answered briskly.
To the chauffeur he said, “Stop here, Henri.”
To Maida, “Stay as long as you want,
Posie.”</p>
<p>“Posie” was Mr. Westabrook’s pet-name
for Maida.</p>
<p>Billy Potter jumped out and helped Maida
to the ground. The three men watched her
limp to the sea-wall.</p>
<p>She was a child whom you would have noticed
anywhere because of her luminous,
strangely-quiet, gray eyes and because of
the ethereal look given to her face by a floating
mass of hair, pale-gold and tendrilly.
And yet I think you would have known that
she was a sick little girl at the first glance.
When she moved, it was with a great slowness
as if everything tired her. She was
so thin that her hands were like claws and
her cheeks scooped in instead of out. She
was pale, too, and somehow her eyes looked
too big. Perhaps this was because her little
heart-shaped face seemed too small.
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page11">[Pg 11]</a></span></p>
<p>“You’ve got to find something that will
take up her mind, Jerome,” Dr. Pierce said,
lowering his voice, “and you’ve got to be
quick about it. Just what Greinschmidt
feared has come—that languor—that lack of
interest in everything. You’ve got to find
something for her to <span style="font-style: italic">do</span>.”</p>
<p>Dr. Pierce spoke seriously. He was a
round, short man, just exactly as long any
one way as any other. He had springy gray
curls all over his head and a nose like a
button. Maida thought that he looked like
a very old but a very jolly and lovable baby.
When he laughed—and he was always
laughing with Maida—he shook all over like
jelly that has been turned out of a jar. His
very curls bobbed. But it seemed to Maida
that no matter how hard he chuckled, his
eyes were always serious when they rested
on her.</p>
<p>Maida was very fond of Dr. Pierce. She
had known him all her life. He had gone
to college with her father. He had taken
care of her health ever since Dr. Greinschmidt
left. Dr. Greinschmidt was the
great physician who had come all the way
across the ocean from Germany to make
Maida well. Before the operation Maida
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page12">[Pg 12]</a></span>
could not walk. Now she could walk easily.
Ever since she could remember she had always
added to her prayers at night a special
request that she might some day be like
other little girls. Now she was like other
little girls, except that she limped. And yet
now that she could do all the things that
other little girls did, she no longer cared to
do them—not even hopping and skipping,
which she had always expected would be the
greatest fun in the world. Maida herself
thought this very strange.</p>
<p>“But what can I find for her to do?”
“Buffalo” Westabrook said.</p>
<p>You could tell from the way he asked this
question that he was not accustomed to take
advice from other people. Indeed, he did
not look it. But he looked his name. You
would know at once why the cartoonists always
represented him with the head of a
buffalo; why, gradually, people had forgotten
that his first name was Jerome and referred
to him always as “Buffalo” Westabrook.</p>
<p>Like the buffalo, his head was big and
powerful and emerged from the midst of a
shaggy mane. But it was the way in which
it was set on his tremendous shoulders that
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page13">[Pg 13]</a></span>
gave him his nickname. When he spoke to
you, he looked as if he were about to charge.
And the glance of his eyes, set far back of a
huge nose, cut through you like a pair of
knives.</p>
<p>It surprised Maida very much when she
found that people stood in awe of her father.
It had never occurred to her to be afraid of
him.</p>
<p>“I’ve racked my brains to entertain her,”
“Buffalo” Westabrook went on. “I’ve
bought her every gimcrack that’s made for
children—her nursery looks like a toy factory.
I’ve bought her prize ponies, prize
dogs and prize cats—rabbits, guinea-pigs,
dancing mice, talking parrots, marmosets—there’s
a young menagerie at the place in the
Adirondacks. I’ve had a doll-house and a
little theater built for her at Pride’s. She
has her own carriage, her own automobile,
her own railroad car. She can have her own
flying-machine if she wants it. I’ve taken
her off on trips. I’ve taken her to the
theater and the circus. I’ve had all kinds of
nurses and governesses and companions, but
they’ve been mostly failures. Granny
Flynn’s the best of the hired people, but of
course Granny’s old. I’ve had other children
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page14">[Pg 14]</a></span>
come to stay with her. Selfish little
brutes they all turned out to be! They’d
play with her toys and ignore her completely.
And this fall I brought her to Boston,
hoping her cousins would rouse her.
But the Fairfaxes decided suddenly to go
abroad this winter. If she’d only express a
desire for something, I’d get it for her—if
it were one of the moons of Jupiter.”</p>
<p>“It isn’t anything you can <span style="font-style: italic">give</span> her,” Dr.
Pierce said impatiently; “you must find
something for her to <span style="font-style: italic">do</span>.”</p>
<p>“Say, Billy, you’re an observant little
duck. Can’t you tell us what’s the matter?”
“Buffalo” Westabrook smiled down
at the third man of the party.</p>
<p>“The trouble with the child,” Billy Potter
said promptly, “is that everything she’s
had has been ‘prize.’ Not that it’s spoiled
her at all. Petronilla is as simple as a
princess in a fairy-tale.”</p>
<p>“Petronilla” was Billy Potter’s pet-name
for Maida.</p>
<p>“Yes, she’s wonderfully simple,” Dr.
Pierce agreed. “Poor little thing, she’s
lived in a world of bottles and splints and
bandages. She’s never had a chance to realize
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page15">[Pg 15]</a></span>
either the value or the worthlessness of
things.”</p>
<p>“And then,” Billy went on, “nobody’s
ever used an ounce of imagination in entertaining
the poor child.”</p>
<p>“Imagination!” “Buffalo” Westabrook
growled. “What has imagination to do
with it?”</p>
<p>Billy grinned.</p>
<p>Next to her father and Granny Flynn,
Maida loved Billy Potter better than anybody
in the world. He was so little that she
could never decide whether he was a boy or a
man. His chubby, dimply face was the
pinkest she had ever seen. From it twinkled
a pair of blue eyes the merriest she had
ever seen. And falling continually down
into his eyes was a great mass of flaxen hair,
the most tousled she had ever seen.</p>
<p>Billy Potter lived in New York. He
earned his living by writing for newspapers
and magazines. Whenever there was a fuss
in Wall Street—and the papers always
blamed “Buffalo” Westabrook if this happened—Billy
Potter would have a talk with
Maida’s father. Then he wrote up what
Mr. Westabrook said and it was printed
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page16">[Pg 16]</a></span>
somewhere. Men who wrote for the newspapers
were always trying to talk with Mr.
Westabrook. Few of them ever got the
chance. But “Buffalo” Westabrook never
refused to talk with Billy Potter. Indeed,
the two men were great friends.</p>
<p>“He’s one of the few reporters who can
turn out a good story and tell it straight as
I give it to him,” Maida had once heard her
father say. Maida knew that Billy could
turn out good stories—he had turned out a
great many for her.</p>
<p>“What has imagination to do with it?”
Mr. Westabrook repeated.</p>
<p>“It would have a great deal to do with it,
I fancy,” Billy Potter answered, “if somebody
would only imagine the right thing.”</p>
<p>“Well, imagine it yourself,” Mr. Westabrook
snarled. “Imagination seems to be
the chief stock-in-trade of you newspaper
men.”</p>
<p>Billy grinned. When Billy smiled, two
things happened—one to you and the other
to him. Your spirits went up and his eyes
seemed to disappear. Maida said that Billy’s
eyes “skrinkled up.” The effect was so
comic that she always laughed—not with
him but at him.
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page17">[Pg 17]</a></span></p>
<p>“All right,” Billy agreed pleasantly; “I’ll
put the greatest creative mind of the century
to work on the job.”</p>
<p>“You put it to work at once, young man,”
Dr. Pierce said. “The thing I’m trying to
impress on you both is that you can’t wait
too long.”</p>
<p>“Buffalo” Westabrook stirred uneasily.
His fierce, blue eyes retreated behind the
frown in his thick brows until all you could
see were two shining points. He watched
Maida closely as she limped back to the car.
“What are you thinking of, Posie?” he
asked.</p>
<p>“Oh, nothing, father,” Maida said, smiling
faintly. This was the answer she gave most
often to her father’s questions. “Is there
anything you want, Posie?” he was sure to
ask every morning, or, “What would you
like me to get you to-day, little daughter?”
The answer was invariable, given always in
the same soft, thin little voice: “Nothing,
father—thank you.”</p>
<p>“Where are we now, Jerome?” Dr. Pierce
asked suddenly.</p>
<p>Mr. Westabrook looked about him. “Getting
towards Revere.”</p>
<p>“Let’s go home through Charlestown,”
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page18">[Pg 18]</a></span>
Dr. Pierce suggested. “How would you
like to see the house where I was born,
Maida—that old place on Warrington Street
I told you about yesterday. I think you’d
like it, Pinkwink.”</p>
<p>“Pinkwink” was Dr. Pierce’s pet-name
for Maida.</p>
<p>“Oh, I’d love to see it.” A little thrill of
pleasure sparkled in Maida’s flat tones.
“I’d just love to.”</p>
<p>Dr. Pierce gave some directions to the
chauffeur.</p>
<p>For fifteen minutes or more the men
talked business. They had come away from
the sea and the streams of yellow and red
and green trees. Maida pillowed her head
on the cushions and stared fixedly at the
passing streets. But her little face wore a
dreamy, withdrawn look as if she were seeing
something very far away. Whenever
“Buffalo” Westabrook’s glance shot her
way, his thick brows pulled together into the
frown that most people dreaded to face.</p>
<p>“Now down the hill and then to the left,”
Dr. Pierce instructed Henri.</p>
<p>Warrington Street was wide and old-fashioned.
Big elms marching in a double
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page19">[Pg 19]</a></span>
file between the fine old houses, met in an
arch above their roofs. At intervals along
the curbstones were hitching-posts of iron,
most of them supporting the head of a horse
with a ring in his nose. One, the statue of
a negro boy with his arms lifted above his
head, seemed to beg the honor of holding the
reins. Beside these hitching-posts were
rectangular blocks of granite—stepping-stones
for horseback riders and carriage
folk.</p>
<p>“There, Pinkwink,” Dr. Pierce said;
“that old house on the corner—stop here,
Henri, please—that’s where I was brought
up. The old swing used to hang from that
tree and it was from that big bough stretching
over the fence that I fell and broke my
arm.”</p>
<p>Maida’s eyes brightened. “And there’s
the garret window where the squirrels used
to come in,” she exclaimed.</p>
<p>“The same!” Dr. Pierce laughed. “You
don’t forget anything, do you? My goodness
me! How small the house looks and
how narrow the street has grown! Even
the trees aren’t as tall as they should be.”</p>
<p>Maida stared. The trees looked very
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page20">[Pg 20]</a></span>
high indeed to her. And she thought the
street quite wide enough for anybody, the
houses very stately.</p>
<p>“Now show me the school,” she begged.</p>
<p>“Just a block or two, Henri,” Dr. Pierce
directed.</p>
<p>The car stopped in front of a low, rambling
wooden building with a yard in
front.</p>
<p>“That’s where you covered the ceiling
with spit-balls,” Maida asked.</p>
<p>“The same!” Dr. Pierce laughed heartily
at the remembrance. It seemed to Maida
that she had never seen his curls bob quite
so furiously before.</p>
<p>“It’s one of the few wooden, primary
buildings left in the city,” he explained to
the two men. “It can’t last many years
now. It’s nothing but a rat-trap but how I
shall hate to see it go!”</p>
<p>Opposite the school was a big, wide court.
Shaded with beautiful trees—maples beginning
to flame, horse-chestnuts a little
browned, it was lined with wooden toy
houses, set back of fenced-in yards and
veiled by climbing vines. Pigeons were flying
about, alighting now and then to peck
at the ground or to preen their green and
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page21">[Pg 21]</a></span>
purple necks. Boys were spinning tops.
Girls were jumping rope. The dust they
kicked up had a sweet, earthy smell
in Maida’s nostrils. As she stared, charmed
with the picture, a little girl in a scarlet cape
and a scarlet hat came climbing up over one
of the fences. Quick, active as a squirrel,
she disappeared into the next yard.</p>
<p>“Primrose Court!” Dr. Pierce exclaimed.
“Well, well, well!”</p>
<p>“Primrose Court,” Maida repeated.
“Do primroses grow there?”</p>
<p>“Bless your heart, no,” Dr. Pierce
laughed; “it was named after a man called
Primrose who used to own a great deal of
the neighborhood.”</p>
<p>But Maida was scarcely listening. “Oh,
what a cunning little shop!” she exclaimed.
“There, opposite the court. What a perfectly
darling little place!”</p>
<p>“Good Lord! that’s Connors’,” Dr. Pierce
explained. “Many a reckless penny I’ve
squandered there, my dear. Connors was
the funniest, old, bent, dried-up man. I
wonder who keeps it now.”</p>
<p>As if in answer to his question, a wrinkled
old lady came to the window to take a paper-doll
from the dusty display there.
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page22">[Pg 22]</a></span></p>
<p>“What are those yellow things in that
glass jar?” Maida asked.</p>
<p>“Pickled limes,” Dr. Pierce responded
promptly. “How I used to love them!”</p>
<p>“Oh, father, buy me a pickled lime,”
Maida pleaded. “I never had one in my
life and I’ve been crazy to taste one ever
since I read ‘Little Women.’”</p>
<p>“All right,” Mr. Westabrook said.
“Let’s come in and treat Maida to a pickled
lime.”</p>
<p>A bell rang discordantly as they opened
the door. Its prolonged clangor finally
brought the old lady from the room at the
back. She looked in surprise at the three
men in their automobile coats and at the
little lame girl.</p>
<p>Coming in from the bright sunshine, the
shop seemed unpleasantly dark to Maida.
After a while she saw that its two windows
gave it light enough but that it was very
confused, cluttery and dusty.</p>
<p>Mr. Westabrook bought four pickled
limes and everybody ate—three of them
with enjoyment, Billy with many wry faces
and a decided, “Stung!” after the first
taste.</p>
<p>“I like pickled limes,” Maida said after
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page23">[Pg 23]</a></span>
they had started for Boston. “What a
funny little place that was! Oh, how I
would like to keep a little shop just like it.”</p>
<p>Billy Potter started. For a moment it
seemed as if he were about to speak. But
instead, he stared hard at Maida, falling
gradually into a brown study. From time
to time he came out of it long enough to
look sharply at her. The sparkle had all
gone out of her face. She was pale and
dream-absorbed again.</p>
<p>Her father studied her with increasing
anxiety as they neared the big house on
Beacon Street. Dr. Pierce’s face was shadowed
too.</p>
<p>“Eureka! I’ve found it!” Billy exclaimed
as they swept past the State House.
“I’ve got it, Mr. Westabrook.”</p>
<p>“Got what?”</p>
<p>Billy did not answer at once. The automobile
had stopped in front of a big red-brick
house. Over the beautifully fluted
columns that held up the porch hung a brilliant
red vine. Lavender-colored glass,
here and there in the windows, made purple
patches on the lace of the curtains.</p>
<p>“Got what?” Mr. Westabrook repeated
impatiently.
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page24">[Pg 24]</a></span></p>
<p>“That little job of the imagination that
you put me on a few moments ago,” Billy
answered mysteriously. “In a moment,”
he added with a significant look at Maida.
“You stay too, Dr. Pierce. I want your
approval.”</p>
<p>The door of the beautiful old house had
opened and a man in livery came out to
assist Maida. On the threshold stood an
old silver-haired woman in a black-silk
gown, a white cap and apron, a little black
shawl pinned about her shoulders.</p>
<p>“How’s my lamb?” she asked tenderly
of Maida.</p>
<p>“Oh, pretty well,” Maida said dully.
“Oh, Granny,” she added with a sudden
flare of enthusiasm, “I saw the cunningest
little shop. I think I’d rather tend shop
than do anything else in the world.”</p>
<p>Billy Potter smiled all over his pink face.
He followed Mr. Westabrook and Dr.
Pierce into the drawing-room.</p>
<hr />
<p>Maida went upstairs with Granny Flynn.</p>
<p>Granny Flynn had come straight to the
Westabrook house from the boat that
brought her from Ireland years ago. She
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page25">[Pg 25]</a></span>
had come to America in search of a runaway
daughter but she had never found her.
She had helped to nurse Maida’s mother
in the illness of which she died and she had
always taken such care of Maida herself
that Maida loved her dearly. Sometimes
when they were alone, Maida would call her
“Dame,” because, she said, “Granny looks
just like the ‘Dame’ who comes into fairy-tales.”</p>
<p>Granny Flynn was very little, very bent,
very old. “A t’ousand and noine, sure,”
she always answered when Maida asked her
how old. Her skin had cracked into a hundred
wrinkles and her long sharp nose and
her short sharp chin almost met. But the
wrinkles surrounded a pair of eyes that
were a twinkling, youthful blue. And her
down-turned nose and up-growing chin
could not conceal or mar the lovely sweetness
of her smile.</p>
<p>Just before Maida went to bed that night,
she was surprised by a visit from her father.</p>
<p>“Posie,” he said, sitting down on her bed,
“did you really mean it to-day when you
said you would like to keep a little shop?”</p>
<p>“Oh, yes, father! I’ve been thinking it
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page26">[Pg 26]</a></span>
over ever since I came home from our ride
this afternoon. A little shop, you know,
just like the one we saw to-day.”</p>
<p>“Very well, dear, you shall keep a shop.
You shall keep that very one. I’m going
to buy out the business for you and put
you in charge there. I’ve got to be in New
York pretty steadily for the next three
months and I’ve decided that I’ll send you
and Granny to live in the rooms over the
shop. I’ll fix the place all up for you, give
you plenty of money to stock it and then I
expect you to run it and make it pay.”</p>
<p>Maida sat up in bed with a vigor that
surprised her father. She shook her hands—a
gesture that, with her, meant great delight.
She laughed. It was the first time
in months that a happy note had pealed in
her laughter. “Oh, father, dear, how good
you are to me! I’m just crazy to try it and
I know I can make it pay—if hard work
helps.”</p>
<p>“All right. That’s settled. But listen
carefully to what I’m going to say, Posie.
I can’t have this getting into the papers,
you know. To prevent that, you’re to play
a game while you’re working in the shop—just
as princesses in fairy-tales had to play
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page27">[Pg 27]</a></span>
games sometimes. You’re going <span style="font-style: italic">in disguise</span>.
Do you understand?”</p>
<p>“Yes, father, I understand.”</p>
<p>“You’re to pretend that you belong to
Granny Flynn, that you’re her grandchild.
You won’t have to tell any lies about it.
When the children in the neighborhood hear
you call her ‘Granny,’ they’ll simply take
it for granted that you’re her son’s child.</p>
<p>“Or I can pretend I’m poor Granny’s
lost daughter’s little girl,” Maida suggested.</p>
<p>“If you wish. Billy Potter’s going to
stay here in Boston and help you. You’re
to call on him, Posie, if you get into any
snarl. But I hope you’ll try to settle all
your own difficulties before turning to anybody
else. Do you understand?”</p>
<p>“Yes, father. Father, dear, I’m so
happy. Does Granny know?”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>Maida heaved an ecstatic sigh. “I’m
afraid I shan’t get to sleep to-night—just
thinking of it.”</p>
<p>But she did sleep and very hard—the best
sleep she had known since her operation.
And she dreamed that she opened a shop—a
big shop this was—on the top of a huge
white cloud. She dreamed that her customers
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page28">[Pg 28]</a></span>
were all little boy and girl angels with
floating, golden curls and shining rainbow-colored
wings. She dreamed that she sold
nothing but cake. She used to cut generous
slices from an angel-cake as big as the
golden dome of the Boston state house.
It was very delicious—all honey and jelly
and ice cream on the inside, and all frosting,
stuck with candies and nuts and fruits,
on the outside.</p>
<hr />
<p>The people on Warrington Street were
surprised to learn in the course of a few
days that old Mrs. Murdock had sold out
her business in the little corner store. For
over a week, the little place was shut up.
The school children, pouring into the street
twice a day, had to go to Main Street for
their candy and lead pencils. For a long
time all the curtains were kept down.
Something was going on inside, but what,
could not be guessed from the outside.
Wagons deposited all kinds of things at the
door, rolls of paper, tins of paint, furniture,
big wooden boxes whose contents nobody
could guess. Every day brought more and
more workmen and the more there were, the
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page29">[Pg 29]</a></span>
harder they worked. Then, as suddenly as
it had begun, all the work stopped.</p>
<p>The next morning when the neighborhood
waked up, a freshly-painted sign had taken
the place over the door of the dingy old
black and white one. The lettering was
gilt, the background a skyey blue. It read:</p>
<p style="text-align: center; margin-bottom: 1.44em; font-size: 125%; ">
MAIDA’S LITTLE SHOP
<br /><br /></p>
<hr />
<div>
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page30">[Pg 30]</a></span>
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II"></a>CHAPTER II</h2>
<h3>CLEANING UP</h3>
<p class="returnTOC"><a href="#Contents">Return to Table of Contents</a></p>
</div>
<p>The next two weeks were the busiest
Maida ever knew.</p>
<p>In the first place she must see Mrs. Murdock
and talk things over. In the second
place, she must examine all the stock that
Mrs. Murdock left. In the third place, she
must order new stock from the wholesale
places. And in the fourth place, the rooms
must be made ready for her and Granny to
live in. It was hard work, but it was great
fun.</p>
<p>First, Mrs. Murdock called, at Billy’s request,
at his rooms on Mount Vernon Street.
Granny and Maida were there to meet her.</p>
<p>Mrs. Murdock was a tall, thin, erect old
lady. Her bright black eyes were piercing
enough, but it seemed to Maida that the
round-glassed spectacles, through which she
examined them all, were even more so.</p>
<p>“I’ve made out a list of things for the
shop that I’m all out of,” she began briskly.
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page31">[Pg 31]</a></span>
“You’ll know what the rest is from what’s
left on the shelves. Now about buying—there’s
a wagon comes round once a month
and I’ve told them to keep right on a-coming
even though I ain’t there. They’ll sell
you your candy, pickles, pickled limes and
all sich stuff. You’ll have to buy your toys
in Boston—your paper, pens, pencils, rubbers
and the like also, but not at the same
places where you git the toys. I’ve put all
the addresses down on the list. I don’t see
how you can make any mistakes.”</p>
<p>“How long will it take you to get out
of the shop?” Billy asked.</p>
<p>Maida knew that Billy enjoyed Mrs. Murdock,
for often, when he looked at that lady,
his eyes “skrinkled up,” although there was
not a smile on his face.</p>
<p>“A week is all I need,” Mrs. Murdock
declared. “If it worn’t for other folks who
are keeping me waiting, I’d have that hull
place fixed as clean as a whistle in two shakes
of a lamb’s tail. Now I’ll put a price on
everything, so’s you won’t be bothered what
to charge. There’s some things I don’t
ever git, because folks buy too many of them
and it’s sich an everlasting bother keeping
them in stock. But you’re young and spry,
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page32">[Pg 32]</a></span>
and maybe you won’t mind jumping about
for every Tom, Dick and Harry. But, remember,”
she added in parting, “don’t git
expensive things. Folks in that neighborhood
ain’t got no money to fool away. Git
as many things as you can for a cent a-piece.
Git some for five and less for ten
and nothing for over a quarter. But you
must allus callulate to buy some things to
lose money on. I mean the truck you put
in the window jess to make folks look in.
It gits dusty and fly-specked before you
know it and there’s an end on it. I allus
send them to the Home for Little Wanderers
at Christmas time.”</p>
<p>Early one morning, a week later, a party
of three—Granny Flynn, Billy and Maida—walked
up Beacon Street and across the
common to the subway. Maida had never
walked so far in her life. But her father
had told her that if she wanted to keep the
shop, she must give up her carriage and her
automobile. That was not hard. She was
willing to give up anything that she owned
for the little shop.</p>
<p>They left the car at City Square in
Charlestown and walked the rest of the way.
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page33">[Pg 33]</a></span>
It was Saturday, a brilliant morning in a
beautiful autumn. All the children in the
neighborhood were out playing. Maida
looked at each one of them as she passed.
They seemed as wonderful as fairy beings
to her—for would they not all be her customers
soon? And yet, such was her excitement,
she could not remember one face after
she had passed it. A single picture remained
in her mind—a picture of a little
girl standing alone in the middle of the
court. Black-haired, black-eyed, a vivid
spot of color in a scarlet cape and a scarlet
hat, the child was scattering bread-crumbs
to a flock of pigeons. The pigeons did not
seem afraid of her. They flew close to her
feet. One even alighted on her shoulder.</p>
<p>“It makes me think of St. Mark’s in Venice,”
Maida said to Billy.</p>
<p>But, little girl—scarlet cape—flocks of
doves—St. Mark’s, all went out of her head
entirely when she unlocked the door of the
little shop.</p>
<p>“Oh, oh, oh!” she cried, “how nice and
clean it looks!”</p>
<p>The shop seemed even larger than she remembered
it. The confused, dusty, cluttery
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page34">[Pg 34]</a></span>
look had gone. But with its dull paint and
its blackened ceiling, it still seemed dark
and dingy.</p>
<p>Maida ran behind the counter, peeped into
the show cases, poked her head into the window,
drew out the drawers that lined the
wall, pulled covers from the boxes on the
shelves. There is no knowing where her investigations
would have ended if Billy had
not said:</p>
<p>“See here, Miss Curiosity, we can’t put
in the whole morning on the shop. This is
a preliminary tour of investigation. Come
and see the rest of it. This way to the
living-room!”</p>
<p>The living-room led from the shop—a big
square room, empty now, of course. Maida
limped over to the window. “Oh, oh, oh!”
she cried; “did you ever see such a darling
little yard?”</p>
<p>“It surely is little,” Billy agreed, “not
much bigger than a pocket handkerchief, is
it?”</p>
<p>And yet, scrap of a place as the yard was,
it had an air of completeness, a pretty
quaintness. Two tiny brick walks curved
from the door to the gate. On either side
of these spread out microscopic flower-beds,
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page35">[Pg 35]</a></span>
crowded tight with plants. Late-blooming
dahlias and asters made spots of starry color
in the green. A vine, running over the door
to the second story, waved like a crimson
banner dropped from the window.</p>
<p>“The old lady must have been fond of
flowers,” Billy Potter said. He squinted
his near-sighted blue eyes and studied the
bunches of green. “Syringa bush in one
corner. Lilac bush in the other. Nasturtiums
at the edges. Morning-glories running
up the fence. Sunflowers in between.
My, won’t it be fun to see them all racing
up in the spring!”</p>
<p>Maida jumped up and down at the
thought. She could not jump like other
children. Indeed, this was the first time
that she had ever tried. It was as if her
feet were like flat-irons. Granny Flynn
turned quickly away and Billy bit his lips.</p>
<p>“I know just how I’m going to fix this
room up for you, Petronilla,” Billy said,
nodding his head mysteriously. “Now let’s
go into the kitchen.”</p>
<p>The kitchen led from the living-room.
Billy exclaimed when he saw it and Maida
shook her hands, but it was Granny who
actually screamed with delight.
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page36">[Pg 36]</a></span></p>
<p>Much bigger than the living-room, it had
four windows with sunshine pouring in
through every one of them. But it was not
the four windows nor yet the sunshine that
made the sensation—it was the stone floor.</p>
<p>“We’ll put a carpet on it if you think it’s
too cold, Granny,” Billy suggested immediately.</p>
<p>“Oh, lave it be, Misther Billy,” Granny
begged. “’Tis loike me ould home in Oireland.
Sure ’tis homesick Oi am this very
minut looking at ut.”</p>
<p>“All right,” Billy agreed cheerfully.
“What you say goes, Granny. Now upstairs
to the sleeping-rooms.”</p>
<p>To get to the second floor they climbed
a little stairway not more than three feet
wide, with steps very high, most of them
triangular in shape because the stairway
had to turn so often. And upstairs—after
they got there—consisted of three rooms,
two big and square and light, and one
smaller and darker.</p>
<p>“The small room is to be made into a
bathroom,” Billy explained, “and these two
big ones are to be your bedrooms. Which
one will you have, Maida?”</p>
<p>Maida examined both rooms carefully.
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page37">[Pg 37]</a></span>
“Well, I don’t care for myself which I
have,” she said. “But it does seem as if
there were a teeny-weeny more sun in this
one. I think Granny ought to have it, for
she loves the sunshine on her old bones.
You know, Billy, Granny and I have the
greatest fun about our bones. Hers are all
wrong because they’re so old, and mine are
all wrong because they’re so young.”</p>
<p>“All right,” Billy agreed. “Sunshiny
one for Granny, shady one for you. That’s
settled! I hope you realize, Miss Maida,
Elizabeth, Fairfax, Petronilla, Pinkwink,
Posie Westabrook what perfectly bully
rooms these are! They’re as old as Noah.”</p>
<p>“I’m glad they’re old,” Maida said.
“But of course they must be. This house
was here when Dr. Pierce was a little boy.
And that must have been a long, long, long
time ago.”</p>
<p>“Just look at the floors,” Billy went on
admiringly. “See how uneven they are.
You’ll have to walk straight here, Petronilla,
to keep from falling down. That
old wooden wainscoting is simply charming.
That’s a nice old fireplace too. And
these old doors are perfect.”</p>
<p>Granny Flynn was working the latch of
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page38">[Pg 38]</a></span>
one of the old doors with her wrinkled
hands. “Manny’s the toime Oi’ve snibbed
a latch loike that in Oireland,” she said, and
she smiled so hard that her very wrinkles
seemed to twinkle.</p>
<p>“And look at the windows, Granny,”
Billy said. “Sixteen panes of glass each.
I hope you’ll make Petronilla wash them.”</p>
<p>“Oh, Granny, will you let me wash the
windows?” Maida asked ecstatically.</p>
<p>“When you’re grand and sthrong,”
Granny promised.</p>
<p>“I know just how I’ll furnish the room,”
Billy said half to himself.</p>
<p>“Oh, Billy, tell me!” Maida begged.</p>
<p>“Can’t,” he protested mischievously.
“You’ve got to wait till it’s all finished before
you see hide or hair of it.”</p>
<p>“I know I’ll die of curiosity,” Maida protested.
“But then of course I shall be very
busy with my own business.”</p>
<p>“Ah, yes,” Billy replied. “Now that
you’ve embarked on a mercantile career,
Miss Westabrook, I think you’ll find that
you’ll have less and less time for the decorative
side of life.”</p>
<p>Billy spoke so seriously that most little
girls would have been awed by his manner.
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page39">[Pg 39]</a></span>
But Maida recognized the tone that he always
employed when he was joking her.
Beside, his eyes were all “skrinkled up.”
She did not quite understand what the joke
was, but she smiled back at him.</p>
<p>“Now can we look at the things downstairs?”
she pleaded.</p>
<p>“Yes,” Billy assented. “To-day is a
very important day. Behind locked doors
and sealed windows, we’re going to take account
of stock.”</p>
<p>Granny Flynn remained in the bedrooms
to make all kinds of mysterious measurements,
to open and shut doors, to examine
closets, to try window-sashes, even to poke
her head up the chimney.</p>
<p>Downstairs, Billy and Maida opened
boxes and boxes and boxes and drawers and
drawers and drawers. Every one of these
had been carefully gone over by the conscientious
Mrs. Murdock. Two boxes bulged
with toys, too broken or soiled to be of any
use. These they threw into the ash-barrel
at once. What was left they dumped on
the floor. Maida and Billy sat down beside
the heap and examined the things, one by
one. Maida had never seen such toys in her
life—so cheap and yet so amusing.
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page40">[Pg 40]</a></span></p>
<p>It was hard work to keep to business with
such enchanting temptation to play all about
them. Billy insisted on spinning every top—he
got five going at once—on blowing every
balloon—he produced such dreadful
wails of agony that Granny came running
downstairs in great alarm—on jumping
with every jump-rope—the short ones
tripped him up and once he sprawled headlong—on
playing jackstones—Maida beat
him easily at this—on playing marbles—with
a piece of crayon he drew a ring on the
floor—on looking through all the books—he
declared that he was going to buy some little
penny-pamphlet fairy-tales as soon as he
could save the money. But in spite of all
this fooling, they really accomplished a
great deal.</p>
<p>They found very few eatables—candy,
fruit, or the like. Mrs. Murdock had wisely
sold out this perishable stock. One glass
jar, however, was crammed full of what
Billy recognized to be “bulls-eyes”—round
lumps of candy as big as plums and as hard
as stones. Billy said that he loved bulls-eyes
better than terrapin or broiled live
lobster, that he had not tasted one since he
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page41">[Pg 41]</a></span>
was “half-past ten.” For the rest of the
day, one of his cheeks stuck out as if he had
the toothache.</p>
<p>They came across all kinds of odds and
ends—lead pencils, blank-books, an old slate
pencil wrapped in gold paper which Billy
insisted on using to draw pictures on a
slate—he made this squeak so that Maida
clapped her hands over her ears. They
found single pieces from sets of miniature
furniture, a great many dolls, rag-dolls,
china dolls, celluloid dolls, the latest bisque
beauties, and two old-fashioned waxen darlings
whose features had all run together
from being left in too great a heat.</p>
<p>They went through all these things, sorting
them into heaps which they afterwards
placed in boxes. At noon, Billy went out
and bought lunch. Still squatting on the
floor, the three of them ate sandwiches and
drank milk. Granny said that Maida had
never eaten so much at one meal.</p>
<p>All this happened on Saturday. Maida
did not see the little shop again until it was
finished.</p>
<p>By Monday the place was as busy as a
beehive. Men were putting in a furnace,
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page42">[Pg 42]</a></span>
putting in a telephone, putting in a bathroom,
whitening the plaster, painting the
woodwork.</p>
<p>Finally came two days of waiting for the
paint to dry. “Will it ever, <span style="font-style: italic">ever</span>, EVER
dry?” Maida used to ask Billy in the most
despairing of voices.</p>
<p>By Thursday, the rooms were ready for
their second coat of paint.</p>
<p>“Oh, Billy, do tell me what color it
is—I
can’t wait to see it,” Maida begged.</p>
<p>But, “Sky-blue-pink” was all she got
from Billy.</p>
<p>Saturday the furniture came.</p>
<p>In the meantime, Maida had been going
to all the principal wholesale places in Boston
picking out new stock. Granny Flynn
accompanied her or stayed at home, according
to the way she felt, but Billy never
missed a trip.</p>
<p>Maida enjoyed this tremendously, although
often she had to go to bed before
dark. She said it was the responsibility
that tired her.</p>
<p>To Maida, these big wholesale places
seemed like the storehouses of Santa Claus.
In reality they were great halls, lined with
parallel rows of counters. The counters
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page43">[Pg 43]</a></span>
were covered with boxes and the boxes were
filled with toys. Along the aisles between
the counters moved crowds of buyers, busily
examining the display.</p>
<p>It was particularly hard for Maida to
choose, because she was limited by price.
She kept recalling Mrs. Murdock’s advice,
“Get as many things as you can for a cent
a-piece.” The expensive toys tempted her,
but although she often stopped and looked
them wistfully over, she always ended by
going to the cheaper counters.</p>
<p>“You ought to be thinking how you’ll decorate
the windows for your first day’s sale,”
Billy advised her. “You must make it look
as tempting as possible. I think, myself,
it’s always a good plan to display the toys
that go with the season.”</p>
<p>Maida thought of this a great deal after
she went to bed at night. By the end of the
week, she could see in imagination just how
her windows were going to look.</p>
<p>Saturday night, Billy told her that everything
was ready, that she should see the
completed house Monday morning. It
seemed to Maida that the Sunday coming
in between was the longest day that she had
ever known.
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page44">[Pg 44]</a></span></p>
<p>When she unlocked the door to the shop,
the next morning, she let out a little squeal
of joy. “Oh, I would never know it,” she
declared. “How much bigger it looks, and
lighter and prettier!”</p>
<p>Indeed, you would never have known the
place yourself. The ceiling had been whitened.
The faded drab woodwork had been
painted white. The walls had been colored
a beautiful soft yellow. Back of the counter
a series of shelves, glassed in by sliding
doors, ran the whole length of the wall and
nearly to the ceiling. Behind the show case
stood a comfortable, cushioned swivel-chair.</p>
<p>“The stuff you’ve been buying, Petronilla,”
Billy said, pointing to a big pile of
boxes in the corner. “Now, while Granny
and I are putting some last touches to the
rooms upstairs, you might be arranging the
window.”</p>
<p>“That’s just what I planned to do,”
Maida said, bubbling with importance.
“But you promise not to interrupt me till
it’s all done.”</p>
<p>“All right,” Billy agreed, smiling peculiarly.
He continued to smile as he opened
the boxes.</p>
<p>It did not occur to Maida to ask them
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page45">[Pg 45]</a></span>
what they were going to do upstairs. It did
not occur to her even to go up there. From
time to time, she heard Granny and Billy
laughing. “One of Billy’s jokes,” she said
to herself. Once she thought she heard the
chirp of a bird, but she would not leave her
work to find out what it was.</p>
<p>When the twelve o’clock whistle blew, she
called to Granny and to Billy to come to
see the results of her morning’s labor.</p>
<p>“I say!” Billy emitted a long loud whistle.</p>
<p>“Oh, do you like it?” Maida asked anxiously.</p>
<p>“It’s a grand piece of work, Petronilla,”
Billy said heartily.</p>
<p>The window certainly struck the key-note
of the season. Tops of all sizes and colors
were arranged in pretty patterns in the middle.
Marbles of all kinds from the ten-for-a-cent
“peeweezers” up to the most beautiful,
colored “agates” were displayed at the
sides. Jump-ropes of variegated colors
with handles, brilliantly painted, were festooned
at the back. One of the window
shelves had been furnished like a tiny room.
A whole family of dolls sat about on the
tiny sofas and chairs. On the other shelf
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page46">[Pg 46]</a></span>
lay neat piles of blank-books and paper-blocks,
with files of pens, pencils, and rubbers
arranged in a decorative pattern surrounding
them all.</p>
<p>In the show case, fresh candies had been
laid out carefully on saucers and platters
of glass. On the counter was a big, flowered
bowl.</p>
<p>“To-morrow, I’m going to fill that bowl
with asters,” Maida explained.</p>
<p>“OI’m sure the choild has done foine,”
Granny Flynn said, “Oi cudn’t have done
betther mesilf.”</p>
<p>“Now come and look at your rooms, Petronilla,”
Billy begged, his eyes dancing.</p>
<p>Maida opened the door leading into the
living-room. Then she squealed her delight,
not once, but continuously, like a very
happy little pig.</p>
<p>The room was as changed as if some good
fairy had waved a magic wand there. All
the woodwork had turned a glistening white.
The wall paper blossomed with garlands
of red roses, tied with snoods of red ribbons.
At each of the three windows waved
sash curtains of a snowy muslin. At each
of the three sashes hung a golden cage with
a pair of golden canaries in it. Along each
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page47">[Pg 47]</a></span>
of the three sills marched pots of brilliantly-blooming
scarlet geraniums. A fire
spluttered and sparkled in the fireplace, and
drawn up in front of it was a big easy chair
for Granny, and a small easy one for Maida.
Familiar things lay about, too. In one corner
gleamed the cheerful face of the tall old
clock which marked the hours with so silvery
a voice and the moon-changes by such pretty
pictures. In another corner shone the polished
surface of a spidery-legged little
spinet. Maida loved both these things almost
as much as if they had been human beings,
for her mother and her grandmother
and her great-grandmother had loved them
before her. Needed things caught her eyes
everywhere. Here was a little bookcase
with all her favorite books. There was a
desk, stocked with business-like-looking
blank-books. Even the familiar table with
Granny’s “Book of Saints” stood near
the easy chair. Granny’s spectacles lay
on an open page, familiarly marking the
place. </p>
<p>In the center of the room stood a table set
for three.</p>
<p>“It’s just the dearest place,” Maida said.
“Billy, you’ve remembered everything. I
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page48">[Pg 48]</a></span>
thought I heard a bird peep once, but I was
too busy to think about it.”</p>
<p>“Want to go upstairs?” Billy asked.</p>
<p>“I’d forgotten all about bedrooms.”
Maida flew up the stairs as if she had never
known a crutch.</p>
<p>The two bedrooms were very simple, all
white—woodwork, furniture, beds, even the
fur rugs on the floor. But they were wonderfully
gay from the beautiful paper that
Billy had selected. In Granny’s room, the
walls imitated a flowered chintz. But in
Maida’s room every panel was different.
And they all helped to tell the same happy
story of a day’s hunting in the time when
men wore long feathered hats on their curls,
when ladies dressed like pictures and all
carried falcons on their wrists.</p>
<p>“Granny, Granny,” Maida called down to
them, “Did you ever see any place in all
your life that felt so <span style="font-style: italic">homey</span>?”</p>
<p>“I guess it will do,” Billy said in an undertone.</p>
<p>That night, for the first time, Maida slept
in the room over the little shop.</p>
<hr />
<div>
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page49">[Pg 49]</a></span>
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III"></a>CHAPTER III</h2>
<h3>THE FIRST DAY</h3>
<p class="returnTOC"><a href="#Contents">Return to Table of Contents</a></p>
</div>
<p>If you had gone into the little shop the
next day, you would have seen a very
pretty picture.</p>
<p>First of all, I think you would have noticed
the little girl who sat behind the
counter—a little girl in a simple blue-serge
dress and a fresh white “tire”—a little girl
with shining excited eyes and masses of
pale-gold hair, clinging in tendrilly rings
about a thin, heart-shaped face—a little
girl who kept saying as she turned round
and round in her swivel-chair:</p>
<p>“Oh, Granny, do you think <span style="font-style: italic">anybody’s</span>
going to buy <span style="font-style: italic">anything</span> to-day?”</p>
<p>Next I think you would have noticed an
old woman who kept coming to the living-room
door—an old woman in a black gown
and a white apron so stiffly starched that it
rattled when it touched anything—an old
woman with twinkling blue eyes and hair,
enclosing, as in a silver frame, a little
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page50">[Pg 50]</a></span>
carved nut of a face—an old woman who
kept soothing the little girl with a cheery:</p>
<p>“Now joost you be patient, my lamb, sure
somebody’ll be here soon.”</p>
<p>The shop was unchanged since yesterday,
except for a big bowl of asters, red, white
and blue.</p>
<p>“Three cheers for the red, white and
blue,” Maida sang when she arranged them.
She had been singing at intervals ever since.
Suddenly the latch slipped. The bell rang.</p>
<p>Maida jumped. Then she sat so still in
her high chair that you would have thought
she had turned to stone. But her eyes,
glued to the moving door, had a look as if
she did not know what to expect.</p>
<p>The door swung wide. A young man entered.
It was Billy Potter.</p>
<p>He walked over to the show case, his hat
in his hand. And all the time he looked
Maida straight in the eye. But you would
have thought he had never seen her before.</p>
<p>“Please, mum,” he asked humbly, “do
you sell fairy-tales here?”</p>
<p>Maida saw at once that it was one of
Billy’s games. She had to bite her lips to
keep from laughing. “Yes,” she said, when
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page51">[Pg 51]</a></span>
she had made her mouth quite firm. “How
much do you want to pay for them?”</p>
<p>“Not more than a penny each, mum,” he
replied.</p>
<p>Maida took out of a drawer the pamphlet-tales
that Billy had liked so much.</p>
<p>“Are these what you want?” she asked.
But before he could answer, she added in a
condescending tone, “Do you know how to
read, little boy?”</p>
<p>Billy’s face twitched suddenly and his
eyes “skrinkled up.” Maida saw with a
mischievous delight that he, in his turn, was
trying to keep the laughter back.</p>
<p>“Yes, mum,” he said, making his face
quite serious again. “My teacher says I’m
the best reader in the room.”</p>
<p>He took up the little books and looked
them over. “‘The Three Boars’—no,‘Bears,’”
he corrected himself. “‘Puss-in-Boats’—no, ‘Boots’;
‘Jack-and-the-Bean-Scalp’—no,‘Stalk’;
‘Jack the Joint-Cooler’—no, ‘Giant-Killer’;
‘Cinderella,’ ‘Bluebird’—no, ‘Bluebeard’;
‘Little Toody-Goo-Shoes’—no, ‘Little Goody-Two-Shoes’;
‘Tom Thumb,’ ‘The Sweeping Beauty,’—
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page52">[Pg 52]</a></span>
‘The Babes in the Wood.’ I guess I’ll take these ten, mum.”</p>
<p>He felt in all his pockets, one after another.
After a long time, he brought out
some pennies, “One, two, three, four, five,
six, seven, eight, nine, ten,” he counted
slowly.</p>
<p>He took the books, turned and left the
shop. Maida watched him in astonishment.
Was he really going for good?</p>
<p>In a few minutes the little bell tinkled a
second time and there stood Billy again.</p>
<p>“Good morning, Petronilla,” he said
pleasantly, as if he had not seen her before
that morning, “How’s business?”</p>
<p>“Fine!” Maida responded promptly.
“I’ve just sold ten fairy books to the funniest
little boy you ever saw.”</p>
<p>“My stars and garters!” Billy exclaimed.
“Business surely is brisk. Keep that up
and you can afford to have a cat. I’ve
brought you something.”</p>
<p>He opened the bag he carried and took a
box out from it. “Hold out your two
hands,—it’s heavy,” he warned.</p>
<p>In spite of his preparation, the box
nearly fell to the floor—it was so much
heavier than Maida expected. “What can
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page53">[Pg 53]</a></span>
be in it?” she cried excitedly. She pulled
the cover off—then murmured a little “oh!”
of delight.</p>
<p>The box was full—cram-jam full—of pennies;
pennies so new that they looked like
gold—pennies so many that they looked like
a fortune.</p>
<p>“Gracious, what pretty money!” Maida
exclaimed. “There must be a million
here.”</p>
<p>“Five hundred,” Billy corrected her.</p>
<p>He put some tiny cylindrical rolls of
paper on the counter. Maida handled them
curiously—they, too, were heavy.</p>
<p>“Open them,” Billy commanded.</p>
<p>Maida pulled the papers away from the
tops. Bright new dimes fell out of one,
bright new nickels came from the other.</p>
<p>“Oh, I’m so glad to have nice clean
money,” Maida said in a satisfied tone.
She emptied the money drawer and filled
its pockets with the shining coins. “It was
very kind of you to think of it, Billy. I
know it will please the children.” The
thought made her eyes sparkle.</p>
<p>The bell rang again. Billy went out to
talk with Granny, leaving Maida alone to
cope with her first strange customer.
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page54">[Pg 54]</a></span></p>
<p>Again her heart began to jump into her
throat. Her mouth felt dry on the inside.
She watched the door, fascinated.</p>
<p>On the threshold two little girls were
standing. They were exactly of the same
size, they were dressed in exactly the same
way, their faces were as alike as two peas
in a pod. Maida saw at once that they were
twins. They had little round, chubby
bodies, bulging out of red sweaters; little
round, chubby faces, emerging from tall,
peaky, red-worsted caps. They had big
round eyes as expressionless as glass beads
and big round golden curls as stiff as candles.
They stared so hard at Maida that she
began to wonder nervously if her face were
dirty.</p>
<p>“Come in, little girls,” she called.</p>
<p>The little girls pattered over to the show
case and looked in. But their big round
eyes, instead of examining the candy, kept
peering up through the glass top at Maida.
And Maida kept peering down through it at
them.</p>
<p>“I want to buy some candy for a cent,”
one of them whispered in a timid little
voice.</p>
<p>“I want to buy some candy for a cent,
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page55">[Pg 55]</a></span>
too,” the other whispered in a voice, even
more timid.</p>
<p>“All the cent candy is in this case,” Maida
explained, smiling.</p>
<p>“What are you going to have, Dorothy?”
one of them asked.</p>
<p>“I don’t know. What are you going to
have, Mabel?” the other answered. They
discussed everything in the one-cent case.
Always they talked in whispers. And they
continued to look more often at Maida than
at the candy.</p>
<p>“Have you anything two-for-a-cent?”
Mabel whispered finally.</p>
<p>“Oh, yes—all the candy in this corner.”</p>
<p>The two little girls studied the corner
Maida indicated. For two or three moments
they whispered together. At one
point, it looked as if they would each buy
a long stick of peppermint, at another, a
paper of lozenges. But they changed their
minds a great many times. And in the end,
Dorothy bought two large pickles and Mabel
bought two large chocolates. Maida saw
them swapping their purchases as they went
out.</p>
<p>The two pennies which the twins handed
her were still moist from the hot little hands
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page56">[Pg 56]</a></span>
that had held them. Maida dropped them
into an empty pocket in the money drawer.
She felt as if she wanted to keep her first
earnings forever. It seemed to her that she
had never seen such <span style="font-style: italic">precious-looking</span> money.
The gold eagles which her father had given
her at Christmas and on her birthday did
not seem half so valuable.</p>
<p>But she did not have much time to think
of all this. The bell rang again. This time
it was a boy—a big fellow of about fourteen,
she guessed, an untidy-looking boy with
large, intent black eyes. A mass of black
hair, which surely had not been combed, fell
about a face that as certainly had not been
washed that morning.</p>
<p>“Give me one of those blue tops in the
window,” he said gruffly. He did not add
these words but his manner seemed to say,
“And be quick about it!” He threw his
money down on the counter so hard that
one of the pennies spun off into a corner.</p>
<p>He did not offer to pick the penny up.
He did not even apologize. And he looked
very carefully at the top Maida handed him
as if he expected her to cheat him. Then he
walked out.</p>
<p>It was getting towards school-time.
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page57">[Pg 57]</a></span>
Children seemed to spring up everywhere
as if they grew out of the ground. The
quiet streets began to ring with the cries of
boys playing tag, leap frog and prisoners’
base. The little girls, much more quiet,
squatted in groups on doorsteps or walked
slowly up and down, arm-in-arm. But
Maida had little time to watch this picture.
The bell was ringing every minute now.
Once there were six children in the little
shop together.</p>
<p>“Do you need any help?” Granny called.</p>
<p>“No, Granny, not yet,” Maida answered
cheerfully.</p>
<p>But just the same, she did have to hurry.
The children asked her for all kinds of
things and sometimes she could not remember
where she had put them. When in answer
to the school bell the long lines began
to form at the big doorways, two round red
spots were glowing in Maida’s cheeks. She
drew an involuntary sigh of relief when she
realized that she was going to have a chance
to rest. But first she counted the money
she had taken in. Thirty-seven cents! It
seemed a great deal to her.</p>
<p>For an hour or more, nobody entered the
shop. Billy left in a little while for Boston.
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page58">[Pg 58]</a></span>
Granny, crooning an old Irish song,
busied herself upstairs in her bedroom.
Maida sat back in her chair, dreaming
happily of her work. Suddenly the bell
tinkled, rousing her with a start.</p>
<p>It seemed a long time after the bell rang
before the door opened. But at last Maida
saw the reason of the delay. The little boy
who stood on the threshold was lame.
Maida would have known that he was
sick even if she had not seen the crutches
that held him up, or the iron cage that confined
one leg.</p>
<p>His face was as colorless as if it had been
made of melted wax. His forehead was
lined almost as if he were old. A tired expression
in his eyes showed that he did not
sleep like other children. He must often
suffer, too—his mouth had a drawn look
that Maida knew well.</p>
<p>The little boy moved slowly over to the
counter. It could hardly be said that he
walked. He seemed to swing between his
crutches exactly as a pendulum swings in a
tall clock. Perhaps he saw the sympathy
that ran from Maida’s warm heart to her
pale face, for before he spoke he smiled.
And when he smiled you could not possibly
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page59">[Pg 59]</a></span>
think of him as sick or sad. The corners
of his mouth and the corners of his eyes
seemed to fly up together. It made your
spirits leap just to look at him.</p>
<p>“I’d like a sheet of red tissue paper,” he
said briskly.</p>
<p>Maida’s happy expression changed. It
was the first time that anybody had asked
her for anything which she did not have.</p>
<p>“I’m afraid I haven’t any,” she said regretfully.</p>
<p>The boy looked disappointed. He started
to go away. Then he turned hopefully.
“Mrs. Murdock always kept her tissue paper
in that drawer there,” he said, pointing.</p>
<p>“Oh, yes, I do remember,” Maida exclaimed.
She recalled now a few sheets
of tissue paper that she had left there, not
knowing what to do with them. She pulled
the drawer open. There they were, neatly
folded, as she had left them.</p>
<p>“What did Mrs. Murdock charge for
it?” she inquired.</p>
<p>“A cent a sheet.”</p>
<p>Maida thought busily. “I’m selling out
all the old stock,” she said. “You can
have all that’s left for a cent if you want
it.”
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page60">[Pg 60]</a></span></p>
<p>“Sure!” the boy exclaimed. “Jiminy
crickets! That’s a stroke of luck I wasn’t
expecting.”</p>
<p>He spread the half dozen sheets out on
the counter and ran through them. He
looked up into Maida’s face as if he wanted
to thank her but did not know how to put
it. Instead, he stared about the shop.
“Say,” he exclaimed, “you’ve made this
store look grand. I’d never know it for the
same place. And your sign’s a crackajack.”</p>
<p>The praise—the first she had had from
outside—pleased Maida. It emboldened
her to go on with the conversation.</p>
<p>“You don’t go to school,” she said.</p>
<p>The moment she had spoken, she regretted
it. It was plain to be seen, she reproached
herself inwardly, why he did not
go to school.</p>
<p>“No,” the boy said soberly. “I can’t go
yet. Doc O’Brien says I can go next year,
he thinks. I’m wild to go. The other fellows
hate school but I love it. I s’pose it’s
because I can’t go that I want to. But,
then, I want to learn to read. A fellow can
have a good time anywhere if he knows
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page61">[Pg 61]</a></span>
how to read. I can read some,” he added
in a shamed tone, “but not much. The
trouble is I don’t have anybody to listen
and help with the hard words.”</p>
<p>“Oh, let me help you!” Maida cried. “I
can read as easy as anything.” This was
the second thing she regretted saying. For
when she came to think of it, she could not
see where she was going to have much time
to herself.</p>
<p>But the little lame boy shook his head.
“Can’t,” he said decidedly. “You see, I’m
busy at home all day long and you’ll be
busy here. My mother works out and I
have to do most of the housework and take
care of the baby. Pretty slow work on
crutches, you know—although it’s easy
enough getting round after you get the hang
of it. No, I really don’t have any time to
fool until evenings.”</p>
<p>“Evenings!” Maida exclaimed electrically.
“Why, that’s just the right time!
You see I’m pretty busy myself during the
daytime—at my business.” Her voice grew
a little important on that last phrase.
“Granny! Granny!” she called.</p>
<p>Granny Flynn appeared in the doorway.
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page62">[Pg 62]</a></span>
Her eyes grew soft with pity when they
fell on the little lame boy. “The poor little
gossoon!” she murmured.</p>
<p>“Granny,” Maida explained, “this little
boy can’t go to school because his mother
works all day and he has to do the housework
and take care of the baby, too, and he
wants to learn to read because he thinks he
won’t be half so lonely with books, and you
know, Granny, that’s perfectly true, for I
never suffered half so much with my legs
after I learned to read.”</p>
<p>It had all poured out in an uninterrupted
stream. She had to stop here to get breath.</p>
<p>“Now, Granny, what I want you to do is
to let me hear him read evenings until he
learns how. You see his mother comes
home then and he can leave the baby with
her. Oh, do let me do it, Granny! I’m sure
I could. And I really think you ought to.
For, if you’ll excuse me for saying so,
Granny, I don’t think you can understand
as well as I do what a difference it will
make.” She turned to the boy. “Have
you read ‘Little Men’ and ‘Little Women’?”</p>
<p>“No—why, I’m only in the first reader.”</p>
<p>“I’ll read them to you,” Maida said decisively,
“and ‘Treasure Island’ and ‘The
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page63">[Pg 63]</a></span>
Princes and the Goblins’ and ‘The Princess
and Curdie.’” She reeled off the long list
of her favorites.</p>
<p>In the meantime, Granny was considering
the matter. Dr. Pierce had said to her of
Maida: “Let her do anything that she
wants to do—as long as it doesn’t interfere
with her eating and sleeping. The main
thing to do is to get her <span style="font-style: italic">to want to do
things</span>.”</p>
<p>“What’s your name, my lad?” she asked.</p>
<p>“Dicky Dore, ma’am,” the boy answered
respectfully.</p>
<p>“Well, Oi don’t see why you shouldn’t
thry ut, acushla,” she said to Maida. “A
half an hour iv’ry avening after dinner.
Sure, in a wake, ’twill be foine and grand
we’ll be wid the little store running like a
clock.”</p>
<p>“We’ll begin next week, Monday,” Maida
said eagerly. “You come over here right
after dinner.”</p>
<p>“All right.” The little lame boy looked
very happy but, again, he did not seem to
know what to say. “Thank you, ma’am,”
he brought out finally. “And you, too,”
turning to Maida.</p>
<p>“My name’s Maida.”
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page64">[Pg 64]</a></span></p>
<p>“Thank you, Maida,” the boy said with
even a greater display of bashfulness. He
settled the crutches under his thin shoulders.</p>
<p>“Oh, don’t go, yet,” Maida pleaded. “I
want to ask you some questions. Tell me
the names of those dear little girls—the
twins.”</p>
<p>Dicky Dore smiled his radiant smile.
“Their last name’s Clark. Say, ain’t they
the dead ringers for each other? I can’t
tell Dorothy from Mabel or Mabel from
Dorothy.”</p>
<p>“I can’t, either,” Maida laughed. “It
must be fun to be a twin—to have any kind
of a sister or brother. Who’s that big boy—the
one with the hair all hanging down on
his face?”</p>
<p>“Oh, that’s Arthur Duncan.” Dicky’s
whole face shone. “He’s a dandy. He can
lick any boy of his size in the neighborhood.
I bet he could lick any boy of his size in the
world. I bet he could lick his weight in
wild-cats.”</p>
<p>Maida’s brow wrinkled. “I don’t like
him,” she said. “He’s not polite.”</p>
<p>“Well, I like him,” Dicky Dore maintained
stoutly. “He’s the best friend I’ve
got anywhere. Arthur hasn’t any mother,
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page65">[Pg 65]</a></span>
and his father’s gone all day. He takes
care of himself. He comes over to my place
a lot. You’ll like him when you know
him.”</p>
<p>The bell tinkling on his departure did not
ring again till noon. But Maida did not
mind.</p>
<p>“Granny,” she said after Dicky left, “I
think I’ve made a friend. Not a friend
somebody’s brought to me—but a friend of
my very own. Just think of that!”</p>
<p>At twelve, Maida watched the children
pour out of the little schoolhouse and disappear
in all directions. At two, she watched
them reappear from all directions and pour
into it again. But between those hours she
was so busy that she did not have time to
eat her lunch until school began again.
After that, she sat undisturbed for an hour.</p>
<p>In the middle of the afternoon, the bell
rang with an important-sounding tinkle.
Immediately after, the door shut with an
important-sounding slam. The footsteps,
clattering across the room to the show case,
had an important-sounding tap. And the
little girl, who looked inquisitively across
the counter at Maida, had decidedly an important
manner.
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page66">[Pg 66]</a></span></p>
<p>She was not a pretty child. Her skin was
too pasty, her blue eyes too full and staring.
But she had beautiful braids of glossy
brown hair that came below her waist.
And you would have noticed her at once because
of the air with which she wore her
clothes and because of a trick of holding her
head very high.</p>
<p>Maida could see that she was dressed very
much more expensively than the other children
in the neighborhood. Her dark, blue
coat was elaborate with straps and bright
buttons. Her pale-blue beaver hat was covered
with pale-blue feathers. She wore a
gold ring with a turquoise in it, a silver
bracelet with a monogram on it, a little gun-metal
watch pinned to her coat with a gun-metal
pin, and a long string of blue beads
from which dangled a locket.</p>
<p>Maida noticed all this decoration with
envy, for she herself was never permitted
to wear jewelry. Occasionally, Granny
would let her wear one string from a big box
of bead necklaces which Maida had bought
in Venice.</p>
<p>“How much is that candy?” the girl
asked, pointing to one of the trays.</p>
<p>Maida told her.
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page67">[Pg 67]</a></span></p>
<p>“Dear me, haven’t you anything better
than that?”</p>
<p>Maida gave her all her prices.</p>
<p>“I’m afraid there’s nothing good enough
here,” the little girl went on disdainfully.
“My mother won’t let me eat cheap candy.
Generally, she has a box sent over twice a
week from Boston. But the one we expected
to-day didn’t come.”</p>
<p>“The little girl likes to make people think
that she has nicer things than anybody
else,” Maida thought. She started to
speak. If she had permitted herself to go
on, she would have said: “The candy in
this shop is quite good enough for any little
girl. But I won’t sell it to you, anyway.”
But, instead, she said as quietly as she could:
“No, I don’t believe there’s anything here
that you’ll care for. But I’m sure you’ll
find lots of expensive candy on Main
Street.”</p>
<p>The little girl evidently was not expecting
that answer. She lingered, still looking
into the show case. “I guess I’ll take
five cents’ worth of peppermints,” she said
finally. Some of the importance had gone
out of her voice.</p>
<p>Maida put the candy into a bag and
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page68">[Pg 68]</a></span>
handed it to her without speaking. The
girl bustled towards the door. Half-way,
she stopped and came back.</p>
<p>“My name is Laura Lathrop,” she said.
“What’s yours?”</p>
<p>“Maida.”</p>
<p>“Maida?” the girl repeated questioningly.
“Maida?—oh, yes, I know—Maida
Flynn. Where did you live before you
came here?”</p>
<p>“Oh, lots of places.”</p>
<p>“But where?” Laura persisted.</p>
<p>“Boston, New York, Newport, Pride’s
Crossing, the Adirondacks, Europe.”</p>
<p>“Oh, my! Have you been to Europe?”
Laura’s tone was a little incredulous.</p>
<p>“I lived abroad a year.”</p>
<p>“Can you speak French?”</p>
<p>“Oui, Mademoiselle, je parle Français un
peu.”</p>
<p>“Say some more,” Laura demanded.</p>
<p>Maida smiled. “Un, deux, trois, quatre,
cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf, dix, onze,
douze—”</p>
<p>Laura looked impressed. “Do you speak
any other language?”</p>
<p>“Italian and German—a very little.”</p>
<p>Laura stared hard at her and her look
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page69">[Pg 69]</a></span>
was full of question. But it was evident
that she decided to believe Maida.</p>
<p>“I live in Primrose Court,” she said, and
now there was not a shadow of condescension
left in her voice. “That large house
at the back with the big lawn about it. I’d
like to have you come and play with me
some afternoon. I’m very busy most of the
time, though. I take music and fancy
dancing and elocution. Next winter, I’m
going to take up French. I’ll send you
word some afternoon when I have time to
play.”</p>
<p>“Thank you,” Maida said in her most
civil voice. “Come and play with me sometime,”
she added after a pause.</p>
<p>“Oh, my mother doesn’t let me play in
other children’s houses,” Laura said airily.
“Good-bye.”</p>
<p>“Good-bye,” Maida answered.</p>
<p>She waited until Laura had disappeared
into the court. “Granny,” she called impetuously,
“a little girl’s been here who I
think is the hatefullest, horridest, disagreeablest
thing I ever saw in my life.”</p>
<p>“Why, what did the choild do?” Granny
asked in surprise.</p>
<p>“Do?” Maida repeated. “She did everything.
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page70">[Pg 70]</a></span>
Why, she—she—” She interrupted
herself to think hard a moment. “Well,
it’s the queerest thing. I can’t tell
you a thing she did, Granny, and yet, all
the time she was here I wanted to slap
her.”</p>
<p>“There’s manny folks that-a-way,” said
Granny. “The woisest way is to take no
notuce av ut.”</p>
<p>“Take no notice of it!” Maida stormed.
“It’s just like not taking any notice of a
bee when it’s stinging you.”</p>
<p>Maida was so angry that she walked into
the living-room without limping.</p>
<p>At four that afternoon, when the children
came out of school, there was another flurry
of trade. Towards five, it slackened.
Maida sat in her swivel-chair and wistfully
watched the scene in the court. Little boys
were playing top. Little girls were jumping
rope. Once she saw a little girl in a
scarlet cape come out of one of the yards.
On one shoulder perched a fluffy kitten.
Following her, gamboled an Irish setter
and a Skye terrier. Presently it grew dark
and the children began to go indoors. Maida
lighted the gas and lost herself in “Gulliver’s
Travels.”
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page71">[Pg 71]</a></span></p>
<p>The sound of voices attracted her attention
after awhile. She turned in her chair.
Outside, staring into the window, stood a
little boy and girl—a ragged, dirty pair.
Their noses pressed so hard against the
glass that they were flattened into round
white circles. They took no notice of
Maida. Dropping her eyes to her book, she
pretended to read.</p>
<p>“I boneys that red top, first,” said the
little boy in a piping voice.</p>
<p>He was a round, brown, pop-eyed, big-mouthed
little creature. Maida could not
decide which he looked most like—a frog or
a brownie. She christened him “the Bogle”
at once.</p>
<p>“I boneys that little pink doll with the
curly hair, first,” said the girl.</p>
<p>She was a round, brown little creature,
too—but pretty. She had merry brown
eyes and a merry little red and white smile.
Maida christened her “the Robin.”</p>
<p>“I boneys that big agate, second,” said
the Bogle.</p>
<p>“I boneys that little table, second,” said
the Robin.</p>
<p>“I boneys that knife, third,” said the Bogle.
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page72">[Pg 72]</a></span></p>
<p>“I boneys that little chair, third,” said
the Robin.</p>
<p>Maida could not imagine what kind of
game they were playing. She went to the
door. “Come in, children,” she called.</p>
<p>The children jumped and started to run
away. But they stopped a little way off,
turned and stood as if they were not certain
what to do. Finally the Robin marched
over to Maida’s side and the Bogle followed.</p>
<p>“Tell me about the game you were playing,”
Maida said. “I never heard of it before.”</p>
<p>“’Tain’t any game,” the Bogle said.</p>
<p>“We were just boneying,” the Robin explained.
“Didn’t you ever boney anything?”</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>“Why, you boneys things in store windows,”
the Robin went on. “You always
boney with somebody else. You choose one
thing for yours and they choose something
else for theirs until everything in the window
is all chosen up. But of course they
don’t really belong to you. You only play
they do.”</p>
<p>“I see,” Maida said.</p>
<p>She went to the window and took out the
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page73">[Pg 73]</a></span>
red top and the little pink doll with curly
hair. “Here, these are the things you boneyed
first. You may have them.”</p>
<p>“Oh, thank you—thank you—thank you,”
the Robin exclaimed. She kissed the little
pink doll ecstatically, stopping now and then
to look gratefully at Maida.</p>
<p>“Thank you,” the Bogle echoed. He did
not look at Maida but he began at once to
wind his top.</p>
<p>“What is your name?” Maida asked.</p>
<p>“Molly Doyle,” the Robin answered.
“And this is my brother, Timmie Doyle.”</p>
<p>“My name’s Maida. Come and see me
again, Molly, and you, too, Timmie.”</p>
<p>“Of course I’ll come,” Molly answered,
“and I’m going to name my doll ‘Maida.’”</p>
<p>Molly ran all the way home, her doll
tightly clutched to her breast. But Timmie
stopped to spin his top six times—Maida
counted.</p>
<p>No more customers came that evening.
At six, Maida closed and locked the shop.</p>
<p>After dinner she thought she would read
one of her new books. She settled herself
in her little easy chair by the fire and opened
to a story with a fascinating picture. But
the moment her eyes fell on the page—it
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page74">[Pg 74]</a></span>
was the strangest thing—a drowsiness, as
deep as a fairy’s enchantment, fell upon her.
She struggled with it for awhile, but she
could not throw it off. The next thing she
knew, Granny was helping her up the stairs,
was undressing her, had laid her in her bed.
The next thing she was saying dreamily,
“I made one dollar and eighty-seven cents
to-day. If my papa ever gets into any more
trouble in Wall Street, he can borrow from
me.”</p>
<p>The next thing, she felt the pillow soft
and cool under her cheek. The next thing—bright
sunlight was pouring through the
window—it was morning again.</p>
<hr />
<div>
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page75">[Pg 75]</a></span>
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV"></a>CHAPTER IV</h2>
<h3>THE SECOND DAY</h3>
<p class="returnTOC"><a href="#Contents">Return to Table of Contents</a></p>
</div>
<p>It had rained all that night, but the second
morning dawned the twinklingest kind
of day. It seemed to Maida that Mother
Nature had washed a million tiny, fleecy,
white clouds and hung them out to dry in
the crisp blue air. Everything still dripped
but the brilliant sunshine put a sparkle on
the whole world. Slates of old roofs glistened,
brasses of old doors glittered, silver
of old name-plates shone. Curbstones,
sidewalks, doorsteps glimmered and gleamed.
The wet, ebony-black trunks of the
maples smoked as if they were afire, their
thick-leaved, golden heads flared like burning
torches. Maida stood for a long time at
the window listening to a parrot who called
at intervals from somewhere in the neighborhood.
“Get up, you sleepy-heads! Get
up! Get up!”</p>
<p>A huge puddle stretched across Primrose
Court. When Maida took her place in the
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page76">[Pg 76]</a></span>
swivel-chair, three children had begun already
to float shingles across its muddy expanse.
Two of them were Molly and Tim
Doyle, the third a little girl whom Maida
did not know. For a time she watched
them, fascinated. But, presently, the
school children crowding into the shop took
all her attention. After the bell rang and
the neighborhood had become quiet again,
she resumed her watch of the mud-puddle
fun.</p>
<p>Now they were loading their shingles with
leaves, twigs, pebbles, anything that they
could find in the gutters. By lashing the
water into waves, as they trotted in the
wake of their frail craft, they managed to
sail them from one end of the puddle to the
other. Maida followed the progress of
these merchant vessels as breathlessly as
their owners. Some capsized utterly.
Others started to founder and had to be
dragged ashore. A few brought the cruise
to a triumphant finish.</p>
<p>But Tim soon put an end to this fun.
Unexpectedly, his foot caught somewhere
and he sprawled headlong in the tide. “Oh,
Tim!” Molly said. But she said it without
surprise or anger. And Tim lay flat on his
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page77">[Pg 77]</a></span>
stomach without moving, as if it were a
common occurrence with him. Molly waded
out to him, picked him up and marched him
into the house.</p>
<p>The other little girl had disappeared.
Suddenly she came out of one of the yards,
clasping a Teddy-bear and a whole family
of dolls in her fat arms. She sat down at
the puddle’s edge and began to undress
them. Maida idly watched the busy little
fingers—one, two, three, four, five—now
there were six shivering babies. What was
she going to do with them? Maida wondered.</p>
<p>“Granny,” Maida called, “do come and
see this little girl! She’s—” But Maida
did not finish that sentence in words. It
ended in a scream. For suddenly the little
girl threw the Teddy-bear and all the six
dolls into the puddle. Maida ran out the
door. Half-way across the court she met
Dicky Dore swinging through the water.
Between them they fished all the dolls out.
One was of celluloid and another of rubber—they
had floated into the middle of the
pond. Two china babies had sunk to the
very bottom—their white faces smiled
placidly up through the water at their rescuers.
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page78">[Pg 78]</a></span>
A little rag-doll lay close to the
shore, water-logged. A pretty paper-doll
had melted to a pulp. And the biggest and
prettiest of them, a lovely blonde creature
with a shapely-jointed body and a bisque
head, covered with golden curls, looked
hopelessly bedraggled.</p>
<p>“Oh, Betsy Hale!” Dicky said. “You
naughty, naughty girl! How could you
drown your own children like that?”</p>
<p>“I were divin’ them a baff,” Betsy explained.</p>
<p>Betsy was a little, round butterball of a
girl with great brown eyes all tangled up in
eyelashes and a little pink rosebud of a
mouth, folded over two rows of mice-teeth.
She smiled deliciously up into Maida’s face:</p>
<p>“I aren’t naughty, is I?” she asked.</p>
<p>“Naughty? You bunny-duck! Of course
you are,” Maida said, giving her a bear-hug.
“I don’t see how anybody can scold her,”
she whispered to Dicky.</p>
<p>“Scold her! You can’t,” Dicky said disgustedly.
“She’s too cute. And then if
you did scold her it wouldn’t do any good.
She’s the naughtiest baby in the neighborhood—although,”
he added with pride, “I
think Delia’s going to be pretty nearly as
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page79">[Pg 79]</a></span>
naughty when she gets big enough. But
Betsy Hale—why, the whole street has to
keep an eye on her. Come, pick up your
dollies, Betsy,” he wheedled, “they’ll get
cold if you leave them out here.”</p>
<p>The thought of danger to her darlings
produced immediate activity on Betsy’s
part. She gathered the dolls under her
cape, hugging them close. “Her must put
her dollies to bed,” she said wisely.</p>
<p>“Calls herself <span style="font-style: italic">her</span> half the time,” Dicky
explained. He gathered up the dresses and
shooing Betsy ahead of him, followed her
into the yard.</p>
<p>“She’s the greatest child I ever saw,” he
said, rejoining Maida a little later. “The
things she thinks of to do! Why, the other
day, Miss Allison—the sister of the blind
lady what sits in the window and knits—the
one what owns the parrot—well, Miss Allison
painted one of her old chairs red and put
it out in the yard to dry. Then she washed a
whole lot of lace and put that out to dry.
Next thing she knew she looked out and
there was Betsy washing all the red paint
off the chair with the lace. You’d have
thought that would have been enough for
one day, wouldn’t you? Well, that afternoon
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page80">[Pg 80]</a></span>
she turned the hose on Mr. Flanagan—that’s
the policeman on the beat.”</p>
<p>“What did he say?” Maida asked in
alarm. She had a vague imaginary picture
of Betsy being dragged to the station-house.</p>
<p>“Roared! But then Mr. Flanagan thinks
Betsy’s all right. Always calls her ’sophy
Sparkles.’ Betsy runs away about twice a
week. Mr. Flanagan’s always finding her
and lugging her home. I guess every policeman
in Charlestown knows her by this
time. There, look at her now! Did you
ever see such a kid?”</p>
<p>Betsy had come out of the yard again.
She was carrying a huge feather duster over
her head as if it were a parasol.</p>
<p>“The darling!” Maida said joyously. “I
hope she’ll do something naughty every
day.”</p>
<p>“Queer how you love a naughty child,”
Dick said musingly. “They’re an awful
lot of trouble but you can’t help liking them.
Has Tim Doyle fallen into the puddle yet?”</p>
<p>“Yes, just a little while ago.”</p>
<p>“He’s always falling in mud puddles. I
guess if Molly fishes him out once after a
rain, she does a half a dozen times.”</p>
<p>“Do come and see me, Dicky, won’t you?”
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page81">[Pg 81]</a></span>
Maida asked when they got to the shop door.
“You know I shall be lonely when all the
children are in school and—then besides—you’re
the first friend I’ve made.”</p>
<p>At the word <span style="font-style: italic">friend</span>, Dicky’s beautiful
smile shone bright. “Sure, I’ll come,” he
said heartily. “I’ll come often.”</p>
<p>“Granny,” Maida exclaimed, bursting
into the kitchen, “wait until you hear about
Betsy Hale.” She told the whole story.
“Was I ever a naughty little girl?” she concluded.</p>
<p>“Naughty? Glory be, and what’s ailing
you? ’Twas the best choild this side of
Heaven that you was. Always so sick and
yet niver a cross wurrud out of you.”</p>
<p>A shadow fell over Maida’s face. “Oh,
dear, dear,” she grieved. “I wish I had been
a naughty child—people love naughty children
so. Are you quite sure I was always
good, Granny?”</p>
<p>“Why, me blessid lamb, ’twas too sick
that you was to be naughty. You cud
hardly lift one little hand from the bed.”</p>
<p>“But, Granny, dear,” Maida persisted,
“can’t you think of one single, naughty
thing I did? I’m sure you can if you try
hard.”
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page82">[Pg 82]</a></span></p>
<p>Maida’s face was touched with a kind of
sad wistfulness. Granny looked down at
her, considerably puzzled. Then a light
seemed to break in her mind. It shone
through her blue eyes and twinkled in her
smile.</p>
<p>“Sure and Oi moind wance when Oi was
joost afther giving you some medicine and
you was that mad for having to take the
stuff that you sat oop in bed and knocked
iv’ry bottle off the table. Iv’ry wan! Sure,
we picked oop glass for a wake afther.”</p>
<p>Maida’s wistful look vanished in a peal
of silvery laughter. “Did I really, Granny?”
she asked in delight. “Did I break
every bottle? Are you sure? Every one?”</p>
<p>“Iv’ry wan as sure as OI’m a living sinner,”
said Granny. “Faith and ’twas the
bad little gyurl that you was often—now
that I sthop to t’ink av ut.”</p>
<p>Maida bounded back to the shop in high
spirits. Granny heard her say “Every bottle!”
again and again in a whispering little
voice.</p>
<p>“Just think, Granny,” she called after a
while. “I’ve made one, two, three, four,
five friends—Dicky, Molly, Tim, Betsy and
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page83">[Pg 83]</a></span>
Laura—though I don’t call her quite a
friend yet. Pretty good for so soon!”</p>
<p>Maida was to make a sixth friend, although
not quite so quickly.</p>
<p>It began that noontime with a strange little
scene that acted itself out in front of
Maida’s window. The children had begun
to gather for school, although it was still
very quiet. Suddenly around the corner
came a wild hullaballoo—the shouts of small
boys, the yelp of a dog, the rattle and clang
of tin dragged on the brick sidewalk. In
another instant appeared a dog, a small,
yellow cur, collarless and forlorn-looking,
with a string of tin cans tied to his tail, a
horde of small boys yelling after him and
pelting him with stones.</p>
<p>Maida started up, but before she could get
to the door, something flashed like a scarlet
comet from across the street. It was the
little girl whom Maida had seen twice before—the
one who always wore the scarlet cape.</p>
<p>Even in the excitement, Maida noticed
how handsome she was. She seemed proud.
She carried her slender, erect little body as
if she were a princess and her big eyes
cast flashing glances about her. Jet-black
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page84">[Pg 84]</a></span>
were her eyes and hair, milk-white were
her teeth but in the olive of her cheeks
flamed a red such as could be matched only
in the deepest roses. Maida christened her
Rose-Red at once.</p>
<p>Rose-Red lifted the little dog into her
arms with a single swoop of her strong arm.
She yanked the cans from its tail with a
single indignant jerk. Fondling the trembling
creature against her cheek, she talked
first to him, then to his abashed persecutors.</p>
<p>“You sweet, little, darling puppy, you!
Did they tie the wicked cans to his poor little
tail!” and then—“if ever I catch one of
you boys treating a poor, helpless animal
like this again, I’ll shake the breath out of
your body—was he the beautifullest dog that
ever was? And if that isn’t enough, Arthur
Duncan will lick you all, won’t you, Arthur?”
She turned pleadingly to Arthur.</p>
<p>Arthur nodded.</p>
<p>“Nobody’s going to hurt helpless creatures
while I’m about! He was a sweet little,
precious little, pretty little puppy, so he
was.”</p>
<p>Rose-Red marched into the court with the
puppy, opened a gate and dropped him inside.
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page85">[Pg 85]</a></span></p>
<p>“That pup belongs to me, now,” she said
marching back.</p>
<p>The school bell ringing at this moment
ended the scene.</p>
<p>“Who’s that little girl who wears the
scarlet cape?” Maida asked Dorothy and
Mabel Clark when they came in together at
four.</p>
<p>“Rosie Brine,” they answered in chorus.</p>
<p>“She’s a dreffle naughty girl,” Mabel said
in a whisper, and “My mommer won’t let
me play with her,” Dorothy added.</p>
<p>“Why not?” Maida asked.</p>
<p>“She’s a tom-boy,” Mabel informed her.</p>
<p>“What’s a tom-boy?” Maida asked Billy
that night at dinner.</p>
<p>“A tom-boy?” Billy repeated. “Why, a
tom-boy is a girl who acts like a boy.”</p>
<p>“How can a girl be a boy?” Maida queried
after a few moments of thought.
“Why don’t they call her a tom-girl?”</p>
<p>“Why, indeed?” Billy answered, taking
up the dictionary.</p>
<p>Certainly Rosie Brine acted like a boy—Maida
proved that to herself in the next few
days when she watched Rose-Red again and
again. But if she were a tom-boy, she was
also, Maida decided, the most beautiful and
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page86">[Pg 86]</a></span>
the most wonderful little girl in the world.
And, indeed, Rosie was so full of energy
that it seemed to spurt out in the continual
sparkle of her face and the continual movement
of her body. She never walked. She
always crossed the street in a series of flying
jumps. She never went through a gate
if she could go over the fence, never climbed
the fence if she could vault it. The scarlet
cape was always flashing up trees, over
sheds, sometimes to the very roofs of the
houses. Her principal diversion seemed to
be climbing lamp-posts. Maida watched
this proceeding with envy. One athletic
leap and Rose-Red was clasping the iron
column half-way up—a few more and she
was swinging from the bars under the lantern.
But she was accomplished in other
ways. She could spin tops, play “cat” and
“shinney” as well as any of the boys. And
as for jumping rope—if two little girls
would swing for her, Rosie could actually
waltz in the rope.</p>
<p>The strangest thing about Rosie was that
she did not always go to school like the other
children. The incident of the dog happened
on Thursday. Friday morning, when the
children filed into the schoolhouse, Rosie
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page87">[Pg 87]</a></span>
did not follow them. Instead, she hid herself
in a doorway until after the bell rang.
A little later she sneaked out of her hiding
place, joined Arthur Duncan at the corner,
and disappeared into the distance. Just
before twelve they both came back. For a
few moments, they kept well concealed on a
side street, out of sight of Primrose Court.
But, at intervals, Rosie or Arthur would
dart out to a spot where, without being
seen, they could get a glimpse of the church
clock. When the children came out of
school at twelve, they joined the crowd and
sauntered home.</p>
<p>Monday morning Maida saw them repeat
these maneuvers. She was completely
mystified by them and yet she had an uncomfortable
feeling. They were so stealthy
that she could not help guessing that something
underhand was going on.</p>
<p>“Do you know Rosie Brine?” Maida
asked Dicky Dore one evening when they
were reading together.</p>
<p>“Sure!” Dicky’s face lighted up. “Isn’t
she a peach?”</p>
<p>“They say she is a tom-boy,” Maida objected.
“Is she?”</p>
<p>“Surest thing you know,” Dicky said
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page88">[Pg 88]</a></span>
cheerfully. “She won’t take a dare. You
ought to see her playing stumps. There’s
nothing a boy can do that she won’t do.
And have you noticed how she can spin a
top—the best I ever saw for a girl.”</p>
<p>Then boys liked girls to be tom-boys.
This was a great surprise.</p>
<p>“How does it happen that she doesn’t go
to school often?”</p>
<p>Dicky grinned. “Hooking jack!”</p>
<p>“Hooking jack?” Maida repeated in a
puzzled tone.</p>
<p>“Hooking jack—playing hookey—playing
truant.” Dicky watched Maida’s face
but her expression was still puzzled. “Pretending
to go to school and not going,” he
said at last.</p>
<p>“Oh,” Maida said. “I understand now.”</p>
<p>“She just hates school,” Dicky went on.
“They can’t make her go. Old Stoopendale,
the truant officer, is always after her.
Little she cares for old Stoopy though. She
gets fierce beatings for it at home, too.
Funny thing about Rosie—she won’t tell a
lie. And when her mother asks her about
it, she always tells the truth. Sometimes
her mother will go to the schoolhouse door
with her every morning and afternoon for
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page89">[Pg 89]</a></span>
a week. But the moment she stops, Rosie
begins to hook jack again.”</p>
<p>“Mercy me!” Maida said. In all her
short life she had never heard anything like
this. She was convinced that Rosie Brine
was a very naughty little girl. And yet,
underneath this conviction, burned an ardent
admiration for her.</p>
<p>“She must be very brave,” she said soberly.</p>
<p>“Brave! Well, I guess you’d think so!
Arthur Duncan says she’s braver than a lot
of boys he knows. Arthur and she hook
jack together sometimes. And, oh cracky,
don’t they have the good times! They go
down to the Navy Yard and over to the
Monument Grounds. Sometimes they go
over to Boston Common and the Public Garden.
Once they walked all the way to
Franklin Park. And in the summer they
often walk down to Crescent Beach. They
say when I get well, I can go with them.”</p>
<p>Dicky spoke in the wistful tone with
which he always related the deeds of
stronger children. Maida knew exactly
how he felt—she had been torn by the same
hopes and despairs.</p>
<p>“Oh, wouldn’t it be grand to be able to
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page90">[Pg 90]</a></span>
do just anything?” she said. “I’m just beginning
to feel as if I could do some of the
things I’ve always wanted to do.”</p>
<p>“I’m going to do them all, sometime,”
Dicky prophesied. “Doc O’Brien says
so.”</p>
<p>“I think Rosie the beautifullest little
girl,” Maida said. “I wish she’d come into
the shop so that I could get acquainted with
her.”</p>
<p>“Oh, she’ll come in sometime. You see
the W.M.N.T. is meeting now and we’re
all pretty busy. She’s the only girl in it.”</p>
<p>“The W.M.N.T.,” Maida repeated.
“What does that mean?”</p>
<p>“I can’t tell?” Dicky said regretfully.
“It’s the name of our club. Rosie and Arthur
and I are the only ones who belong.”</p>
<p>After that talk, Maida watched Rosie
Brine closer than ever. If she caught a
glimpse of the scarlet cape in the distance,
it was hard to go on working. She noticed
that Rosie seemed very fond of all helpless
things. She was always wheeling out the
babies in the neighborhood, always feeding
the doves and carrying her kitten about on
her shoulder, always winning the hearts of
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page91">[Pg 91]</a></span>
other people’s dogs and then trying to induce
them not to follow her.</p>
<p>“It seems strange that she never comes
into the shop,” Maida said mournfully to
Dicky one day.</p>
<p>“You see she never has any money to
spend,” Dicky explained. “That’s the way
her mother punishes her. But sometimes
she earns it on the sly taking care of babies.
She loves babies and babies always love her.
Delia’ll go to her from my mother any time
and as for Betsy Hale—Rosie’s the only one
who can do anything with her.”</p>
<p>But a whole week passed. And then one
day, to Maida’s great delight, the tinkle of
the bell preceded the entrance of Rose-Red.</p>
<p>“Let me look at your tops, please,” Rosie
said, marching to the counter with the usual
proud swing of her body.</p>
<p>Seen closer, she was even prettier than at
a distance. Her smooth olive skin glistened
like satin. Her lips showed roses even more
brilliant than those that bloomed in her
cheeks. A frown between her eyebrows
gave her face almost a sullen look. But to
offset this, her white teeth turned her smile
into a flash of light.
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page92">[Pg 92]</a></span>
Maida lifted all the tops from the window
and placed them on the counter.</p>
<p>“Mind if I try them?” Rosie asked.</p>
<p>“Oh, do.”</p>
<p>Rosie wound one of them with an expert
hand. Then with a quick dash forward of
her whole arm, she threw the top to the
floor. It danced there, humming like a
whole hiveful of bees.</p>
<p>“Oh, how lovely!” Maida exclaimed.
Then in fervent admiration: “What a
wonderful girl you are!”</p>
<p>Rosie smiled. “Easy as pie if you know
how. Want to learn?”</p>
<p>“Oh, will you teach me?”</p>
<p>“Sure! Begin now.”</p>
<p>Maida limped from behind the counter.
Rosie watched her. Rosie’s face softened
with the same pity that had shone on the
frightened little dog.</p>
<p>“She’s sorry for me,” Maida thought.
“How sweet she looks!”</p>
<p>But Rosie said nothing about Maida’s
limp. She explained the process of top-spinning
from end to end, step by step,
making Maida copy everything that she did.
At first Maida was too eager—her hands
actually trembled. But gradually she
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page93">[Pg 93]</a></span>
gained in confidence. At last she succeeded
in making one top spin feebly.</p>
<p>“Now you’ve got the hang of it,” Rosie
encouraged her, “You’ll soon learn. All
you want to do is to practice. I’ll come
to-morrow and see how you’re getting on.”</p>
<p>“Oh, do,” Maida begged, “and come to
see me in the evening sometime. Come this
evening if your mother’ll let you.”</p>
<p>Rosie laughed scornfully. “I guess nobody’s
got anything to say about <span style="font-style: italic">letting me</span>,
if I make up my mind to come. Well, goodbye!”</p>
<p>She whirled out of the shop and soon the
scarlet cape was a brilliant spot in the distance.</p>
<p>But about seven that evening the bell
rang. When Maida opened the door there
stood Rosie.</p>
<p>“Oh, Rosie,” Maida said joyfully, throwing
her arms about her guest, “how glad I
am to see you!” She hurried her into the
living-room where Billy Potter was talking
with Granny. “This is Rosie Brine, Billy,”
she said, her voice full of pride in her
new friend. “And this is Billy Potter,
Rosie.”</p>
<p>Billy shook hands gravely with the little
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page94">[Pg 94]</a></span>
girl. And Rosie looked at him in open
wonder. Maida knew exactly what she was
thinking. Rosie was trying to make up her
mind whether he was a boy or a man. The
problem seemed to grow more perplexing as
the evening went on. For part of the time
Billy played with them, sitting on the floor
like a boy, and part of the time he talked
with Granny, sitting in a chair like a man.</p>
<p>Maida showed Rosie her books, her Venetian
beads, all her cherished possessions.
Rosie liked the canaries better than anything.
“Just think of having six!” she
said. Then, sitting upstairs in Maida’s bedroom,
the two little girls had a long confidential
talk.</p>
<p>“I’ve been just crazy to know you,
Maida,” Rosie confessed. “But there was
no way of getting acquainted, for you always
stayed in the store. I had to wait until I
could tease mother to buy me a top.”</p>
<p>“That’s funny,” Maida said, “for I was
just wild to know you. I kept hoping that
you’d come in. I hope you’ll come often,
Rosie, for I don’t know any other little girl
of my own age.”</p>
<p>“You know Laura Lathrop, don’t you?”
Rosie asked with a sideways look.
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page95">[Pg 95]</a></span></p>
<p>“Yes, but I don’t like her.”</p>
<p>“Nobody likes her,” Rosie said. “She’s
too much of a smarty-cat. She loves to get
people over there and then show off before
them. And then she puts on so many airs.
I won’t have anything to do with her.”</p>
<p>From the open window came the shrill
scream of Miss Allison’s parrot. “What
do you think of that?” it called over and
over again.</p>
<p>“Isn’t that a clever bird?” Rosie asked
admiringly. “His name is Tony. I have
lots of fun with him. Did you ever see a
parrot that could talk, before?”</p>
<p>“Oh, yes, we have several at Pride’s.”</p>
<p>“Pride’s?”</p>
<p>“Pride’s Crossing. That’s where we go
summers.”</p>
<p>“And what do your parrots say?”</p>
<p>“One talked in French. He used to say
‘Taisez-vous’ so much that sometimes we
would have to put a cover over the cage to
stop him.”</p>
<p>“And did you have other animals besides
parrots?” Rosie asked. “I love animals.”</p>
<p>“Oh, yes, we had horses and dogs and cats
and rabbits and dancing mice and marmosets
and macaws and parokets and—I guess
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page96">[Pg 96]</a></span>
I’ve forgotten some of them. But if you
like animals, you ought to go to our place
in the Adirondacks—there are deer preserves
there and pheasants and peacocks.”</p>
<p>“Who do they belong to?”</p>
<p>“My father.”</p>
<p>Rosie considered this. “Does he keep a
bird-place?” she asked in a puzzled tone.</p>
<p>“No.” Maida’s tone was a little puzzled
too. She did not know what a bird-place
was.</p>
<p>“Well, did he sell them?”</p>
<p>“I don’t think he ever sold any. He gave
a great many away, though.”</p>
<p>When Rosie went home, Maida walked as
far as her gate with her.</p>
<p>“Want to know a secret, Maida?” Rosie
asked suddenly, her eyes dancing with mischief.</p>
<p>“Oh, yes. I love secrets.”</p>
<p>“Cross your throat then.”</p>
<p>Maida did not know how to cross her
throat but Rosie taught her.</p>
<p>“Well, then,” Rosie whispered, “my
mother doesn’t know that I went to your
house. She sent me to bed for being
naughty. And I got up and dressed and
climbed out my window on to the shed without
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page97">[Pg 97]</a></span>
anybody knowing it. She’ll never know
the difference.”</p>
<p>“Oh, Rosie,” Maida said in a horrified
tone, “Please never do it again.” In spite
of herself, Maida’s eyes twinkled.</p>
<p>But Rosie only laughed. Maida watched
her steal into her yard, watched her climb
over the shed, watched her disappear
through the window.</p>
<p>But she grieved over the matter as she
walked home. Perhaps it was because she
was thinking so deeply that she did not notice
how quiet they all were in the living-room.
But as she crossed the threshold, a
pair of arms seized her and swung her into
the air.</p>
<p>“Oh, papa, papa,” she whispered, cuddling
her face against his, “how glad I am
to see you.”</p>
<p>He marched with her over to the light.</p>
<p>“Well, little shop-keeper,” he said after
a long pause in which he studied her keenly,
“you’re beginning to look like a real live
girl.” He dropped her gently to her feet.
“Now show me your shop.”</p>
<hr />
<div>
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page98">[Pg 98]</a></span>
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V"></a>CHAPTER V</h2>
<h3>PRIMROSE COURT</h3>
<p class="returnTOC"><a href="#Contents">Return to Table of Contents</a></p>
</div>
<p>But during that first two weeks a continual
rush of business made long days
for Maida. All the children in the neighborhood
were curious to see the place. It
had been dark and dingy as long as they
could remember. Now it was always bright
and pretty—always sweet with the perfume
of flowers, always gay with the music of
birds. But more, the children wanted to
see the lame little girl who “tended store,”
who seemed to try so hard to please her customers
and who was so affectionate and respectful
with the old, old lady whom she
called “Granny.”</p>
<p>At noon and night the bell sounded a continuous
tinkle.</p>
<p>For a week Maida kept rather close to the
shop. She wanted to get acquainted with
all her customers. Moreover, she wanted to
find out which of the things she had bought
sold quickly and which were unpopular.
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page99">[Pg 99]</a></span></p>
<p>After a day or two her life fell into a regular
programme.</p>
<p>Early in the morning she would put the
shop to rights for the day’s sale, dusting,
replacing the things she had sold, rearranging
them often according to some pretty new
scheme. </p>
<p>About eight o’clock the bell would call her
into the shop and it would be brisk work
until nine. Then would come a rest of
three hours, broken only by an occasional
customer. In this interval she often
worked in the yard, raking up the leaves
that fell from vine and bush, picking the
bravely-blooming dahlias, gathering sprays
of woodbine for the vases, scattering
crumbs to the birds.</p>
<p>At twelve the children would begin to
flood the shop again and Maida would be on
her feet constantly until two. Between two
and four came another long rest. After
school trade started up again. Often it
lasted until six, when she locked the door for
the night.</p>
<p>In her leisure moments she used to watch
the people coming and going in Primrose
Court. With Rosie’s and Dicky’s help, she
soon knew everybody by name. She discovered
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page100">[Pg 100]</a></span>
by degrees that on the right side of
the court lived the Hales, the Clarks, the
Doyles and the Dores; on the left side, the
Duncans, the Brines and the Allisons. In
the big house at the back lived the Lathrops.</p>
<p>Betsy was a great delight to Maida, for the
neighborhood brimmed with stories of her
mischief. She had buried her best doll in
the ash-barrel, thrown her mother’s pocketbook
down the cesspool, put all the clean
laundry into a tub of water and painted the
parlor fireplace with tomato catsup. In a
single afternoon, having become secretly
possessed of a pair of scissors, she cut all
the fringe off the parlor furniture, cut great
scallops in the parlor curtains, cut great
patches of fur off the cat’s back. When
her mother found her, she was busy cutting
her own hair.</p>
<p>Often Granny would hear the door slam
on Maida’s hurried rush from the shop.
Hobbling to the window, she would see the
child leading Betsy by the hand. “Running
away again,” was all Maida would say.
Occasionally Maida would call in a vexed
tone, “Now <span style="font-style: italic">how</span> did she creep past the window
without my seeing her?” And outside
would be rosy-cheeked, brass-buttoned Mr.
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page101">[Pg 101]</a></span>
Flanagan, carrying Betsy home. Once
Billy arrived at the shop, bearing Betsy in
his arms. “She was almost to the bridge,”
he said, “when I caught sight of her from
the car window. The little tramp!”</p>
<p>Betsy never seemed to mind being caught.
For an instant the little rosebud that was
her mouth would part over the tiny pearls
that were her teeth. This roguish smile
seemed to say: “You wait until the next
time. You won’t catch me then.”</p>
<p>Sometimes Betsy would come into the
shop for an hour’s play. Maida loved to
have her there but it was like entertaining
a whirlwind. Betsy had a strong curiosity
to see what the drawers and boxes contained.
Everything had to be put back in
its place when she left.</p>
<p>Next to the Hales lived the Clarks. By
the end of the first week Maida was the
chief adoration of the Clark twins. Dorothy
and Mabel were just as good as Betsy
was naughty. When they came over to see
Maida, they played quietly with whatever
she chose to give them. It was an hour,
ordinarily, before they could be made to talk
above a whisper. If they saw Maida coming
into the court, they would run to her
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page102">[Pg 102]</a></span>
side, slipping a hot little hand into each of
hers. Attended always by this roly-poly
bodyguard, Maida would limp from group
to group of the playing children. Nobody
in Primrose Court could tell the Clark twins
apart. Maida soon learned the difference
although she could never explain it to anybody
else. “It’s something you have to
feel,” she said.</p>
<p>Billy Potter enjoyed the twins as much as
Maida did. “Good morning, Dorothy-Mabel,”
he always said when he met one of
them; “is this you or your sister?” And he
always answered their whispered remarks
with whispers so much softer than theirs
that he finally succeeded in forcing them to
raise their shy little voices.</p>
<p>The Doyles and the Dores lived in one
house next to the Clarks, Molly and Tim on
the first floor, Dicky and Delia above.
Maida became very fond of the Doyle children.
Like Betsy, they were too young to
go to school and she saw a good deal of them
in the lonely school hours. The puddle was
an endless source of amusement to them.
As long as it remained, they entertained
themselves playing along its shores.</p>
<p>“There’s that choild in the water again,”
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page103">[Pg 103]</a></span>
Granny would cry from the living-room.</p>
<p>Looking out, Maida would see Tim spread
out on all fours. Like an obstinate little
pig, he would lie still until Molly picked him
up. She would take him home and in a few
moments he would reappear in fresh, clean
clothes again.</p>
<p>“Hello, Tim,” Billy Potter would say
whenever they met. “Fallen into a pud-muddle
lately?”</p>
<p>The word <span style="font-style: italic">pud-muddle</span> always sent Tim
off into peals of laughter. It was the only
thing Maida had discovered that could make
him laugh, for he was as serious as Molly
was merry. Molly certainly was the jolliest
little girl in the court—Maida had never
seen her with anything but a smiling face.</p>
<p>Dicky’s mother went to work so early
and came back so late that Maida had never
seen her. But Dicky soon became an intimate.
Maida had begun the reading lessons
and Dicky was so eager to get on that they
were progressing famously.</p>
<p>The Lathrops lived in the big house at the
back of the court. Granny learned from
the Misses Allison that, formerly, the whole
neighborhood had belonged to the Lathrop
family. But they had sold all their land,
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page104">[Pg 104]</a></span>
piece by piece, except the one big lot on
which the house stood. Perhaps it was because
they had once been so important that
Mrs. Lathrop seemed to feel herself a little
better than the rest of the people in Primrose
Court. At any rate, although she
spoke with all, the Misses Allison were the
only ones on whom she condescended to call.
Maida caught a glimpse of her occasionally
on the piazza—a tall, thin woman, white-haired
and sharp-featured, who always wore
a worsted shawl.</p>
<p>The house was a big, bulky building, a
mass of piazzas and bay-windows, with a
hexagonal cupola on the top. It was
painted white with green blinds and
trimmed with a great deal of wooden lace.
The wide lawn was well-kept and plots of
flowers, here and there, gave it a gay air.</p>
<p>Laura had a brother named Harold, who
was short and fat. Harold seemed to do
nothing all day long but ride a wheel at a
tearing pace over the asphalt paths, and
regularly, for two hours every morning, to
draw a shrieking bow across a tortured violin.</p>
<p>The more Maida watched Laura the less
she liked her. She could see that what Rosie
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page105">[Pg 105]</a></span>
said was perfectly true—Laura put on airs.
Every afternoon Laura played on the lawn.
Her appearance was the signal for all the
small fry of the neighborhood to gather
about the gate. First would come the
Doyles, then Betsy, then, one by one,
the strange children who wandered into the
court, until there would be a row of wistful
little faces stuck between the bars of the
fence. They would follow every move that
Laura made as she played with the toys
spread in profusion upon the grass.</p>
<p>Laura often pretended not to see them.
She would lift her large family of dolls,
one after another, from cradle to bed and
from bed to tiny chair and sofa. She would
parade up and down the walk, using first
one doll-carriage, then the other. She
would even play a game of croquet against
herself. Occasionally she would call in a
condescending tone, “You may come in for
awhile if you wish, little children.” And
when the delighted little throng had scampered
to her side, she would show them all
her toy treasures on condition that they did
not touch them.</p>
<p>When the proceedings reached this stage,
Maida would be so angry that she could
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page106">[Pg 106]</a></span>
look no longer. Very often, after Laura
had sent the children away, Maida would
call them into the shop. She would let
them play all the rest of the afternoon with
anything her stock afforded.</p>
<p>On the right side of the court lived Arthur
Duncan, the Misses Allison and Rosie
Brine. The more Maida saw of Arthur,
the more she disliked him. In fact, she
hated to have him come into the shop. It
seemed to her that he went out of his way
to be impolite to her, that he looked at her
with a decided expression of contempt in
his big dark eyes. But Rosie and Dicky
seemed very fond of him. Billy Potter had
once told her that one good way of judging
people was by the friends they made.
If that were true, she had to acknowledge
that there must be something fine about
Arthur that she had not discovered.</p>
<p>Maida guessed that the W.M.N.T.’s met
three or four times a week. Certainly
there were very busy doings at Dicky’s or
at Arthur’s house every other day. What
it was all about, Maida did not know. But
she fancied that it had much to do with
Dicky’s frequent purchases of colored tissue
paper.
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page107">[Pg 107]</a></span></p>
<p>The Misses Allison had become great
friends with Granny. Matilda, the blind
sister, was very slender and sweet-faced.
She sat all day in the window, crocheting
the beautiful, fleecy shawls by which she
helped support the household.</p>
<p>Jemima, the older, short, fat and with
snapping black eyes, did the housework, attended
to the parrot and waited by inches
on her afflicted sister. Occasionally in the
evening they would come to call on Granny.
Billy Potter was very nice to them both.
He was always telling the sisters the long
amusing stories of his adventures. Miss
Matilda’s gentle face used positively to
beam at these times, and Miss Jemima
laughed so hard that, according to her own
story, his talk put her “in stitches.”</p>
<p>Maida did not see Rosie’s mother often.
To tell the truth, she was a little afraid of
her. She was a tall, handsome, black-browed
woman—a grown-up Rosie—with
an appearance of great strength and of
even greater temper. “Ah, that choild’s
the limb,” Granny would say, when Maida
brought her some new tale of Rosie’s disobedience.
And yet, in the curious way in
which Maida divined things that were not
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page108">[Pg 108]</a></span>
told her, she knew that, next to Dicky,
Rosie was Granny’s favorite of all the children
in the neighborhood.</p>
<p>With all these little people to act upon
its stage, it is not surprising that Primrose
Court seemed to Maida to be a little
theater of fun—a stage to which her window
was the royal box. Something was going
on there from morning to night. Here
would be a little group of little girls playing
“house” with numerous families of
dolls. There, it would be boys, gathered in
an excited ring, playing marbles or top.
Just before school, games like leap-frog, or
tag or prisoners’ base would prevail. But,
later, when there was more time, hoist-the-sail
would fill the air with its strange cries,
or hide-and-seek would make the place boil
with excitement. Maida used to watch
these games wistfully, for Granny had decided
that they were all too rough for her.
She would not even let Maida play “London-Bridge-is-falling-down”
or “drop the
handkerchief”—anything, in fact, in which
she would have to run or pull.</p>
<p>But Granny had no objections to the
gentler fun of “Miss Jennie-I-Jones,”
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page109">[Pg 109]</a></span>
“ring-a-ring-a-rounder,” “water, water
wildflower,” “the farmer in the dell,”
“go in and out the windows.” Maida
used to try to pick out the airs of these
games on the spinet—she never could decide
which was the sweetest.</p>
<p>Maida soon learned how to play jackstones
and, at the end of the second week,
she was almost as proficient as Rosie with
the top. The thing she most wanted to
learn, however, was jump-rope. Every little
girl in Primrose Court could jump-rope—even
the twins, who were especially nimble
at “pepper.” Maida tried it one night—all
alone in the shop. But suddenly her
weak leg gave way under her and she fell
to the floor. Granny, rushing in from the
other room, scolded her violently. She
ended by forbidding her to jump again
without special permission. But Maida
made up her mind that she was going to
learn sometime, even, as she said with a
roguish smile, “if it took a leg.” She
talked it over with Rosie.</p>
<p>“You let her jump just one jump every
morning and night, Granny,” Rosie advised,
“and I’m sure it will be all right.
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page110">[Pg 110]</a></span>
That won’t hurt her any and, after awhile,
she’ll find she can jump two, then three and
so on. That’s the way I learned.”</p>
<p>Granny agreed to this. Maida practiced
constantly, one jump in her nightgown, just
before going to bed, and another, all
dressed, just after she got up.</p>
<p>“I jumped three jumps this morning
without failing, Granny,” she said one
morning at breakfast. Within a few days
the record climbed to five, then to seven,
then, at a leap, to ten.</p>
<p>Dr. Pierce called early one morning.
His eyes opened wide when they fell upon
her. “Well, well, Pinkwink,” he said.
“What do you mean by bringing me way
over here! I thought you were supposed
to be a sick young person. Where’d you
get that color?”</p>
<p>A flush like that of a pink sweet-pea blossom
had begun to show in Maida’s cheek.
It was faint but it was permanent.</p>
<p>“Why, you’re the worst fraud on my list.
If you keep on like this, young woman, I
shan’t have any excuse for calling. You’ve
done fine, Granny.”</p>
<p>Granny looked, as Dr. Pierce afterwards
said, “as tickled as Punch.”
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page111">[Pg 111]</a></span></p>
<p>“How do you like shop-keeping?” Dr.
Pierce went on.</p>
<p>“Like it!” Maida plunged into praise
so swift and enthusiastic that Dr. Pierce
told her to go more slowly or he would put
a bit in her mouth. But he listened attentively.
“Well, I see you’re not tired of
it,” he commented.</p>
<p>“Tired!” Maida’s indignation was so
intense that Dr. Pierce shook until every
curl bobbed.</p>
<p>“And I get so hungry,” she went on.
“You see I have to wait until two o’clock
sometimes before I can get my lunch, because
from twelve to two are my busy hours.
Those days it seems as if the school bell
would never ring.”</p>
<p>“Sure, tis a foine little pig OI’m growing
now,” Granny said.</p>
<p>“And as for sleeping—” Maida stopped
as if there were no words anywhere to describe
her condition.</p>
<p>Granny finished it for her. “The choild
sleeps like a top.”</p>
<p>Billy Potter came at least every day and
sometimes oftener. Every child in Primrose
Court knew him by the end of the first
week and every child loved him by the end
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page112">[Pg 112]</a></span>
of the second. And they all called him
Billy. He would not let them call him Mr.
Potter or even Uncle Billy because, he said,
he was a child when he was with them and
he wanted to be treated like a child. He
played all their games with a skill that they
thought no mere grown-up could possess.
Like Rosie, he seemed to be bubbling over
with life and spirits. He was always running,
leaping, jumping, climbing, turning
cartwheels and somersaults, vaulting fences
and “chinning” himself unexpectedly whenever
he came to a doorway.</p>
<p>“Oh, Masther Billy, ’tis the choild that
you are!” Granny would say, twinkling.</p>
<p>“Yes, ma’am,” Billy would answer.</p>
<p>At the end of the first fortnight, the
neighborhood had accepted Granny and
Maida as the mother-in-law and daughter
of a “traveling man.” From the beginning
Granny had seemed one of them, but
Maida was a puzzle. The children could
not understand how a little girl could be
grown-up and babyish at the same time.
And if you stop to think it over, perhaps
you can understand how they felt.</p>
<p>Here was a child who had never played,
“London-Bridge-is-falling-down” or jackstones
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page113">[Pg 113]</a></span>
or jump-rope or hop-scotch. Yet
she talked familiarly of automobiles, yachts
and horses. She knew nothing about geography
and yet, her conversation was full
of such phrases as “The spring we were in
Paris” or “The winter we spent in Rome.”
She knew nothing about nouns and verbs
but she talked Italian fluently with the
hand-organ man who came every week and
many of her books were in French. She
knew nothing about fractions or decimals,
yet she referred familiarly to “drawing
checks,” to gold eagles and to Wall Street.
Her writing was so bad that the children
made fun of it, yet she could spin off a letter
of eight pages in a flash. And she told
the most wonderful fairy-tales that had ever
been heard in Primrose Court.</p>
<p>Because of all these things the children
had a kind of contempt for her mingled
with a curious awe.</p>
<p>She was so polite with grown people that
it was fairly embarrassing. She always
arose from her chair when they entered the
room, always picked up the things they
dropped and never interrupted. And yet
she could carry on a long conversation with
them. She never said, “Yes, ma’am,” or
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page114">[Pg 114]</a></span>
“No, ma’am.” Instead, she said, “Yes,
Mrs. Brine,” or “No, Miss Allison,” and
she looked whomever she was talking with
straight in the eye.</p>
<p>She would play with the little children
as willingly as with the bigger ones. Often
when the older girls and boys were in
school, she would bring out a lapful of toys
and spend the whole morning with the little
ones. When Granny called her, she
would give all the toys away, dividing
them with a careful justice. And, yet,
whenever children bought things of her in
the shop, she always expected them to pay
the whole price. You can see how the
neighborhood would fairly buzz with talk
about her.</p>
<p>As for Maida—with all this newness
of friend-making and out-of-doors games,
it is not to be wondered that her head was
a jumble at the end of each day. In that
delicious, dozy interval before she fell
asleep at night, all kinds of pretty pictures
seemed to paint themselves on her eyelids.</p>
<p>Now it was Rose-Red swaying like a
great overgrown scarlet flower from the
bars of a lamp-post. Now it was Dicky
hoisting himself along on his crutches, his
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page115">[Pg 115]</a></span>
face alight with his radiant smile. Now
it was a line of laughing, rosy-cheeked children,
as long as the tail of a kite, pelting
to goal at the magic cry “Liberty poles are
bending!” Or it was a group of little girls,
setting out rows and rows of bright-colored
paper-dolls among the shadows of one of the
deep old doorways. But always in a few
moments came the sweetest kind of sleep.
And always through her dreams flowed the
plaintive music of “Go in and out the windows.”
Often she seemed to wake in the
morning to the Clarion cry, “Hoist the
sail!”</p>
<p>It did not seem to Maida that the days
were long enough to do all the things she
wanted to do.</p>
<hr />
<div>
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page116">[Pg 116]</a></span>
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI"></a>CHAPTER VI</h2>
<h3>TWO CALLS</h3>
<p class="returnTOC"><a href="#Contents">Return to Table of Contents</a></p>
</div>
<p>One morning, Laura Lathrop came
bustling importantly into the shop.
“Good morning, Maida,” she said; “you
may come over to my house this afternoon
and play with me if you’d like.”</p>
<p>“Thank you, Laura,” Maida answered.
To anybody else, she would have added, “I
shall be delighted to come.” But to Laura,
she only said, “It is kind of you to ask
me.”</p>
<p>“From about two until four,” Laura
went on in her most superior tone. “I suppose
you can’t get off for much longer than
that.”</p>
<p>“Granny is always willing to wait on
customers if I want to play,” Maida explained,
“but I think she would not want
me to stay longer than that, anyway.”</p>
<p>“Very well, then. Shall we say at two?”
Laura said this with a very grown-up air.
Maida knew that she was imitating her
mother.
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page117">[Pg 117]</a></span></p>
<p>Laura had scarcely left when Dicky appeared,
swinging between his crutches.
“Maida,” he said, “I want you to come over
to-morrow afternoon and see my place.
You’ve not seen Delia yet and there’s a
whole lot of things I want to show you.
I’m going to clean house to-day so’s I’ll
be all ready for you to-morrow.”</p>
<p>“Oh, thank you,” Maida said. The
sparkle that always meant delight came into
her face. “I shall be delighted. I’ve always
wanted to go over and see you ever
since I first knew you. But Granny said
to wait until you invited me. And I really
have never seen Delia except when Rosie’s
had her in the carriage. And then she’s always
been asleep.”</p>
<p>“You have to see Delia in the house to
know what a naughty baby she is,” Dicky
said. He spoke as if that were the
finest tribute that he could pay his little
sister.</p>
<p>“Granny,” Maida said that noon at
lunch, “Laura Lathrop came here and invited
me to come to see her this afternoon
and I just hate the thought of going—I
don’t know why. Then Dicky came and invited
me to come and see him to-morrow
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page118">[Pg 118]</a></span>
afternoon and I just love the thought of
going. Isn’t it strange?”</p>
<p>“Very,” Granny said, smiling. “But
you be sure to be a noice choild this afternoon,
no matter what that wan says to you.”</p>
<p>Granny always referred to Laura as
“that wan.”</p>
<p>“Oh, yes, I’ll be good, Granny. Isn’t it
funny,” Maida went on. The tone of her
voice showed that she was thinking hard.
“Laura makes me mad—oh, just hopping
mad,”—“hopping mad” was one of Rosie’s
expressions—“and yet it seems to me I’d
die before I’d let her know it.”</p>
<p>Laura was waiting for her on the piazza
when Maida presented herself at the Lathrop
door. “Won’t you come in and take
your things off, first?” she said. “I thought
we’d play in the house for awhile.”</p>
<p>She took Maida immediately upstairs to
her bedroom—a large room all furnished in
blue—blue paper, blue bureau scarf covered
with lace, blue bed-spread covered with
lace, a big, round, blue roller where the pillows
should be.</p>
<p>“How do you like my room, Maida?”</p>
<p>“It’s very pretty.”</p>
<p>“This is my toilet-set.” Laura pointed
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page119">[Pg 119]</a></span>
to the glittering articles on the bureau.
“Papa’s given them to me, one piece at a
time. It’s all of silver and every thing has
my initials on it. What is your set of?”</p>
<p>Laura paused before she asked this last
question and darted one of her sideways
looks at Maida. “She thinks I haven’t any
toilet-set and she wants to make me say so,”
Maida thought. “Ivory,” she said aloud.</p>
<p>“Ivory! I shouldn’t think that would be
very pretty.”</p>
<p>Laura opened her bureau drawers, one at
a time, and showed Maida the pretty
clothes packed in neat piles there. She
opened the large closet and displayed elaborately-made
frocks, suspended on hangers.
And all the time, with little sharp, sideways
glances, she was studying the effect on
Maida. But Maida’s face betrayed none of
the wonder and envy that Laura evidently
expected. Maida was very polite but it was
evident that she was not much interested.</p>
<p>Next they went upstairs to a big playroom
which covered the whole top of the
house. Shelves covered with books and
toys lined the walls. A fire, burning in the
big fireplace, made it very cheerful.</p>
<p>“Oh, what a darling doll-house,” Maida
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page120">[Pg 120]</a></span>
exclaimed, pausing before the miniature
mansion, very elegantly furnished.</p>
<p>“Oh, do you like it?” Laura beamed with
pride.</p>
<p>“I just love it! Particularly because it’s
so little.”</p>
<p>“Little!” Laura bristled. “I don’t
think it’s so very little. It’s the biggest
doll-house I ever saw. Did you ever see a
bigger one?”</p>
<p>Maida looked embarrassed. “Only one.”</p>
<p>“Whose was it?”</p>
<p>“It was the one my father had built for
me at Pride’s. It was too big to be a doll’s
house. It was really a small cottage.
There were four rooms—two upstairs and
two downstairs and a staircase that you
could really walk up. But I don’t like it
half so well as this one,” Maida went on
truthfully. “I think it’s very queer but,
somehow, the smaller things are the better
I like them. I guess it’s because I’ve
seen so many big things.”</p>
<p>Laura looked impressed and puzzled at
the same time. “And you really could
walk up the stairs? Let’s go up in the cupola,”
she suggested, after an uncertain interval
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page121">[Pg 121]</a></span>
in which she seemed to think of
nothing else to show.</p>
<p>The stairs at the end of the playroom led
into the cupola. Maida exclaimed with delight
over the view which she saw from the
windows. On one side was the river with
the draw-bridge, the Navy Yard and the
monument on Bunker Hill. On the other
stretched the smoky expanse of Boston with
the golden dome of the state house gleaming
in the midst of a huge, red-brick huddle.</p>
<p>“Did you have a cupola at Pride’s Crossing?”
Laura asked triumphantly.</p>
<p>“Oh, no—how I wish I had!”</p>
<p>Laura beamed again.</p>
<p>“Laura likes to have things other people
haven’t,” Maida thought.</p>
<p>Her hostess now conducted her back over
the two flights of stairs to the lower floor.
They went into the dining-room, which was
all shining oak and glittering cut-glass;
into the parlor, which was filled with gold
furniture, puffily upholstered in blue brocade;
into the libraries, which Maida liked
best of all, because there were so many
books and—</p>
<p>“Oh, oh, oh!” she exclaimed, stopping before
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page122">[Pg 122]</a></span>
one of the pictures; “that’s Santa
Maria in Cosmedin. I haven’t seen that
since I left Rome.”</p>
<p>“How long did you stay in Rome, little
girl?” a voice asked back of her. Maida
turned. Mrs. Lathrop had come into the
room.</p>
<p>Maida arose immediately from her chair.
“We stayed in Rome two months,” she said.</p>
<p>“Indeed. And where else did you go?”</p>
<p>“London, Paris, Florence and Venice.”</p>
<p>“Do you know these other pictures?”
Mrs. Lathrop asked. “I’ve been collecting
photographs of Italian churches.”</p>
<p>Maida went about identifying the places
with little cries of joy. “Ara Coeli—I saw
in there the little wooden bambino who
cures sick people. It’s so covered with
bracelets and rings and lockets and pins
and chains that grateful people have given
it that it looks as if it were dressed in
jewels. The bambino’s such a darling little
thing with such a sweet look in its face.
That’s St. Agnes outside the wall—I saw
two dear little baby lambs blessed on the
altar there on St. Agnes’s day. One was
all covered with red garlands and the other
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page123">[Pg 123]</a></span>
with green. Oh, they were such sweethearts!
They were going to use the fleece
to make some garment for the pope.
That’s Santa Maria della Salute—they call
it Santa Maria della <span style="font-style: italic">Volute</span> instead of <span style="font-style: italic">Salute</span>
because it’s all covered with volutes.”
Maida smiled sunnily into Mrs. Lathrop’s
face as if expecting sympathy with this
architectural joke.</p>
<p>But Mrs. Lathrop did not smile. She
looked a little staggered. She studied
Maida for a long time out of her shrewd,
light eyes.</p>
<p>“Whose family did you travel with?”
she asked at last.</p>
<p>Maida felt a little embarrassed. If Mrs.
Lathrop asked her certain questions, it
would place her in a very uncomfortable
position. On the one hand, Maida could
not tell a lie. On the other, her father had
told her to tell nobody that she was his
daughter.</p>
<p>“The family of Mr. Jerome Westabrook,”
she said at last.</p>
<p>“Oh!” It was the “oh” of a person who
is much impressed. “‘Buffalo’ Westabrook?”
Mrs. Lathrop asked.
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page124">[Pg 124]</a></span></p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“Did your grandmother, Mrs. Flynn, go
with you?”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>Mrs. Lathrop continued to look very hard
at Maida. Her eyes wandered over the little
blue frock—simple but of the best materials—over
the white “tire” of a delicate
plaided nainsook, trimmed with Valenciennes
lace, the string of blue Venetian
beads, the soft, carefully-fitted shoes.</p>
<p>“Mr. Westabrook has a little girl, hasn’t
he?” Mrs. Lathrop said.</p>
<p>Maida felt extremely uncomfortable now.
But she looked Mrs. Lathrop straight in
the eye. “Yes,” she answered.</p>
<p>“About your age?”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“She is an invalid, isn’t she?”</p>
<p>“She <span style="font-style: italic">was</span>,” Maida said with emphasis.</p>
<p>Mrs. Lathrop did not ask any more questions.
She went presently into the back library.
An old gentleman sat there, reading.</p>
<p>“That little girl who keeps the store at
the corner is in there, playing with Laura,
father,” she said. “I guess her grandmother
was a servant in <span style="font-style: normal">‘Buffalo’</span> Westabrook’s
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page125">[Pg 125]</a></span>
family, for they traveled abroad a
year with the Westabrook family. Evidently,
they give her all the little Westabrook
girl’s clothes—she’s dressed quite out
of keeping with her station in life. Curious
how refinement rubs off—the child has
really a good deal of manner. I don’t know
that I quite like to have Laura playing with
her, though.”</p>
<p>The two little girls returned after awhile
to the playroom.</p>
<p>“How would you like to have me dance
for you?” Laura asked abruptly. “You
know I take fancy dancing.”</p>
<p>“Oh, Laura,” Maida said delightedly
“will you?”</p>
<p>“Of course I will,” Laura said with her
most beaming expression. “You wait here
while I go downstairs and get into my costume.
Watch that door, for I shall make
my entrance there.”</p>
<p>Maida waited what seemed a long time
to her. Then suddenly Laura came whirling
into the room. She had put on a little
frock of pale-blue liberty silk that lay,
skirt, bodice and tiny sleeves, in many little
pleats—“accordion-pleated,” Laura afterwards
described it. Laura’s neck and arms
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page126">[Pg 126]</a></span>
were bare. She wore blue silk stockings
and little blue-kid slippers, heelless and tied
across the ankles with ribbons. Her hair
hung in a crimpy torrent to below her waist.</p>
<p>“Oh, Laura, how lovely you do look!”
Maida said, “I think you’re perfectly beautiful!”</p>
<p>Laura smiled. Lifting both arms above
her head, she floated about the room, dancing
on the very tips of her toes. Turning
and smiling over her shoulder, she bent and
swayed and attitudinized. Maida could
have watched her forever.</p>
<p>In a few moments she disappeared again.
This time she came back in a red-silk frock
with a little bolero jacket of black velvet,
hung with many tinkling coins. Whenever
her fingers moved, a little pretty clapping
sound came from them—Maida discovered
that she carried tiny wooden clappers.
Whenever her heels came together, a pretty
musical clink came from them—Maida discovered
that on her shoes were tiny metal
plates.</p>
<p>Once again Laura went out. This time,
she returned dressed like a little sailor boy.
She danced a gay little hornpipe.</p>
<p>“I never saw anything so marvelous in
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page127">[Pg 127]</a></span>
my life,” Maida said, her eyes shining with
enjoyment. “Oh, Laura how I wish I could
dance like that. How did you ever learn?
Do you practice all the time?”</p>
<p>“Oh, it’s not so very hard—for me,”
Laura returned. “Of course, everybody
couldn’t learn. And I suppose you, being
lame, could never do anything at all.”</p>
<p>This was the first allusion that had been
made in Primrose Court to Maida’s lameness.
Her face shadowed a little. “No,
I’m afraid I couldn’t,” she said regretfully.
“But—oh—think what a lovely dancer
Rosie would make.”</p>
<p>“I’m afraid Rosie’s too rough,” Laura
said. She unfolded a little fan and began
fanning herself languidly. “It’s a great
bother sometimes,” she went on in a bored
tone of voice. “Everybody is always asking
me to dance at their parties. I danced
at a beautiful May party last year. Did
you ever see a May-pole?”</p>
<p>“Oh, yes,” Maida said. “My birthday
comes on May Day and last year father
gave me a party. He had a May-pole set
up on the lawn and all the children danced
about it.”</p>
<p>“My birthday comes in the summer, too.
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page128">[Pg 128]</a></span>
I always have a party on our place in
Marblehead,” Laura said. “I had fifty
children at my party last year. How many
did you have?”</p>
<p>“We sent out over five hundred invitations,
I believe. But not quite four hundred
accepted.”</p>
<p>“Four hundred,” Laura repeated.
“Goodness, what could so many children
do?”</p>
<p>“Oh, there were all sorts of things for
them to do,” Maida answered. “There
was archery and diabolo and croquet and
fishing-ponds and a merry-go-round and
Punch and Judy on the lawn and a play in
my little theater—I can’t remember everything.”</p>
<p>Laura’s eyes had grown very big.
“Didn’t you have a perfectly splendiferous
time?” she asked.</p>
<p>“No, not particularly,” Maida said.
“Not half such a good time as I’ve had
playing in Primrose Court. I wasn’t very
well and then, somehow, I didn’t care for
those children the way I care for Dicky and
Rosie and the court children.”</p>
<p>“Goodness!” was all Laura could say for
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page129">[Pg 129]</a></span>
a moment. But finally she added, “I don’t
believe that, Maida!”</p>
<p>Maida stared at her and started to speak.
“Oh, there’s the clock striking four?” was
all she said though. “I must go. Thank
you for dancing for me.”</p>
<p>She flew into her coat and hat. She
could not seem to get away quick enough.
Nobody had ever doubted her word before.
She could not exactly explain it to herself
but she felt if she talked with Laura another
moment, she would fly out of her skin.</p>
<hr />
<p>“Mother,” Laura said, after Maida had
gone, “Maida Flynn told me that her father
gave her a birthday party last year and invited
five hundred children to it and they
had a theater and a Punch and Judy show
and all sorts of things. Do you think it’s
true?”</p>
<p>Mrs. Lathrop set her lips firmly. “No,
I think it is probably not true. I think
you’d better not play with the little Flynn
girl any more.”</p>
<hr />
<p>The next afternoon, Maida went, as she
had promised, to see Dicky.
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page130">[Pg 130]</a></span></p>
<p>She could see at a glance that Mrs. Dore
was having a hard struggle to support her
little family. In the size and comfort of
its furnishings, the place was the exact opposite
of the Lathrop home. But, somehow,
there was a wonderful feeling of home
there.</p>
<p>“Dicky, how do you manage to keep so
clean here?” Maida asked in genuine wonder.</p>
<p>And indeed, hard work showed everywhere.
The oilcloth shone like glass. The
stove was as clean as a newly-polished shoe.
The rows of pans on the wall fairly twinkled.
Delicious smells were filling the air.
Maida guessed that Dicky was making one
of the Irish stews that were his specialty.</p>
<p>“See that little truck over there?” Dicky
said. “That helps a lot. Arthur Duncan
made that for me. You see we have to
keep our coal in that closet, way across the
room. I used to get awful tired filling the
coal-hod and lugging it over to the stove.
But now you see I fill that truck at the
closet, wheel it over to the stove and I don’t
have to think of coal for three days.”</p>
<p>“Arthur must be a very clever boy,”
Maida said thoughtfully.
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page131">[Pg 131]</a></span></p>
<p>“You bet he is. See that tin can in the
sink? Well, I wanted a soap-shaker but
couldn’t afford to get one. Arthur took
that can and punched the bottom full of
holes. I keep it filled up with all the odds
and ends of soap. When I wash the dishes,
I just let the boiling water from the kettle
flow through it. It makes water grand
and soapy. Arthur made me that iron
dish-rag and that dish-mop.”</p>
<p>A sleepy cry came from the corner.
Dicky swung across the room. Balancing
himself against the cradle there, he lifted
the baby to the floor. “She can’t walk yet
but you watch her go,” he said proudly.</p>
<p>Go! The baby crept across the room so
fast that Maida had to run to keep up with
her. “Oh, the love!” she said, taking Delia
into her arms. “Think of having a whole
baby to yourself.”</p>
<p>“Can’t leave a thing round where she is,”
Dicky said proudly, as if this were the best
thing he could say about her. “Have to
put <span style="font-style: italic">my</span> work away the moment she wakes
up. Isn’t she a buster, though?”</p>
<p>“I should say she was!” And indeed,
the baby was as fat as a little partridge.
Maida wondered how Dicky could lift her.
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page132">[Pg 132]</a></span>
Also Delia was as healthy-looking as Dicky
was sickly. Her cheeks showed a pink that
was almost purple and her head looked like
a mop, so thickly was it overgrown with
tangled, red-gold curls.</p>
<p>“Is she named after your mother?”
Maida asked.</p>
<p>“No—after my grandmother in Ireland.
But of course we don’t call her anything
but ‘baby’ yet. My, but she’s a case! If
I didn’t watch her all the time, every pan
in this room would be on the floor in a
jiffy. And she tears everything she puts
her hands on.”</p>
<p>“Granny must see her sometime—Granny’s
name is Delia.”</p>
<p>“Hi, stop that!” Dicky called. For
Delia had discovered the little bundle that
Maida had placed on a chair, and was busy
trying to tear it open.</p>
<p>“Let her open it,” Maida said, “I brought
it for her.”</p>
<p>They watched.</p>
<p>It took a long time, but Delia sat down,
giving her whole attention to it. Finally
her busy fingers pulled off so much paper
that a pair of tiny rubber dolls dropped into
her lap.
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page133">[Pg 133]</a></span></p>
<p>“Say ‘Thank you, Maida,’” Dicky
prompted.</p>
<p>Delia said something and Dicky assured
her that the baby had obeyed him. It
sounded like, “Sank-oo-Maysa.”</p>
<p>While Delia occupied herself with the
dolls, Maida listened to Dicky’s reading
lesson. He was getting on beautifully now.
At least he could puzzle out by himself
some of the stories that Maida lent him.
When they had finished that day’s fairy-tale,
Dicky said:</p>
<p>“Did you ever see a peacock, Maida?”</p>
<p>“Oh, yes—a great many.”</p>
<p>“Where?”</p>
<p>“I saw ever so many in the Jardin des
Plantes in Paris and then my father has
some in his camp in the Adirondacks.”</p>
<p>“Has he many?”</p>
<p>“A dozen.”</p>
<p>“I’m just wild to see one. Are they as
beautiful as that picture in the fairy-tale?”</p>
<p>“They’re as beautiful as—as—” Maida
groped about in her mind to find something
to compare them to “—as angels,” she said
at last.</p>
<p>“And do they really open their tails like
a fan?”
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page134">[Pg 134]</a></span></p>
<p>“That is the most wonderful sight, Dicky,
that you ever saw.” Maida’s manner was
almost solemn. “When they unfurl the
whole fan and the sun shines on all the
green and blue eyes and on all the little gold
feathers, it’s so beautiful. Well, it makes
you ache. I <span style="font-style: italic">cried</span> the first time I saw one.
And when their fans are down, they carry
them so daintily, straight out, not a single
feather trailing on the ground. There are
two white peacocks on the Adirondacks
place.”</p>
<p>“<span style="font-style: italic">White</span> peacocks! I never heard of
white ones.”</p>
<p>“They’re not common.”</p>
<p>“Think of seeing a dozen peacocks every
day!” Dicky exclaimed. “Jiminy crickets!
Why, Maida, your life must have been just
like a fairy-tale when you lived there.”</p>
<p>“It seems more like a fairy-tale here.”</p>
<p>They laughed at this difference of opinion.</p>
<p>“Dicky,” Maida asked suddenly, “do you
know that Rosie steals out of her window
at night sometimes when her mother doesn’t
know it?”</p>
<p>“Sure—I know that. You see,” he went
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page135">[Pg 135]</a></span>
on to explain, “it’s like this. Rosie is an
awful bad girl in some ways—there’s no
doubt about that. But my mother says
Rosie isn’t as bad as she seems. My mother
says Rosie’s mother has never learned how
to manage her. She whips Rosie an awful
lot. And the more she whips Rosie, the
naughtier she gets. Rosie says she’s going
to run away some day, and by George, I
bet she’ll do it. She always does what she
says she’ll do.”</p>
<p>“Isn’t it dreadful?” Maida said in a
frightened tone. “Run away! I never
heard of such a thing. Think of having a
mother and then not getting along with her.
Suppose she died sometime, as my mother
did.”</p>
<p>“I don’t know what I’d do without my
mother,” Dicky said thoughtfully. “But
then I’ve got the best mother that ever was.
I wish she didn’t have to work so hard.
But you wait until I get on my feet. Then
you’ll see how I’m going to earn money for
her.”</p>
<p>When Maida got home that night, Billy
Potter sat with Granny in the living-room.
Maida came in so quietly that they took no
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page136">[Pg 136]</a></span>
notice of her. Granny was talking. Maida
could see that the tears were coursing down
the wrinkles in her cheeks.</p>
<p>“And after that, the poor choild ran away
to America and I niver have seen her since.
Her father died repenting av his anger
aginst her. But ut was too late. At last,
in me old age, Oi came over to America,
hoping Oi cud foind her. But, glory be, Oi
had no idea ’twas such a big place! And
Oi’ve hunted and Oi’ve hunted and Oi’ve
hunted. But niver a track of her cud Oi
foind—me little Annie!”</p>
<p>Billy’s face was all screwed up, but it was
not with laughter. “Did you ever speak to
Mr. Westabrook about it?”</p>
<p>“Oh, Misther Westabruk done iv’ry t’ing
he cud—the foine man that he is.
Adver<span style="font-style: italic">tise</span>ments
and <span style="font-style: italic">de</span>tayktives,
but wid all his
money, he cudn’t foind out a t’ing. If ut
wasn’t for my blissed lamb, I’d pray to the
saints to let me die.”</p>
<p>Maida knew what they were talking about—Granny
had often told her the sad story
of her lost daughter.</p>
<p>“What town in Ireland did you live in,
Granny?” Billy asked.</p>
<p>“Aldigarey, County Sligo.”
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page137">[Pg 137]</a></span>
“Now don’t you get discouraged, Granny,”
Billy said, “I’m going to find your
daughter for you.”</p>
<p>He jumped to his feet and walked about
the room. “I’m something of a detective
myself, and you’ll see I’ll make good on this
job if it takes twenty years.”</p>
<p>“Oh, Billy, do—please do,” Maida burst
in. “It will make Granny so happy.”</p>
<p>Granny seemed happier already. She
dried her tears.</p>
<p>“’Tis the good b’y ye are, Misther Billy,”
she said gratefully.</p>
<p>“Yes, m’m,” said Billy.</p>
<hr />
<div>
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page138">[Pg 138]</a></span>
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII"></a>CHAPTER VII</h2>
<h3>TROUBLE</h3>
<p class="returnTOC"><a href="#Contents">Return to Table of Contents</a></p>
</div>
<p>The next week was a week of trouble
for Maida. Everything seemed to go
wrong from the first tinkle of the bell, Monday
morning, to the last tinkle Saturday
night.</p>
<p>It began with a conversation.</p>
<p>Rosie came marching in early Monday,
head up, eyes flaming.</p>
<p>“Maida,” she began at once, in her quickest,
briskest tone, “I’ve got something to
tell you. Laura Lathrop came over to
Dicky’s house the other day while the W.M.N.T.’s
were meeting and she told us the
greatest mess of stuff about you. I told her
I was coming right over and tell you about
it and she said, ‘All right, you can.’ Laura
said that you said that last summer you had
a birthday party that you invited five hundred
children to. She said that you said
that you had a May-pole at this party and
a fish pond and a Punch and Judy show
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page139">[Pg 139]</a></span>
and all sorts of things. She said that you
said that you had a big doll-house and a little
theater all your own. I said that I
didn’t believe that you told her all that. Did
you?”</p>
<p>“Oh, yes, I told her that—and more,”
Maida answered directly.</p>
<p>“Laura said it was all a pack of lies, but
I don’t believe that. Is it all true?”</p>
<p>“It’s all true,” Maida said.</p>
<p>Rosie looked at her hard. “You know,
Maida,” she went on after awhile, “you
told me about a lot of birds and animals
that your father had. I thought he kept
a bird-place. But Dicky says you told him
that your father had twelve peacocks, not
in a store, but in a place where he lives.”
She paused and looked inquiringly at
Maida.</p>
<p>Maida answered the look. “Yes, I told
him that.”</p>
<p>“And it’s all true?” Rosie asked again.</p>
<p>“Yes, it’s all true,” Maida repeated.</p>
<p>Rosie hesitated a moment. “Harold
Lathrop says that you’re daffy.”</p>
<p>Maida said nothing.</p>
<p>“Arthur Duncan says,” Rosie went on
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page140">[Pg 140]</a></span>
more timidly, “that you probably dreamed
those things.”</p>
<p>Still Maida said nothing.</p>
<p>“Do you think you did dream them,
Maida?”</p>
<p>Maida smiled. “No, I didn’t dream
them.”</p>
<p>“Well, I thought of another thing,”
Rosie went on eagerly. “Miss Allison told
mother that Granny told her that you’d
been sick for a long time. And I thought,
maybe you were out of your head and imagined
those things. Oh, Maida,” Rosie’s
voice actually coaxed her to favor this
theory, “don’t you think you imagined
them?”</p>
<p>Maida laughed. “No, Rosie,” she said
in her quietest voice, “I did not imagine
them.”</p>
<p>For a moment neither of the two little
girls spoke. But they stared, a little defiantly,
into each other’s eyes.</p>
<p>“What did Dicky say?” Maida asked
after awhile.</p>
<p>“Oh, Dicky said he would believe anything
you told him, no matter what it was.
Dicky says he believes you’re a princess in
disguise—like in fairy-tales.”
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page141">[Pg 141]</a></span></p>
<p>“Dear, dear Dicky!” Maida said. “He
was the first friend I made in Primrose
Court and I guess he’s the best one.”</p>
<p>“Well, I guess I’m your friend,” Rosie
said, firing up; “I told that little smarty-cat
of a Laura if she ever said one word
against you, I’d slap her good and hard.
Only—only—it seems strange that a little
girl who’s just like the rest of us should
have story-book things happening to her all
the time. If it’s true—then fairy-tales are
true.” She paused and looked Maida
straight in the eye. “I can’t believe it,
Maida. But I know you believe it. And
that’s all there is to it. But you’d better
believe I’m your friend.”</p>
<p>Saying which she marched out.</p>
<p>Maida’s second trouble began that night.</p>
<p>It had grown dark. Suddenly, without
any warning, the door of the shop flew open.
For an instant three or four voices filled the
place with their yells. Then the door shut.
Nothing was heard but the sound of running
feet.</p>
<p>Granny and Maida rushed to the door.
Nobody was in sight.</p>
<p>“Who was it? What does it mean, Granny?”
Maida asked in bewilderment.
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page142">[Pg 142]</a></span>
“Only naughty b’ys, taysing you,”
Granny explained.</p>
<p>Maida had hardly seated herself when the
performance was repeated. Again she
rushed to the door. Again she saw nobody.
The third time she did not stir from her
chair.</p>
<p>Tuesday night the same thing happened.
Who the boys were Maida could not find
out. Why they bothered her, she could not
guess.</p>
<p>“Take no notuce av ut, my lamb,” Granny
counselled. “When they foind you pay no
attintion to ut, they’ll be afther stopping.”</p>
<p>Maida followed Granny’s advice. But
the annoyance did not cease and she began
to dread the twilight. She made up her
mind that she must put an end to it soon.
She knew she could stop it at once by appealing
to Billy Potter. And, yet, somehow,
she did not want to ask for outside
help. She had a feeling of pride about
handling her own troubles.</p>
<p>One afternoon Laura came into the shop.
It was the first time that Maida had seen
her since the afternoon of her call and
Maida did not speak. She felt that she
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page143">[Pg 143]</a></span>
could not have anything to do with Laura
after what had happened. But she looked
straight at Laura and waited.</p>
<p>Laura did not speak either. She looked
at Maida as if she had never seen her before.
She carried her head at its highest
and she moved across the room with her
most important air. As she stood a moment
gazing at the things in the show case,
she had never seemed more patronizing.</p>
<p>“A cent’s worth of dulse, please,” she
said airily.</p>
<p>“Dulse?” Maida repeated questioningly;
“I guess I haven’t any. What is dulse?”</p>
<p>“Haven’t any dulse?” Laura repeated
with an appearance of being greatly
shocked. “Do you mean to say you haven’t
any dulse?”</p>
<p>Maida did not answer—she put her lips
tight together.</p>
<p>“This is a healthy shop,” Laura went on
in a sneering tone, “no mollolligobs, no apple-on-the-stick,
no tamarinds, no pop-corn
balls, no dulse. Why don’t you sell the
things we want? Half the children in the
neighborhood are going down to Main
Street to get them now.”</p>
<p>She bustled out of the shop. Maida
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page144">[Pg 144]</a></span>
stared after her with wide, alarmed eyes.
For a moment she did not stir. Then she
ran into the living-room and buried her face
in Granny’s lap, bursting into tears.</p>
<p>“Oh, Granny,” she sobbed, “Laura Lathrop
says that half the children don’t like
my shop and they’re going down to Main
Street to buy things. What shall I do?
What shall I do?”</p>
<p>“There, there, acushla,” Granny said
soothingly, taking the trembling little girl
on to her lap. “Don’t worry about anny
t’ing that wan says. ’Tis a foine little shop
you have, as all the grown folks says.”</p>
<p>“But, Granny,” Maida protested passionately,
“I don’t want to please the grown
people, I want to please the children. And
papa said I must make the store pay. And
now I’m afraid I never will. Oh, what
shall I do?”</p>
<p>She got no further. A tinkle of the bell,
followed by pattering footsteps, interrupted.
In an instant, Rosie, brilliant in
her scarlet cape and scarlet hat, with cheeks
and lips the color of cherries, stood at her
side.</p>
<p>“I saw that hateful Laura come out of
here,” she said. “I just knew she’d come
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page145">[Pg 145]</a></span>
in to make trouble. What did she say to
you?”</p>
<p>Maida told her slowly between her sobs.</p>
<p>“Horrid little smarty-cat!” was Rosie’s
comment and she scowled until her face
looked like a thunder-cloud.</p>
<p>“I shall never speak to her again,” Maida
declared fervently. “But what shall I do
about it, Rosie?—it may be true what she
said.”</p>
<p>“Now don’t you get discouraged,
Maida,” Rosie said. “Because I can tell
you just how to get or make those things
Laura spoke of.”</p>
<p>“Oh, can you, Rosie. What would I do
without you? I’ll put everything down in
a book so that I shan’t forget them.”</p>
<p>She limped over to the desk. There the
black head bent over the golden one.</p>
<p>“What is dulse?” Maida demanded first.</p>
<p>“Don’t you know what dulse is?” Rosie
asked incredulously. “Maida, you are the
queerest child. The commonest things you
don’t know anything about. And yet I suppose
if I asked you if you’d seen a flying-machine,
you’d say you had.”</p>
<p>“I have,” Maida answered instantly, “in
Paris.”
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page146">[Pg 146]</a></span></p>
<p>Rosie’s face wrinkled into its most perplexed
look. She changed the subject at
once. “Well, dulse is a purple stuff—when
you see a lot of it together, it looks as if a
million toy-balloons had burst. It’s all
wrinkled up and tastes salty.”</p>
<p>Maida thought hard for a moment. Then
she burst into laughter, although the big
round tear-drops were still hanging from
the tips of her lashes. “There was a whole
drawerful here when I first came. I remember
now I thought it was waste stuff
and threw it all away.”</p>
<p>Rosie laughed too. “The tamarinds you
can get from the man who comes round
with the wagon. Mrs. Murdock used to
make her own apples-on-the-stick, mollolligobs
and corn-balls. I’ve helped her many
a time. Now I’ll write you a list of stuff
to order from the grocer. I’ll come round
after school and we’ll make a batch of all
those things. To-night you get Billy to
print a sign, ‘<span style="font-style: italic">apples on the stick and
mollolligobs to-day</span>.’ You put that in the
window to-morrow morning and by to-morrow
night, you’ll be all sold out.”</p>
<p>“Oh, Rosie,” Maida said happily, “I shall
be so much obliged to you!”
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page147">[Pg 147]</a></span></p>
<p>Rosie was as good as her word. She appeared
that afternoon wearing a long-sleeved
apron under the scarlet cape. It
seemed to Maida that she worked like lightning,
for she made batch after batch of
candy, moving as capably about the stove
as an experienced cook. In the meantime,
Maida was popping corn at the fireplace.
They mounted fifty apples on skewers and
dipped them, one at a time, into the boiling
candy. They made thirty corn-balls and
twenty-five mollolligobs, which turned out to
be round chunks of candy, stuck on the end
of sticks.</p>
<p>“I never did see such clever children anywhere
as there are in Primrose Court,”
Maida said that night with a sigh to
Granny. “Rosie told me that she could
make six kinds of candy. And Dicky
can cook as well as his mother. They
make me feel so useless. Why, Granny,
I can’t do a single thing that’s any good to
anybody.”</p>
<p>The next day the shop was crowded. By
night there was not an apple, a corn-ball or
a mollolligob left.</p>
<p>“I shall have a sale like this once a week
in the future,” Maida said. “Why,
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page148">[Pg 148]</a></span>
Granny, lots and lots of children came here
who’d never been in the shop before.”</p>
<p>And so what looked like serious trouble
ended very happily.</p>
<p>Trouble number three was a great deal
more serious and it did not, at first, promise
to end well at all. It had to do with Arthur
Duncan. It had been going on for a week
before Maida mentioned it to anybody.
But it haunted her very dreams.</p>
<p>Early Monday morning, Arthur came into
the shop. In his usual gruff voice and with
his usual surly manner, he said, “Show me
some of those rubbers in the window.”</p>
<p>Maida took out a handful of the rubbers—five,
she thought—and put them on the
counter. While Arthur looked them over,
she turned to replace a paper-doll which
she had knocked down.</p>
<p>“Guess I won’t take one to-day,” Arthur
said, while her back was still turned, and
walked out.</p>
<p>When Maida put the rubbers back, she
discovered that there were only four. She
made up her mind that she had not counted
right and thought no more of the incident.</p>
<p>Two days later, Arthur Duncan came in
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page149">[Pg 149]</a></span>
again. Maida had just been selling some
pencils—pretty striped ones with a blue
stone in the end. Three of them were left
lying out on the counter. Arthur asked
her to show him some penholders. Maida
took three from the shelves back of her.
He bought one of these. After he had gone,
she discovered that there were only two
pencils left on the counter.</p>
<p>“One of them must have rolled off,”
Maida thought. But although she looked
everywhere, she could not find it. The incident
of the rubber occurred to her. She
felt a little troubled but she resolved to put
both circumstances out of her mind.</p>
<p>A day or two later, Arthur Duncan came
in for the third time. It happened that
Granny was out marketing.</p>
<p>Piled on the counter was a stack of blank-books—pretty
books they were, with a
child’s head in color on the cover. Arthur
asked for letter-paper. Maida turned back
to the shelf. With her hand on the sliding
door, she stopped, half-stunned.</p>
<p><span style="font-style: italic">Reflected in the glass she saw Arthur Duncan
stow one of the blank books away in his
pocket.</span></p>
<p>Maida felt sick all over. She did not
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page150">[Pg 150]</a></span>
know what to do. She did not know what
to say.</p>
<p>She fumbled with trembling hands among
the things on the shelf. She dreaded to
turn for fear her face would express what
she had seen.</p>
<p>“Perhaps he’ll pay for it,” she thought;
“I hope he will.”</p>
<p>But Arthur made no offer to pay. He
looked over the letter-paper that Maida,
with downcast eyes, put before him, decided
that he did not want any after all, and
walked coolly from the shop.</p>
<p>Granny, coming in a few moments later,
was surprised to find Maida leaning on the
counter, her face buried in her hands.</p>
<p>“What’s the matter with my lamb?” the
old lady asked cheerfully.</p>
<p>“Nothing, Granny,” Maida said. But
she did not meet Granny’s eye and during
dinner she was quiet and serious.</p>
<p>That night Billy Potter called. “Well,
how goes the <span style="font-style: italic">Bon Marché of</span> Charlestown?”
he asked cheerfully.</p>
<p>“Billy,” Maida said gravely, “if you
found that a little boy—I can’t say what his
name is—was stealing from you, what would
you do?”
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page151">[Pg 151]</a></span></p>
<p>Billy considered the question as gravely
as she had asked it. “Tell the policeman
on the beat and get him to throw a scare
into him,” he said at last.</p>
<p>“I guess that’s what I’ll have to do.”
But Maida’s tone was mournful.</p>
<p>But Granny interrupted.</p>
<p>“Don’t you do ut, my lamb—don’t you
do ut!” She turned to them both—they
had never seen her blue eyes so fiery before.
“Suppose you was one av these poor little
chilthren that lives round here that’s always
had harrd wurruds for their meals
and hunger for their pillow, wudn’t you be
afther staling yersilf if ut came aisy-loike
and nobody was luking?”</p>
<p>Neither Billy nor Maida spoke for a moment.</p>
<p>“I guess Granny’s right,” Billy said
finally.</p>
<p>“I guess she is,” Maida said with a sigh.</p>
<p>It was three days before Arthur Duncan
came into the shop again. But in the
meantime, Maida went one afternoon to
play with Dicky. Dicky was drawing at a
table when Maida came in. She glanced at
his work. He was using a striped pencil
with a blue stone in its end, a blank-book
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page152">[Pg 152]</a></span>
with the picture of a little girl on the cover,
a rubber of a kind very familiar to her.
Maida knew certainly that Dicky had
bought none of these things from her. She
knew as certainly that they were the things
Arthur Duncan had stolen. What was the
explanation of the mystery? She went to
bed that night miserably unhappy.</p>
<p>Her heart beat pit-a-pat the next time
she saw Arthur open the door. She folded
her hands close together so that he should
not see that she was trembling. She began
to wish that she had followed Billy’s advice.
Sitting in the shop all alone—Granny,
it happened again, was out—it occurred
to her that it was, perhaps, too
serious a situation for a little girl to deal
with.</p>
<p>She had made up her mind that when
Arthur was in the shop, she would not turn
her back to him. She was determined not
to give him the chance to fall into temptation.
But he asked for pencil-sharpeners
and pencil-sharpeners were kept in the lower
drawer. There was nothing for her to
do but to get down on the floor. She remembered
with a sense of relief that she
had left no stock out on the counter. She
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page153">[Pg 153]</a></span>
knelt upright on the floor, seeking for the
box. Suddenly, reflected in the glass door,
she saw another terrifying picture.</p>
<p><span style="font-style: italic">Arthur Duncan’s arm was just closing
the money drawer.</span></p>
<p>For an instant Maida felt so sick at heart
that she wanted to run back into the living-room,
throw herself into Granny’s big chair
and cry her eyes out. Then suddenly all
this weakness went. A feeling, such as she
had never known, came into its place. She
was still angry but she was singularly cool.
She felt no more afraid of Arthur Duncan
than of the bowl of dahlias, blooming on
the counter.</p>
<p>She whirled around in a flash and looked
him straight in the eye.</p>
<p>“If there is anything in this shop that
you want so much that you are willing to
steal, tell me what it is and I’ll give it to
you,” she said.</p>
<p>“Aw, what are you talking about?” Arthur
demanded. He attempted to out-stare
her.</p>
<p>But Maida kept her eyes steadily on his.
“You know what I’m talking about well
enough,” she said quietly. “In the last
week you’ve stolen a rubber and a pencil and
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page154">[Pg 154]</a></span>
a blank-book from me and just now you
tried to take some money from the money-drawer.”</p>
<p>Arthur sneered. “How are you going to
prove it?” he asked impudently.</p>
<p>Maida was thoroughly angry. But something
inside warned her that she must not
give way to temper. For all her life, she had
been accustomed to think before she spoke.
Indeed, she herself had never been driven or
scolded. Her father had always reasoned
with her. Doctors and nurses had always
reasoned with her. Even Granny had always
reasoned with her. So, now, she
thought very carefully before she spoke
again. But she kept her eyes fixed on Arthur.
His eyes did not move from hers but,
in some curious way, she knew that he was
uneasy.</p>
<p>“I can’t prove it,” she said at last, “and
I hadn’t any idea of trying to. I’m only
warning you that you must not come in here
if you’re not to be trusted. And I told you
the truth when I said I would rather give
you anything in the shop than have you steal
it. For I think you must need those things
very badly to be willing to get them that
way. I don’t believe anybody <span style="font-style: italic">wants</span> to
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page155">[Pg 155]</a></span>
steal. Now when you want anything so bad
as that, come to me and I’ll see if I can get
it for you.”</p>
<p>Arthur stared at her as if he had not a
word on his tongue. “If you think you can
frighten me,—” he said. Then, without
ending his sentence, he swaggered out of the
shop. But to Maida his swagger seemed
like something put on to conceal another
feeling.</p>
<p>Maida suddenly felt very tired. She
wished that Granny Flynn would come back.
She wanted Granny to take her into her
lap, to cuddle her, to tell her some merry
little tale of the Irish fairies. But, instead,
the bell rang and another customer came in.
While she was waiting on her, Maida noticed
somebody come stealthily up to the
window, look in and then duck down. She
wondered if it might be Billy playing one
of his games on her.</p>
<p>The customer went out. In a few moments
the bell tinkled again. Maida had
been leaning against the counter, her tired
head on her outstretched arms. She looked
up. It was Arthur Duncan.</p>
<p>He strode straight over to her.</p>
<p>“Here’s three cents for your rubber,” he
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page156">[Pg 156]</a></span>
said, “and five for your pencil, five for the
blank book and there’s two dimes I took out
of the money-drawer.”</p>
<p>Maida did not know what to say. The
tears came to her eyes and rolled down her
cheeks. Arthur shifted his weight from one
foot to the other in intense embarrassment.</p>
<p>“I didn’t know it would make you feel
as bad as that,” he said.</p>
<p>“I don’t feel bad,” Maida sobbed—and to
prove it she smiled while the tears ran down
her cheeks—“I feel glad.”</p>
<p>What he would have answered to this she
never knew. For at that moment the door
flew open. The little rowdy boys who had
been troubling her so much lately, let out a
series of blood-curdling yells.</p>
<p>“What’s that?” Arthur asked.</p>
<p>“I don’t know who they are,” Maida said
wearily, “but they do that three or four
times every night. I don’t know what to
do about it.”</p>
<p>“Well, I do,” Arthur said. “You wait!”</p>
<p>He went over to the door and waited, flattening
himself against the wall. After a
long silence, they could hear footsteps tip-toeing
on the bricks outside. The door flew
open. Arthur Duncan leaped like a cat
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page157">[Pg 157]</a></span>
through the opening. There came back to
Maida the sound of running, then a pause,
then another sound very much as if two or
three naughty little heads were being vigorously
knocked together. She heard Arthur
say:</p>
<p>“Let me catch one of you doing that again
and I’ll lick you till you can’t stand up.
And remember I’ll be watching for you
every night now.”</p>
<p>Maida did not see him again then. But
just before dinner the bell rang. When
Maida opened the door there stood Arthur.</p>
<p>“I had this kitten and I thought you
might like him,” he said awkwardly, holding
out a little bundle of gray fluff.</p>
<p>“Want it!” Maida said. She seized it
eagerly. “Oh, thank you, Arthur, ever so
much. Oh, Granny, look at this darling
kit-kat. What a ball of fluff he is! I’ll
call him Fluff. And he isn’t an Angora or
a prize kitty of any kind—just a beautiful
plain everyday cat—the kind I’ve always
wanted!”</p>
<p>Even this was not all. After dinner the
shop bell rang again. This time it was Arthur
and Rosie. Rosie’s lips were very
tight as if she had made up her mind to
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page158">[Pg 158]</a></span>
some bold deed but her flashing eyes showed
her excitement.</p>
<p>“Can we see you alone for a moment,
Maida?” she asked in her most business-like
tones.</p>
<p>Wondering, Maida shut the door to the
living-room and came back to them.</p>
<p>“Maida,” Rosie began, “Arthur told me
all about the rubber and the pencil and the
blank book and the dimes. Of course, I felt
pretty bad when I heard about it. But I
wanted Arthur to come right over here and
explain the whole thing to you. You see
Arthur took those things to give away to
Dicky because Dicky has such a hard time
getting anything he wants.”</p>
<p>“Yes, I saw them over at Dicky’s,” Maida
said.</p>
<p>“And then, there was a great deal more to
it that Arthur’s just told me and I thought
you ought to know it at once. You see Arthur’s
father belongs to a club that meets
once a month and Arthur goes there a lot
with him. And those men think that plenty
of people have things that they have no
right to—oh, like automobiles—I mean,
things that they haven’t earned. And the
men in Mr. Duncan’s club say that it’s perfectly
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page159">[Pg 159]</a></span>
right to take things away from people
who have too much and give them to people
who have too little. But I say that may be
all right for grown people but when children
do it, it’s just plain <span style="font-style: italic">stealing</span>. And that’s
all there is to it! But I wanted you to know
that Arthur thought it was right—well sort
of right, you understand—when he took
those things. You don’t think so now, do
you, after the talking-to I’ve given you?”
She turned severely on Arthur.</p>
<p>Arthur shuffled and looked embarrassed.
“No,” he said sheepishly, “not until you’re
grown up.”</p>
<p>“But what I wanted to say next, Maida,”
Rosie continued, “is, please not to tell
Dicky. He would be so surprised—and
then he wouldn’t keep the things that Arthur
gave him. And of course now that
Arthur has paid for them—they’re all right
for him to have.”</p>
<p>“Of course I wouldn’t tell anybody,”
Maida said in a shocked voice, “not even
Granny or Billy—not even my father.”</p>
<p>“Then that’s settled,” Rosie said with a
sigh. “Good night.”</p>
<p>The next day the following note reached Maida:
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page160">[Pg 160]</a></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 3.00em; margin-left: 4.00em; margin-top: 2.00em; margin-right: 4.00em">
You are cordully invited to join the W.M.N.T. Club which meets three times a
week at the house of Miss Rosie Brine, or Mr. Richard Dore or Mr. Arthur Duncan.
<br /><br />
P.S. The name means, WE MUST
NEVER TELL.</p>
<p>Maida dreamed nothing but happy
dreams that night.</p>
<hr />
<div>
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page161">[Pg 161]</a></span>
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII"></a>CHAPTER VIII</h2>
<h3>A RAINY DAY</h3>
<p class="returnTOC"><a href="#Contents">Return to Table of Contents</a></p>
</div>
<p>The next day it rained dismally. Maida
had been running the shop for three
weeks but this was her first experience with
stormy weather. Because she, herself, had
never been allowed to set her foot outdoors
when the weather was damp, she expected
that she would see no children that day.
But long before the bell rang they crowded
in wet streaming groups into the shop. And
at nine the lines disappearing into the big
school doorways seemed as long as ever.</p>
<p>Even the Clark twins in rubber boots,
long rain-capes and a baby umbrella came
in to spend their daily pennies.</p>
<p>“I guess it’ll be one session, Maida,”
Dorothy whispered.</p>
<p>“Oh goody, Dorothy!” Mabel lisped.
“Don’t you love one session, Maida?”</p>
<p>Maida was ashamed to confess to two such
tiny girls that she did not know what “one
session” meant. But she puzzled over it
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page162">[Pg 162]</a></span>
the whole morning. If Rosie and Arthur
had come in she would have asked them.
But neither of them appeared. Indeed,
they were not anywhere in the lines—Maida
looked very carefully.</p>
<p>At twelve o’clock the school bell did not
ring. In surprise, Maida craned out of the
window to consult the big church clock. It
agreed exactly with the tall grandfather’s
clock in the living-room. Both pointed to
twelve, then to five minutes after and ten
and fifteen—still no bell.</p>
<p>A little later Dicky came swinging along,
the sides of his old rusty raincoat flapping
like the wings of some great bird.</p>
<p>“It’s one-session, Maida,” he said jubilantly,
“did you hear the bell?”</p>
<p>“What’s one session, Dicky?” Maida
asked.</p>
<p>“Why, when it’s too stormy for the children
to go to school in the afternoon the fire-bells
ring twenty-two at quarter to twelve.
They keep all the classes in until one
o’clock though.”</p>
<p>“Oh, that’s why they don’t come out,”
Maida said.</p>
<p>At one o’clock the umbrellas began to file
out of the school door. The street looked
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page163">[Pg 163]</a></span>
as if it had grown a monster crop of shiny
black toad-stools. But it was the only sign
of life that the neighborhood showed for the
rest of the day. The storm was too violent
for even the big boys and girls to brave. A
very long afternoon went by. Not a customer
came into the shop. Maida felt very
lonely. She wandered from shop to living-room
and from living-room to chamber.
She tried to read. She sewed a little. She
even popped corn for a lonesome fifteen
minutes. But it seemed as if the long dark
day would never go.</p>
<p>As they were sitting down to dinner that
night, Billy bounced in—his face pink and
wet, his eyes sparkling like diamonds from
his conflict with the winds.</p>
<p>“Oh, Billy, how glad I am to see you,”
Maida said. “It’s been the lonesomest
day.”</p>
<p>“Sure, the sight av ye’s grand for sore
eyes,” said Granny.</p>
<p>Maida had noticed that Billy’s appearance
always made the greatest difference in
everything. Before he came, the noise of
the wind howling about the store made
Maida sad. Now it seemed the jolliest of
sounds. And when at seven, Rosie appeared,
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page164">[Pg 164]</a></span>
Maida’s cup of happiness brimmed
over.</p>
<p>While Billy talked with Granny, the two
little girls rearranged the stock.</p>
<p>“My mother was awful mad with me just
before supper,” Rosie began at once. “It
seems as if she was so cross lately that
there’s no living with her. She picks on
me all the time. That’s why I’m here. She
sent me to bed. But I made up my mind
I wouldn’t go to bed. I climbed out my bedroom
window and came over here.”</p>
<p>“Oh, Rosie, I wish you wouldn’t do that,”
Maida said. “Oh, do run right home!
Think how worried your mother would be
if she went up into your room and found you
gone. She wouldn’t know what had become
of you.”</p>
<p>“Well, then, what makes her so strict with
me?” Rosie cried. Her eyes had grown as
black as thunder clouds. The scowl that
made her face so sullen had come deep between
her eyebrows.</p>
<p>“Oh, how I wish I had a mother,” Maida
said longingly. “I guess I wouldn’t say a
word to her, no matter how strict she was.”</p>
<p>“I guess you don’t know what you’d do
until you tried it,” Rosie said.
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page165">[Pg 165]</a></span></p>
<p>Granny and Billy had been curiously
quiet in the other room. Suddenly Billy
Potter stepped to the door.</p>
<p>“I’ve just thought of a great game, children,”
he said. “But we’ve got to play it
in the kitchen. Bring some crayons,
Maida.”</p>
<p>The children raced after him. “What is
it?” they asked in chorus.</p>
<p>Billy did not answer. He lifted Granny’s
easy-chair with Granny, knitting and
all, and placed it in front of the kitchen
stove. Then he began to draw a huge rectangle
on the clean, stone floor.</p>
<p>“Guess,” he said.</p>
<p>“Sure and Oi know what ut’s going to
be,” smiled Granny.</p>
<p>Maida and Rosie watched him closely.
Suddenly they both shouted together:</p>
<p>“Hopscotch! Hopscotch!”</p>
<p>“Right you are!” Billy approved. He
searched among the coals in the hod until
he found a hard piece of slate.</p>
<p>“All ready now!” he said briskly.
“Your turn, first, Rosie, because you’re
company.”</p>
<p>Rosie failed on “fivesy.” Maida’s turn
came next and she failed on “threesy.”
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page166">[Pg 166]</a></span>
Billy followed Maida but he hopped on the
line on “twosy.”</p>
<p>“Oi belave Oi cud play that game, ould as
Oi am,” Granny said suddenly.</p>
<p>“I bet you could,” Billy said.</p>
<p>“Sure, ’twas a foine player Oi was when
Oi was a little colleen.”</p>
<p>“Come on, Granny,” Billy said.</p>
<p>The two little girls jumped up and down,
clapping their hands and shrieking, “Granny’s
going to play!” “Granny’s going to
play!” They made so much noise finally,
that Billy had to threaten to stand them on
their heads in a corner.</p>
<p>Granny took her turn after Billy. She
hopped about like a very active and a very
benevolent old fairy.</p>
<p>“Oh, doesn’t she look like the Dame in
fairy tales?” Maida said.</p>
<p>They played for a half an hour. And
who do you suppose won? Not Maida with
all her new-found strength, not Rosie with
all her nervous energy, not Billy with all his
athletic training.</p>
<p>“Mrs. Delia Flynn, champion of America
and Ireland,” Billy greeted the victor.
“Granny, we’ll have to enter you in the next
Olympic games.”
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page167">[Pg 167]</a></span></p>
<p>They returned after this breathless work
to the living-room.</p>
<p>“Now I’m going to tell you a story,”
Billy announced.</p>
<p>“Oh! Oh! Oh!” Maida squealed. “Do!
Billy tells the most wonderful stories, Rosie—stories
he’s heard and stories he’s read.
But the most wonderful ones are those that
he makes up as he goes along.”</p>
<p>The two little girls settled themselves on
the hearth-rug at Billy’s feet. Granny sat,
not far off, working with double speed at her
neglected knitting.</p>
<p>“Once upon a time,” Billy said,
“there
lived a little girl named Klara. And Klara
was the naughtiest little girl in the world.
She was a pretty child and a clever child
and everybody would have loved her if she
had only given them a chance. But how
can you love a child who is doing naughty
things all the time? Particularly was she
a great trial to her mother. That poor lady
was not well and needed care and attention,
herself. But instead of giving her these,
Klara gave her only hard words and disobedient
acts. The mother used sometimes
to punish her little daughter but it seemed
as if this only made her worse. Both father
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page168">[Pg 168]</a></span>
and mother were in despair about her.
Klara seemed to be growing steadily worse
and worse. And, indeed, lately, she had
added to her naughtiness by threatening to
run away.</p>
<p>“One night, it happened,
Klara had been
so bad that her mother had put her to bed
early. The moment her mother left the
room, Klara whipped over to the window.
‘I’m going to dress myself and climb out the
window and run away and never come back,’
she said to herself.’</p>
<p>“The house in which Klara lived was
built on the side of a cliff, overlooking the
sea. As Klara stood there in her nightgown
the moon began to rise and come up out of
the water. Now the moonrise is always a
beautiful sight and Klara stopped for a moment
to watch it, fascinated.</p>
<p>“It seemed to her that she had never seen
the moon look so big before. And certainly
she had never seen it such a color—a soft
deep orange. In fact, it might have been
an immense orange—or better, a monster
pumpkin stuck on the horizon-line.</p>
<p>“The strange thing about the moon,
though, was that it grew larger instead of
smaller. It rose higher and higher, growing
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page169">[Pg 169]</a></span>
bigger and bigger, until it was half-way
up the curve of the sky. Then it stopped
short. Klara watched it, her eyes bulging
out of her head. In all her experience she
had never seen such a surprising thing.
And while she watched, another remarkable
thing happened. A great door in the moon
opened suddenly and there on the threshold
stood a little old lady. A strange little old
lady she was—a little old lady with short red
skirts and high, gayly-flowered draperies at
her waist, a little old lady with a tall black,
sugar-loaf hat, a great white ruff around her
neck and little red shoes with bright silver
buckles on them—a little old lady who carried
a black cat perched on one shoulder and
a broomstick in one hand.</p>
<p>“The little old lady stooped down and
lifted something over the threshold. Klara
strained her eyes to see what it was. It
looked like a great roll of golden carpeting.
With a sudden deft movement the little old
lady threw it out of the door. It flew
straight across the ocean, unrolling as
swiftly as a ball of twine that you’ve flung
across the room. It came nearer and nearer.
The farther it got from the moon, the
faster it unrolled. After a while it struck
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page170">[Pg 170]</a></span>
against the shore right under Klara’s window
and Klara saw that it was the wake of
the moon. She watched.</p>
<p>“The little old lady had disappeared from
the doorway in the moon but the door did
not close. And, suddenly, still another wonderful
thing happened. The golden wake
lifted itself gradually from the water until
it was on a level with Klara’s window.
Bending down she touched it with both her
soft little hands. It was as firm and hard
as if it had been woven from strands of
gold.</p>
<p>“‘Now’s my time to run away from my
cross mother,’ Klara said to herself. ‘I
guess that nice old lady in the moon wants
me to come and be her little girl. Well, I’ll
go. I guess they’ll be sorry in this house
to-morrow when they wake up and find
they’re never going to see me again.’</p>
<p>“Opening the window gently that nobody
might hear her, she stepped on to the Wake
of Gold. It felt cool and hard to her little
bare feet. It inclined gently from her window.
She ran down the slope until she
reached the edge of the sea. There she hesitated.
For a moment it seemed a daring
thing to walk straight out to the moon with
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page171">[Pg 171]</a></span>
nothing between her and the water but a
path of gold. Then she recalled how her
mother had sent her to bed and her heart
hardened. She started briskly out.</p>
<p>“From Klara’s window it had looked
as though it would take her only a few moments
to get to the moon. But the farther
she went, the farther from her the doorway
seemed to go. But she did not mind that
the walk was so long because it was so
pretty. Looking over the edge of the Wake
of Gold, deep down in the water, she could
see all kinds of strange sights.</p>
<p>“At one place a school of little fish swam
up to the surface of the water. Klara knelt
down and watched their pretty, graceful
motions. The longer she gazed the more
fish she saw and the more beautiful they
seemed. Pale-blue fishes with silver spots.
Pale-pink ones with golden stripes. Gorgeous
red ones with jewelled black horns.
Brilliant yellow and green ones that shone
like phosphorus. And here and there, gliding
among them, were what seemed little
angel-fish like living rainbows, whose filmy
wing-like fins changed color when they
swam.</p>
<p>“Klara reached into the water and tried
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page172">[Pg 172]</a></span>
to catch some of these marvelous beings.</p>
<p>“But at her first motion—bing! The water
looked as if it were streaked with rainbow
lightning. Swish! It was dull and
clear again, with nothing between her and
the quiet, seaweed-covered bottom.</p>
<p>“A little farther along Klara came across
a wonderful sea-grotto. Again she knelt
down on the Wake of Gold and watched.
At the bottom the sand was so white and
shiny that it might have been made of star-dust.
Growing up from it were beds of
marvelous seaflowers, opening and shutting
delicate petals, beautiful seafans that waved
with every ripple, high, thick shrubs and
towering trees in which the fishes had built
their nests. In and out among all this undergrowth,
frisked tiny sea-horses, ridden
by mischievous sea-urchins. They leaped
and trotted and galloped as if they were so
happy that they did not know what to do.
Klara felt that she must play with them.
She put one little foot into the water to attract
their attention. Bing! The water
seemed alive with scuttling things. Swish!
The grotto was so quiet that she could not
believe that there was anything living in it.</p>
<p>“A little farther on, Klara came upon a
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page173">[Pg 173]</a></span>
sight even more wonderful than this—a village
of mer-people. It was set so far down
in the water that it seemed a million miles
away. And yet the water was so clear that
she felt she could touch the housetops.</p>
<p>“The mer-houses seemed to be made of a
beautiful, sparkling white coral with big,
wide-open windows through which the tide
drifted. The mer-streets seemed to be cobbled
in pearl, the sidewalks to be paved in
gold. At their sides grew mer-trees, the
highest she had ever seen, with all kinds of
beautiful singing fish roosting in their
branches. Little mer-boats of carved pink
coral with purple seaweed sails or of mother-of-pearl
with rosy, mer-flower-petal sails,
were floating through the streets. In some,
sat little mer-maidens, the sunlight flashing
on their pretty green scales, on their long,
golden tresses, on the bright mirrors they
held in their hands. Other boats held little
mer-boys who made beautiful music on the
harps they carried.</p>
<p>“At one end of the mer-village Klara
could see one palace, bigger and more beautiful
than all the others. Through an open
window she caught a glimpse of the mer-king—a
jolly old fellow with a fat red face
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page174">[Pg 174]</a></span>
and a long white beard sitting on a throne
of gold. At his side reclined the mer-queen—a
very beautiful lady with a skin as white
as milk and eyes as green as emeralds. Little
mer-princes and little mer-princesses
were playing on the floor with tiny mer-kittens
and tinier mer-puppies. One sweet
little mer-baby was tiptailing towards the
window with a pearl that she had stolen
from her sister’s coronet.</p>
<p>“It seemed to Klara that this mer-village
was the most enchanting place that she had
ever seen in her life. Oh, how she wanted
to live there!</p>
<p>“‘Oh, good mer-king,’ she called entreatingly,
‘and good mer-queen, please let me
come to live in your palace.’</p>
<p>“Bing! The water rustled and roiled as
if all the birds of paradise that the world
contained had taken flight. Swish! It
was perfectly quiet again. The mer-village
was as deserted as a graveyard.</p>
<p>“‘Well, if they don’t want me, they
shan’t get me,” Klara said. And she walked
on twice as proud.’</p>
<p>“By this time she was getting closer and
closer to the moon. The nearer she came
the bigger it grew. Now it filled the entire
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page175">[Pg 175]</a></span>
sky. The door had remained open all this
time. Through it she could see a garden—a
garden more beautiful than any fairy-tale
garden that she had ever read about. From
the doorway silvery paths stretched between
hedges as high as a giant’s head. Sometimes
these paths ended in fountains whose
spray twisted into all kinds of fairy-like
shapes. Sometimes these paths seemed to
stop flush against the clouds. Nearer
stretched flower-beds so brilliant that you
would have thought a kaleidoscope had
broken on the ground. Birds, like living
jewels, flew in and out through the tree-branches.
They sang so hard that it seemed
to Klara they must burst their little throats.
From the branches hung all kinds of precious
stones, all kinds of delicious-looking
fruits and candies.</p>
<p>“Klara could not scramble through the
door quickly enough.</p>
<p>“But as she put one foot on the threshold
the little old lady appeared. She looked as
if she had stepped out of a fairy-tale. And
yet Klara had a strange feeling of discomfort
when she looked at her. It seemed to
Klara that the old lady’s mouth was cruel
and her eyes hard.
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page176">[Pg 176]</a></span></p>
<p>“‘Are you the little girl who’s run away?’
the old lady asked.</p>
<p>“‘Yes,’ Klara faltered.</p>
<p>“‘And you want to live in the Kingdom
of the Moon?’</p>
<p>“‘Yes.’</p>
<p>“‘Enter then.’</p>
<p>“The old lady stepped aside and Klara
marched across the threshold. She felt the
door swinging to behind her. She heard a
bang as it closed, shutting her out of the
world and into the moon.</p>
<p>“And then—and then—what do you think
happened?”</p>
<p>Billy stopped for a moment. Rosie and
Maida rose to their knees.</p>
<p>“What happened?” they asked breathlessly.</p>
<p>“The garden vanished as utterly as if it
were a broken soap-bubble. Gone were the
trees and the flowers; gone were the fountains
and the birds; gone, too, were the jewels,
the candies and the fruits.</p>
<p>“The place had become a huge, dreary
waste, stretching as far as Klara could see
into the distance. It seemed to her as if all
the trash that the world had outgrown had
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page177">[Pg 177]</a></span>
been dumped here—it was so covered with
heaps of old rubbish.</p>
<p>“Klara turned to the old lady. She had
not changed except that her cruel mouth
sneered.</p>
<p>“Klara burst into tears. ‘I want to go
home,’ she screamed. ‘Let me go back to my mother.’”</p>
<p>“The old lady only smiled. ‘You open
that door and let me go back to my mother,’
Klara cried passionately.</p>
<p>“‘But I can’t open it,’ the old lady said.
‘It’s locked. I have no keys.’</p>
<p>“‘Where are the keys?’ Klara asked.</p>
<p>“The old lady pointed to the endless heaps
of rubbish. ‘There, somewhere,’ she said.</p>
<p>“‘I’ll find them,’ Klara screamed, ‘and
open that door and run back to my home.
You shan’t keep me from my own dear
mother, you wicked woman.’</p>
<p>“‘Nobody wants to keep you,’ the old
lady said. ‘You came of your own accord.
Find the keys if you want to go back.’</p>
<p>“That was true and Klara wisely did not
answer. But you can fancy how she regretted
coming. She began to search among the
dump-heaps. She could find no keys. But
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page178">[Pg 178]</a></span>
the longer she hunted the more determined
she grew. It seemed to her that she
searched for weeks and weeks.</p>
<p>“It was very discouraging, very dirty and
very fatiguing work. She moved always in
a cloud of dust. At times it seemed as if
her back would break from bending so
much. Often she had to bite her lips to
keep from screaming with rage after she
had gone through a rubbish-pile as high as
her head and, still, no keys. All kinds of
venomous insects stung her. All kinds of
vines and brambles scratched her. All
kinds of stickers and thistles pricked her.
Her little feet and hands bled all the time.
But still she kept at it. After that first
conversation, Klara never spoke with the
old lady again. After a few days Klara left
her in the distance. At the end of a week,
the moon-door was no longer in sight when
Klara looked back.</p>
<p>“But during all those weeks of weary
work Klara had a chance to think. She
saw for the first time what a naughty little
girl she had been and how she had worried
the kindest mother in the world. Her longing
for her mother grew so great at times
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page179">[Pg 179]</a></span>
that she had to sit down and cry. But after
a while she would dry her eyes and go at the
hunt with fresh determination.</p>
<p>“One day she caught a glint of something
shining from a clump of bushes. She had
to dig and dig to get at it for about these
bushes the ashes were packed down hard.
But finally she uncovered a pair of iron
keys. On one was printed in letters of
gold, ‘I’m SORRY,’ on the other, ‘I’LL
NEVER DO SO AGAIN.’</p>
<p>“Klara seized the keys joyfully and ran
all the long way back to the great door. It
had two locks. She put one key in the upper
lock, turned it—a great bolt jarred.
She put the other key into the second lock,
turned it—a great bolt jarred. The door
swung open.</p>
<p>“‘I’m sorry,’ Klara whispered to herself.
‘I’ll never do so again.’</p>
<p>“She had a feeling that as long as she
said those magic words, everything would
go well with her.</p>
<p>“Extending out from the door was the
Wake of Gold. Klara bounded through
the opening and ran. She turned back after
a few moments and there was the old lady
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page180">[Pg 180]</a></span>
with her cat and her broomstick standing
in the doorway. But the old lady’s face had
grown very gentle and kind.</p>
<p>“Klara did not look long. She ran as
fast as she could pelt across the golden path,
whispering, ‘I’m sorry. I will never do so
again. I’m sorry. I will never do so again.
I’m sorry. I will never do so again.’</p>
<p>“And as she ran all the little mer-people
came to the surface of the water to encourage
her. The little mer-maidens flashed
their mirrors at her. The little mer-boys
played wonderful music on their harps.
The mer-king gave her a jolly smile and the
mer-queen blew her a kiss. All the little
mer-princesses and all the little mer-princes
held up their pets to her. Even the mer-baby
clapped her dimpled hands.</p>
<p>“And farther on all the little sea horses
with the sea urchins on their backs assembled
in bobbing groups. And farther on all
the little rainbow fishes gathered in shining
files. As she ran all the scratches and
gashes in her flesh healed up.</p>
<p>“After a while she reached her own window.
Opening it, she jumped in. Turning
to pull it down she saw the old lady disappear
from the doorway of the moon, saw
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page181">[Pg 181]</a></span>
the door close upon her, saw the Wake of
Gold melt and fall into the sea where it lay
in a million gleaming spangles, saw the
moon float up into the sky, growing smaller
and smaller and paler and paler until it
was no larger than a silver plate. And now
it was the moon no longer—it was the sun.
Its rays were shining hot on her face. She
was back in her little bed. Her mother’s
arms were about her and Klara was saying,
‘I’m SORRY. I WILL NEVER DO SO
AGAIN.’”</p>
<hr />
<p>For a long time after Billy finished the
room was very quiet. Then suddenly Rosie
jumped to her feet. “That was a lovely
story, Billy,” she said. “But I guess I
don’t want to hear any more now. I think
I’ll go home.”</p>
<hr />
<div>
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page182">[Pg 182]</a></span>
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX"></a>CHAPTER IX</h2>
<h3>WORK</h3>
<p class="returnTOC"><a href="#Contents">Return to Table of Contents</a></p>
</div>
<p>It was still raining when Maida got up
the next day. It rained all the morning.
She listened carefully at a quarter to
twelve for the one-session bell but it did not
ring. Just before school began in the afternoon
Rosie came into the shop. Maida saw
at once that something had happened to her.
Rosie’s face looked strange and she dragged
across the room instead of pattering with
her usual quick, light step.</p>
<p>“What do you think’s happened,
Maida?” Rosie asked.</p>
<p>“I don’t know. Oh, what?” Maida asked
affrighted.</p>
<p>“When I came home from school this
noon mother wasn’t there. But Aunt
Theresa was there—she’d cooked the dinner.
She said that mother had gone away for a
visit and that she wouldn’t be back for some
time. She said she was going to keep house
for father and me while mother was gone.
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page183">[Pg 183]</a></span>
I feel dreadfully homesick and lonesome
without mother.”</p>
<p>“Oh Rosie, I am sorry,” Maida said.
“But perhaps your mother won’t stay long.
Do you like your Aunt Theresa?”</p>
<p>“Oh, yes, I like her. But of course she
isn’t mother.”</p>
<p>“No, of course. Nobody is like your
mother.”</p>
<p>“Oh, yes; there’s something else I had to
tell you. The W.M.N.T.’s are going to
meet at Dicky’s after school this afternoon.
Be sure to come, Maida.”</p>
<p>“Of course I’ll come.” Maida’s whole
face sparkled. “That is, if Granny doesn’t
think it’s too wet.”</p>
<p>Rosie lingered for a few moments but she
did not seem like her usual happy-go-lucky
self. And when she left, Maida noticed that
instead of running across the street she actually
walked.</p>
<p>All the morning long Maida talked of
nothing to Granny but the prospective meeting
of the W.M.N.T.’s. “Just think,
Granny, I never belonged to a club before,”
she said again and again.</p>
<p>Very early she had put out on her bed the
clothes that she intended to wear—a tanbrown
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page184">[Pg 184]</a></span>
serge of which she was particularly
fond, and her favorite “tire” of a delicate,
soft lawn. She kept rushing to the window
to study the sky. It continued to look like
the inside of a dull tin cup. She would not
have eaten any lunch at all if Granny had
not told her that she must. And her heart
sank steadily all the afternoon for the rain
continued to come down.</p>
<p>“I don’t suppose I can go, Granny,” she
faltered when the clock struck four.</p>
<p>“Sure an you
<span style="font-style: italic">can</span>,” Granny responded
briskly.</p>
<p>But she wrapped Maida up, as Maida herself
said: “As if I was one of papa’s
carved crystals come all the way from
China.”</p>
<p>First Granny put on a sweater, then a
coat, then over all a raincoat. She put a
hood on her head and a veil over that. She
made her wear rubber boots and take an
umbrella. Maida got into a gale of laughter
during the dressing.</p>
<p>“I ought to be wrapped in excelsior now,”
she said. “If I fall down in the puddle in
the court, Granny,” she threatened merrily,
“I never can pick myself up. I’ll either
have to roll and roll and roll until I get on
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page185">[Pg 185]</a></span>
to dry land or I’ll have to wait until somebody
comes and shovels me out.”</p>
<p>But she did not fall into the puddle. She
walked carefully along the edge and then
ran as swiftly as her clothes and lameness
would permit. She arrived in Dicky’s garret,
red-cheeked and breathless.</p>
<p>Arthur and Rosie had already come.
Rosie was playing on the floor with Delia
and the puppy that she had rescued from
the tin-can persecution. Rosie was growling,
the dog was yelping and Delia was
squealing—but all three with delight.</p>
<p>Arthur and Dicky sat opposite each other,
working at the round table.</p>
<p>“What do you think of that dog now,
Maida?” Rosie asked proudly. “His name
is <span style="font-style: normal">‘Tag.’</span> You wouldn’t know him for the
same dog, would you? Isn’t he a nice-looking
little puppy?”</p>
<p>Tag did look like another dog. He wore
a collar and his yellowy coat shone like
satin. His whole manner had changed. He
came running over to Maida and stood looking
at her with the most spirited air in the
world, his head on one side, one paw up and
one ear cocked inquisitively. His tail wriggled
so fast that Delia thinking it some wonderful
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page186">[Pg 186]</a></span>
new toy, kept trying to catch it and
hold it in her little fingers.</p>
<p>“He’s a lovely doggie,” Maida said. “I
wish I’d brought Fluff.”</p>
<p>“And did you ever see such a dear baby,”
Rosie went on, hugging Delia. “Oh, if I
only had a baby brother or sister!”</p>
<p>“She’s a darling,” Maida agreed heartily.
“Babies are so much more fun than dolls,
don’t you think so, Rosie?”</p>
<p>“Dolls!” No words can express the contempt
that was in Miss Brine’s accent.</p>
<p>“What are you doing, Dicky?” Maida
asked, limping over to the table.</p>
<p>“Making things,” Dicky said cheerfully.</p>
<p>On the table were piles of mysterious-looking
objects made entirely of paper.
Some were of white paper and others of
brown, but they were all decorated with
trimmings of colored tissue.</p>
<p>“What are they?” Maida asked. “Aren’t
they lovely? I never saw anything like
them in my life.”</p>
<p>Dicky blushed all over his face at this
compliment but it was evident that he was
delighted. “Well, those are paper-boxes,”
he said, pointing to the different piles of
things, “and those are steamships. Those
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page187">[Pg 187]</a></span>
are the old-fashioned kind with double
smokestacks. Those are double-boats,
jackets, pants, badges, nose-pinchers,
lamp-lighters, firemen’s caps and soldier
caps.”</p>
<p>“Oh, that’s why you buy all that colored
paper,” Maida said in a tone of great satisfaction.
“I’ve often wondered.” She examined
Dicky’s work carefully. She could
see that it was done with remarkable precision
and skill. “Oh, what fun to do
things like that. I do wish you’d show me
how to make them, Dicky. I’m such a useless
girl. I can’t make a single thing.”</p>
<p>“I’ll show you, sure,” Dicky offered generously.</p>
<p>“What are you making so many for?”
Maida queried.</p>
<p>“Well, you see it’s this way,” Dicky began
in a business-like air. “Arthur and
Rosie and I are going to have a fair. We’ve
had a fair every spring and every fall for
the last three years. That’s how we get our
money for Christmas and the Fourth of
July. Arthur whittles things out of wood—he’ll
show you what he can do in a minute—he’s
a crackajack. Rosie makes candy.
And I make these paper things.”
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page188">[Pg 188]</a></span></p>
<p>“And do you make much money?” Maida
asked, deeply interested.</p>
<p>“Don’t make any money at all,” Dicky
said. “The children pay us in nails. I
charge them ten nails a-piece for the easy
things and twenty nails for the hardest.
Arthur can get more for his stuff because
it’s harder to do.”</p>
<p>“But what do you want nails for?”
Maida asked in bewilderment.</p>
<p>“Why, nails are junk.”</p>
<p>“And what’s junk?”</p>
<p>The three children stared at her. “Don’t
you know what <span style="font-style: italic">junk</span> is, Maida?” Rosie
asked in despair.</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>“Junk’s old iron,” Dicky explained.
“And you sell it to the junkman. Once we
made forty cents out of one of these fairs.
One reason we’re beginning so early this
year, I’ve got something very particular I
want to buy my mother for a Christmas
present. Can you keep a secret, Maida?”</p>
<p>Maida nodded.</p>
<p>“Well, it’s a fur collar for her neck.
They have them down in a store on Main
street every winter—two dollars and ninetyeight
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page189">[Pg 189]</a></span>
cents. It seems an awful lot but I’ve
got over a dollar saved up. And I guess I
can do it if I work hard.”</p>
<p>“How much have you made ordinarily?”
Maida asked thoughtfully.</p>
<p>“Once we made forty cents a-piece but
that’s the most.”</p>
<p>“I tell you what you do,” Maida burst
out impetuously after a moment of silence
in which she considered this statement.
“When the time comes for you to hold your
fair, I’ll lend you my shop for a day. I’ll
take all the things out of the window and
I’ll clean all the shelves off and you boys
can put your things there. I’ll clear out
the showcases for Rosie’s candy. Won’t
that be lovely?” She smiled happily.</p>
<p>“It would be grand business for us,”
Dicky said soberly, “but somehow it doesn’t
seem quite fair to you.”</p>
<p>“Oh, please don’t think of that,” Maida
said. “I’d just love to do it. And you
must teach me how to make things so that I
can help you. You will take the shop,
Dicky?” she pleaded. “And you, Rosie?
And Arthur?” She looked from one to the
other with all her heart in her eyes.
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page190">[Pg 190]</a></span></p>
<p>But nobody spoke for a moment. “It
seems somehow as if we oughtn’t to,” Dicky
said awkwardly at last.</p>
<p>Maida’s lip trembled. At first she could
not understand. Here she was aching to do
a kindness to these three friends of hers.
And they, for some unknown reason, would
not permit it. It was not that they disliked
her, she knew. What was it? She tried to
put herself in their place. Suddenly it
came to her what the difficulty was. They
did not want to be so much in her debt.
How could she prevent that? She must let
them do something for her that would lessen
that debt. But what? She thought very
hard. In a flash it came to her—a plan by
which she could make it all right.</p>
<p>“You see,” she began eagerly, “I wanted
to ask you three to help me in something,
but I can’t do it unless you let me help you.
Listen—the next holiday is Halloween. I
want to decorate my shop with a lot of real
jack-o’-lanterns cut from pumpkins. It
will be hard work and a lot of it and I was
hoping that perhaps you’d help me with
this.”</p>
<p>The three faces lighted up.
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page191">[Pg 191]</a></span></p>
<p>“Of course we will,” Dicky said heartily.</p>
<p>“Gee, I bet Dicky and I could make some
great lanterns,” Arthur said reflectively.</p>
<p>“And I’ll help you fix up the store,”
Rosie said with enthusiasm. “I just love to
make things look pretty.”</p>
<p>“It’s a bargain then,” Maida said. “And
now you must teach me how to help you
this very afternoon, Dicky.”</p>
<p>They fell to work with a vim. At least
three of them did. Rosie continued to
frisk with Delia and Tag on the floor.
Dicky started Maida on the caps first. He
said that those were the easiest. And, indeed
she had very little trouble with anything
until she came to the boxes. She had
to do her first box over and over again
before it would come right. But Dicky was
very patient with her. He kept telling her
that she did better than most beginners or
she would have given it up. When she
made her first good box, her face beamed
with satisfaction.</p>
<p>“Do you mind if I take it home, Dicky?”
she asked. “I’d like to show it to my father
when he comes. It’s the first thing
I ever made in my life.”
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page192">[Pg 192]</a></span></p>
<p>“Of course,” Dicky said.</p>
<p>“Don’t the other children ever try to copy
your things?” Maida asked.</p>
<p>“They try to,” Arthur answered, “but
they never do so well as Dicky.”</p>
<p>“You ought to see their nose-pinchers,”
Rosie laughed. “They can’t stand up
straight. And their boxes and steamships
are the wobbliest things.”</p>
<p>“I’m going to get all kinds of stuff for
things we make for the fair,” Maida said
reflectively. “Gold and silver paper and
colored stars and pretty fancy pictures
for trimmings. You see if you’re going to
charge real money you must make them
more beautiful than those for which you
only charged nails.”</p>
<p>“That’s right,” Dicky said. “By George,
that will be great! You go ahead and buy
whatever you think is right, Maida, and I’ll
pay you for it from what we take in at the
fair.”</p>
<p>“That’s settled. What do you whittle,
Arthur?”</p>
<p>“Oh, all kinds of things—things I made
up myself and things I learned how to do
in sloyd in school. I make bread-boards
and rolling pins and shinny sticks and cats
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page193">[Pg 193]</a></span>
and little baskets out of cherry-stones.”</p>
<p>“Jiminy crickets, he’s forgetting the
boats,” Dicky burst in enthusiastically.
“He makes the dandiest boats you ever saw
in your life.”</p>
<p>Maida looked at Arthur in awe. “I
never heard anything like it! Can you
make anything for girls?”</p>
<p>“Made me a set of the darlingest dolls’
furniture you ever saw in your life,” Rosie
put in from the floor.</p>
<p>“Say, did you get into any trouble last
night?” Arthur turned suddenly to Rosie.
“I forgot to ask you.”</p>
<p>“Arthur and Rosie hooked jack yesterday,
in all that rain,” Dicky explained to
Maida. “They knew a place where they
could get a whole lot of old iron and they
were afraid if they waited, it would be
gone.”</p>
<p>“I should say I did,” Rosie answered Arthur’s
question. “Somebody went and tattled
to my mother. Of course, I was wet
through to the skin and that gave the whole
thing away, anyway. I got the worst scolding
and mother sent me to bed without my
supper. But I climbed out the window and
went over to see Maida. I don’t mind! I
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page194">[Pg 194]</a></span>
hate school and as long as I live I shall
never go except when I want to—never,
never, never! I guess I’m not going to be
shut up studying when I’d rather be out in
the open air. Wouldn’t you hook jack if
you wanted to, Maida?”</p>
<p>Maida did not reply for an instant. She
hated to have Rosie ask this question, point-blank
for she did not want to answer it. If
she said exactly what she thought there
might be trouble. And it seemed to her
that she would do almost anything rather
than lose Rosie’s friendship. But Maida
had been taught to believe that the truth is
the most precious thing in the world. And
so she told the truth after a while but it
was with a great effort.</p>
<p>“No, I wouldn’t,” she said.</p>
<p>“Oh, that’s all right for <span style="font-style: italic">you</span> to say,”
Rosie said firing up. “You don’t have to
go to school. You live the easiest life that
anybody can—just sitting in a chair and
tending shop all day. What do you know
about it, anyway?”</p>
<p>Maida’s lips quivered. “It is true I
don’t go to school, Rosie,” she said. “But
it isn’t because I don’t want to. I’d give
anything on earth if I could go. I watch
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page195">[Pg 195]</a></span>
that line of children every morning and
afternoon of my life and wish and <span style="font-style: italic">wish</span>
and WISH I was in it. And when the
windows are opened and I hear the singing
and reading, it seems as if I just
couldn’t stand it.”</p>
<p>“Oh, well,” Rosie’s tone was still scornful.
“I don’t believe, even if you did go
to school, that you’d ever do anything bad.
You’d never be anything but a fraid-cat and
teacher’s pet.”</p>
<p>“I guess I’d be so glad to be there, I’d
do anything the teacher asked,” Maida said
dejectedly. “I do a lot of things that bother
Granny but I guess I never have been a
very naughty girl. You can’t be very
naughty with your leg all crooked under
you.” Maida’s voice had grown bitter.
The children looked at her in amazement.
“But what’s the use of talking to you two,”
she went on. “You could never understand.
I guess Dicky knows what I mean,
though.”</p>
<p>To their great surprise, Maida put her
head down on the table and cried.</p>
<p>For a moment the room was perfectly silent.
The fire snapped and Dicky went
over to look at it. He stood with his back
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page196">[Pg 196]</a></span>
turned to the other children but a suspicious
snuffle came from his direction. Arthur
Duncan walked to the window and stood
looking out. Rosie sat still, her eyes downcast,
her little white teeth biting her red
lips. Then suddenly she jumped to her
feet, ran like a whirlwind to Maida’s side.
She put her arms about the bowed figure.</p>
<p>“Oh, do excuse me, Maida,” she begged.
“I know I’m the worst girl in the world.
Everybody says so and I guess it’s true.
But I do love you and I wouldn’t have hurt
your feelings for anything. I don’t believe
you’d be a fraid-cat or teacher’s pet—I
truly don’t. Please excuse me.”</p>
<p>Maida wiped her tears away. “Of course
I’ll excuse you! But just the same, Rosie,
I hope you won’t hook jack any more for
someday you’ll be sorry.”</p>
<p>“I’m going to make some candy now,”
Rosie said, adroitly changing the subject.
“I brought some molasses and butter and
everything I need.” She began to bustle
about the stove. Soon they were all laughing
again.</p>
<p>Maida had never pulled candy before and
she thought it the most enchanting fun in
the world. It was hard to keep at work,
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page197">[Pg 197]</a></span>
though, when it was such a temptation to
stop and eat it. But she persevered and succeeded
in pulling hers whiter than anybody’s.
She laughed and talked so busily
that, when she started to put on her things,
all traces of tears had disappeared.</p>
<p>The rain had stopped. The puddle was
of monster size after so long a storm. They
came out just in time to help Molly fish
Tim out of the water and to prevent Betsy
from giving a stray kitten a bath. Following
Rosie and Arthur, Maida waded through
it from one end to the other—it seemed the
most perilous of adventures to her.</p>
<p>After that meeting, the W.M.N.T.’s
were busier than they had ever been. Every
other afternoon, and always when it was
bad weather, they worked at Maida’s house.
Granny gave Maida a closet all to herself
and as fast as the things were finished they
were put in boxes and stowed away on its
capacious shelves.</p>
<p>Arthur whittled and carved industriously.
His work went slower than Dicky’s of
course but, still, it went with remarkable
quickness. Maida often stopped her own
work on the paper things to watch Arthur’s.
It was a constant marvel to her that such
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page198">[Pg 198]</a></span>
big, awkward-looking hands could perform
feats of such delicacy. Her own fingers,
small and delicate as they were, bungled
surprisingly at times.</p>
<p>“And as for the paste,” Maida said in
disgust to Rosie one day, “you’d think that
I fell into the paste-pot every day. I wash
it off my hands and face. I pick it off of
my clothes and sometimes Granny combs it
out of my hair.”</p>
<p>Often after dinner, the W.M.N.T.’s
would call in a body on Maida. Then would
follow long hours of such fun that Maida
hated to hear the clock strike nine. Always
there would be molasses-candy making by
the capable Rosie at the kitchen stove and
corn-popping by the vigorous Arthur on the
living-room hearth. After the candy had
cooled and the pop corn had been flooded in
melted butter, they would gather about the
hearth to roast apples and chestnuts and to
listen to the fairy-tales that Maida would
read.</p>
<p>The one thing which she could do and
they could not was to read with the ease
and expression of a grown person. As
many of her books were in French as in
English and it was the wonder of the other
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page199">[Pg 199]</a></span>
W.M.N.T.’s that she could read a French
story, translating as she went. Her books
were a delight to Arthur and Dicky and she
lent them freely. Rosie liked to listen to
stories but she did not care to read.</p>
<p>Maida was very happy nowadays. Laura
was the only person in the Court who had
caused her any uneasiness. Since the day
that Laura had made herself so disagreeable,
Maida had avoided her steadily. Best
of all, perhaps, Maida’s health had improved
so much that even her limp was
slowly disappearing.</p>
<p>In the course of time, the children taught
Maida the secret language of the W.M.N.T.’s.
They could hold long conversations
that were unintelligible to anybody else.
When at first they used it in fun before
Maida, she could not understand a word.
After they had explained it to her, she wondered
that she had ever been puzzled.</p>
<p>“It’s as easy as anything,” Rosy said.
“You take off the first sound of a word and
put it on the end with an <span style="font-style: italic">ay</span> added to it
like MAN—an-may. BOY—oy-bay.
GIRL—irl-gay. When a word is just one
sound like I or O, or when it begins with
a vowel like EEL or US or OUT, you add
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page200">[Pg 200]</a></span>
<span style="font-style: italic">way</span>, like I—I-way. O—O-way. EEL—eel-way.
US—us-way. OUT—out-way.”</p>
<p>Thus Maida could say to Rosie:</p>
<p>“Are-way ou-yay oing-gay o-tay ool-schay
o-tay ay-day?” and mean simply, “Are you
going to school to-day?”</p>
<p>And sometimes to Maida’s grief, Rosie
would reply roguishly:</p>
<p>“O-nay I-way am-way oing-gay o-tay ook-hay
ack-jay ith-way Arthur-way.”</p>
<p>Billy Potter was finally invited to join the
W.M.N.T.’s too. He never missed a
meeting if he could possibly help it.</p>
<p>“Why do you call Maida, <span style="font-style: normal">‘Petronilla’</span>?”
Dicky asked him curiously one day when
Maida had run home for more paper.</p>
<p>“Petronilla is the name of a little girl in
a fairy-tale that I read when I was a little
boy,” Billy answered.</p>
<p>“And was she like Maida?” Arthur
asked.</p>
<p>“Very.”</p>
<p>“How?” Rosie inquired.</p>
<p>“Petronilla had a gold star set in her
forehead by a fairy when she was a baby,”
Billy explained. “It was a magic star.
Nobody but fairies could see it but it was
always there. Anybody who came within
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page201">[Pg 201]</a></span>
the light of Petronilla’s star, no matter how
wicked or hopeless or unhappy he was, was
made better and hopefuller and happier.”</p>
<p>Nobody spoke for an instant.</p>
<p>Then, “I guess Maida’s got the star all
right,” Dicky said.</p>
<p>Billy was very interested in the secret
language. At first when they talked this
gibberish before him, he listened mystified.
But to their great surprise he never asked
a question. They went right on talking as
if he were not present. In an interval of
silence, Billy said softly:</p>
<p>“I-way onder-way if-way I-way ought-bay
a-way uart-quay of-way ice-way-eam-cray,
ese-thay ildren-chay ould-way eat-way
it-way.”</p>
<p>For a moment nobody could speak. Then
a deafening, “es-yay!” was shouted at the
top of four pairs of lungs.</p>
<hr />
<div>
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page202">[Pg 202]</a></span>
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_X" id="CHAPTER_X"></a>CHAPTER X</h2>
<h3>PLAY</h3>
<p class="returnTOC"><a href="#Contents">Return to Table of Contents</a></p>
</div>
<p>But although the W.M.N.T.’s worked
very hard, you must not suppose that
they left no time to play. Indeed, the
weather was so fine that it was hard to stay
in the house. The beautiful Indian summer
had come and each new day dawned
more perfect than the last. The trees had
become so gorgeous that it was as if the
streets were lined with burning torches.
Whenever a breeze came, they seemed to
flicker and flame and flare. Maida and
Rosie used to shuffle along the gutters gathering
pocketsful of glossy horse-chestnuts
and handfuls of gorgeous leaves.</p>
<p>Sometimes it seemed to Maida that she did
not need to play, that there was fun enough
in just being out-of-doors. But she did
play a great deal for she was well enough to
join in all the fun now and it seemed to her
that she never could get enough of any one
game.
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page203">[Pg 203]</a></span></p>
<p>She would play house and paper-dolls
and ring-games with the little children in
the morning when the older ones were in
school. She would play jackstones with
the bigger girls in the afternoon. She
would play running games with the crowd
of girls and boys, of whom the W.M.N.T.’s
were the leaders, towards night. Then
sometimes she would grumble to Granny because
the days were so short.</p>
<p>Of all the games, Hoist-the-Sail was her
favorite. She often served as captain on
her side. But whether she called or awaited
the cry, “Liberty poles are bending—hoist
the sail!” a thrill ran through her that made
her blood dance.</p>
<p>“It’s no use in talking, Granny,” Maida
said joyfully one day. “My leg is getting
stronger. I jumped twenty jumps to-day
without stopping.”</p>
<p>After that her progress was rapid. She
learned to jump in the rope with Rosie.</p>
<p>They were a pretty sight. People passing
often gave them more than one glance—Rosie
so vivid and sparkling, in the scarlet
cape and hat all velvety jet-blacks, satiny
olives and brilliant crimsons—Maida slim,
delicate, fairy-like in her long squirrel-coat
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page204">[Pg 204]</a></span>
and cap, her airy ringlets streaming in the
breeze and the eyes that had once been so
wistful now shining with happiness.</p>
<p>“Do you know what you look like,
Maida?” Rosie said once. Before Maida
could answer, she went on. “You look like
that little mermaid princess in Anderson’s
fairy tales—the one who had to suffer so
to get legs like mortals.”</p>
<p>“Do I?” Maida laughed. “Now isn’t it
strange I have always thought that you look
like somebody in a fairy tale, too. You’re
like Rose-Red in <span style="font-style: normal">‘Rose-Red and Snow-White.’</span>
I think,” she added, flushing, for
she was a little afraid that it was not polite
to say things like this, “that you are the
beautifulest girl I ever saw.”</p>
<p>“Why, that’s just what I think of you,”
Rosie said in surprise.</p>
<p>“I just love black hair,” Maida said.</p>
<p>“And I just adore golden hair,” Rosie
said. “Now, isn’t that strange?”</p>
<p>“I guess,” Maida announced after a moment
of thought, “people like what they
haven’t got.”</p>
<p>After a while, Rosie taught Maida to jump
in the big rope with a half a dozen children
at once. Maida never tired of this. When
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page205">[Pg 205]</a></span>
she heard the rope swishing through the
air, a kind of excitement came over her.
She was proud to think that she had caught
the trick—that something inside would
warn her when to jump—that she could be
sure that this warning would not come an
instant too soon or too late. The consciousness
of a new strength and a new power
made a different child of her. It made her
eyes sparkle like gray diamonds. It made
her cheeks glow like pink peonies.</p>
<p>By this time she could spin tops with
the best of them—sometimes she had five
tops going at once. This was a sport of
which the W.M.N.T.’s never tired. They
kept it up long into the twilight. Sometimes
Granny would have to ring the dinner-bell
a half a dozen times before Maida
appeared. Maida did not mean to be disobedient.
She simply did not hear the bell.
Granny’s scoldings for this carelessness
were very gentle—Maida’s face was too radiant
with her triumph in this new skill.</p>
<p>There was something about Primrose
Court—the rows of trees welded into a yellow
arch high over their heads, the sky
showing through in diamond-shaped glints
of blue, the tiny trim houses and their
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page206">[Pg 206]</a></span>
tinier, trimmer yards, the doves pink-toeing
everywhere, their throats bubbling color as
wonderful as the old Venetian glass in the
Beacon Street house, the children running
and shouting, the very smell of the dust
which their pattering feet threw up—something
in the look of all this made Maida’s
spirits leap.</p>
<p>“I’m happy, <span style="font-style: italic">happy</span>, HAPPY,” Maida
said one day. The next—Rosie came rushing
into the shop with a frightened face.</p>
<p>“Oh, Maida,” she panted, “a terrible
thing has happened. Laura Lathrop’s got
diphtheria—they say she’s going to die.”</p>
<p>“Oh, Rosie, how dreadful! Who told
you so?”</p>
<p>“Annie the cook told Aunt Theresa. Dr.
Ames went there three times yesterday.
Annie says Mrs. Lathrop looks something
awful.”</p>
<p>“The poor, poor woman,” Granny murmured
compassionately.</p>
<p>“Oh, I’m so sorry I was cross to Laura,”
Maida said, conscience-stricken. “Oh, I do
hope she won’t die.”</p>
<p>“It must be dreadful for Laura,” Rosie
continued, “Harold can’t go near her. Nobody
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page207">[Pg 207]</a></span>
goes into the room but her mother and
the nurse.”</p>
<p>The news cast a deep gloom over the
Court. The little children—Betsy, Molly
and Tim played as usual for they could not
understand the situation. But the noisy
fun of the older children ceased entirely.
They gathered on the corner and talked in
low voices, watching with dread any movement
in the Lathrop house. For a week
or more Primrose Court was the quietest
spot in the neighborhood.</p>
<p>“They say she’s sinking,” Rosie said that
first night.</p>
<p>The thought of it colored Maida’s dreams.</p>
<p>“She’s got through the night all right,”
Rosie reported in the morning, her face
shining with hope. “And they think she’s
a little better.” But late the next afternoon,
Rosie appeared again, her face dark
with dread, “Laura’s worse again.”</p>
<p>Two or three days passed. Sometimes
Laura was better. Oftener she was worse.
Dr. Ames’s carriage seemed always to be
driving into the Court.</p>
<p>“Annie says she’s dying,” Rosie retailed
despairingly. “They don’t think she’ll live
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page208">[Pg 208]</a></span>
through the night. Oh, won’t it be dreadful
to wake up to-morrow and find the crape
on the door.”</p>
<p>The thought of what she might see in the
morning kept Maida awake a long time that
night. When she arose her first glance was
for the Lathrop door. There was no crape.</p>
<p>“No better,” Rosie dropped in to say on
her way to school “but,” she added hopefully,
“she’s no worse.”</p>
<p>Maida watched the Lathrop house all day,
dreading to see the undertaker’s wagon
drive up. But it did not come—not that
day, nor the next, nor the next.</p>
<p>“They think she’s getting better,” Rosie
reported joyfully one day.</p>
<p>And gradually Laura did get better.
But it was many days before she was well
enough to sit up.</p>
<p>“Mrs. Lathrop says,” Rosie burst in one
day with an excited face, “that if we all
gather in front of the house to-morrow at
one o’clock, she’ll lift Laura up to the window
so that we can see her. She says Laura
is crazy to see us all.”</p>
<p>“Oh, Rosie, I’m so glad!” Maida exclaimed,
delighted. Seizing each other by
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page209">[Pg 209]</a></span>
the waist, the two little girls danced about
the room.</p>
<p>“Oh, I’m going to be so good to Laura
when she gets well,” Maida said.</p>
<p>“So am I,” Rosie declared with equal
fervor. “The last thing I ever said to her
was that she was ‘a hateful little smarty-cat.’”</p>
<p>Five minutes before one, the next day, all
the children in Primrose Court gathered on
the lawn in front of Laura’s window.
Maida led Molly by one hand and Tim by
the other. Rosie led Betsy and Delia.
Dorothy Clark held Fluff and Mabel held
Tag. Promptly at one o’clock, Mrs. Lathrop
appeared at the window, carrying a little,
thin, white wisp of a girl, all muffled up
in a big shawl.</p>
<p>The children broke into shouts of joy.
The boys waved their hats and the girls
their handkerchiefs. Tag barked madly
and Rosie declared afterwards that even
Fluff looked excited. But Maida stood still
with the tears streaming down her cheeks—Laura’s
face looked so tiny, her eyes so big
and sad. From her own experience, Maida
could guess how weak Laura felt.
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page210">[Pg 210]</a></span></p>
<p>Laura stayed only an instant at the window.
One feeble wave of her claw-like
hand and she was gone.</p>
<p>“Annie says Mrs. Lathrop is worn to a
shadow trying to find things to entertain
Laura,” Rosie said one night to Maida and
Billy Potter. “She’s read all her books to
her and played all her games with her and
Laura keeps saying she wished she had
something new.”</p>
<p>“Oh, I do wish we could think of something
to do for her,” Maida said wistfully.
“I know just how she feels. If I could
only think of a new toy—but Laura has
everything. And then the trouble with toys
is that after you’ve played with them once,
there’s no more fun in them. I know what
that is. If we all had telephones, we could
talk to her once in a while. But even that
would tire her, I guess.”</p>
<p>Billy jumped. “I know what we can do
for Laura,” he said. “I’ll have to have
Mrs. Lathrop’s permission though.” He
seized his hat and made for the door. “I’d
better see her about it to-night.” The door
slammed.</p>
<p>It had all happened so suddenly that the
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page211">[Pg 211]</a></span>
children gazed after him with wide-open
mouths and eyes.</p>
<p>“What do you suppose it’s going to be,
Maida?” Rosie asked finally.</p>
<p>“I don’t know,” Maida answered. “I
haven’t the least idea. But if Billy makes
it, you may be sure it will be wonderful.”</p>
<p>When Billy came back, they asked him a
hundred questions. But they could not get
a word out of him in regard to the new toy.</p>
<p>He appeared at the shop early the next
morning with a suit-case full of bundles.
Then followed doings that, for a long time,
were a mystery to everybody. A crowd of
excited children followed him about, asking
him dozens of questions and chattering
frantically among themselves.</p>
<p>First, he opened one of the bundles—out
dropped eight little pulleys. Second, he
went up into Maida’s bedroom and fastened
one of the little pulleys on the sill outside
her window. Third, he did the same thing
in Rosie’s house, in Arthur’s and in Dicky’s.
Fourth, he fastened four of the little pulleys
at the playroom window in the Lathrop
house.</p>
<p>“Oh, what is he doing?” “I can’t think
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page212">[Pg 212]</a></span>
of anything.” “Oh, I wish he’d tell us,”
came from the children who watched these
manœuvres from the street.</p>
<p>Fifth, Billy opened another bundle—this
time, out came four coils of a thin rope.</p>
<p>“I know now,” Arthur called up to him,
“but I won’t tell.”</p>
<p>Billy grinned.</p>
<p>And, sure enough, “You watch him,” was
all Arthur would say to the entreaties of
his friends.</p>
<p>Sixth, Billy ran a double line of rope
between Maida’s and Laura’s window, a
second between Rosie’s and Laura’s, a third
between Arthur’s and Laura’s, a fourth between
Dicky’s and Laura’s.</p>
<p>Last, Billy opened another bundle. Out
dropped four square tin boxes, each with a
cover and a handle.</p>
<p>“I’ve guessed it! I’ve guessed it!”
Maida and Rosie screamed together. “It’s
a telephone.”</p>
<p>“That’s the answer,” Billy confessed.
He went from house to house fastening a
box to the lower rope.</p>
<p>“Now when you want to say anything to
Laura,” he said on his return, “just write
a note, put it in the box, pull on the upper
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page213">[Pg 213]</a></span>
string and it will sail over to her window.
Suppose you all run home and write something
now. I’ll go over to Laura’s to see
how it works.”</p>
<p>The children scattered. In a few moments,
four excited little faces appeared at
as many windows. The telephone worked
perfectly. Billy handed Mrs. Lathrop the
notes to deliver to Laura.</p>
<p>“Oh, Mr. Potter,” Mrs. Lathrop said suddenly,
“there’s a matter that I wished to
speak to you about. That little Flynn girl
has lived in the family of Mr. Jerome
Westabrook, hasn’t she?”</p>
<p>Billy’s eyes “skrinkled up.” “Yes, Mrs.
Lathrop,” he admitted, “she lived in the
Westabrook family for several years.”</p>
<p>“So I guessed,” Mrs. Lathrop said.
“She’s a very sweet little girl,” she went
on earnestly for she had been touched by
the sight of Maida’s grief the day that she
held Laura to the window. “I hope Mr.
Westabrook’s own little girl is as sweet.”</p>
<p>“She is, Mrs. Lathrop, I assure you she
is,” Billy said gravely.</p>
<p>“What is the name of the Westabrook
child?”</p>
<p>“Elizabeth Fairfax Westabrook.”
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page214">[Pg 214]</a></span></p>
<p>“What is she like?”</p>
<p>“She’s a good deal like Maida,” Billy
said, his eyes beginning to “skrinkle up”
again. “They could easily pass for sisters.”</p>
<p>“I suppose that’s why the Westabrooks
have been so good to the little Flynn girl,”
Mrs. Lathrop went on, “for they certainly
are very good to her. It is quite evident
that Maida’s clothes belonged once to the
little Westabrook girl.”</p>
<p>“You are quite right, Mrs. Lathrop.
They were made for the little Westabrook
girl.”</p>
<p>Mrs. Lathrop always declared afterwards
that it was the telephone that really cured
Laura. Certainly, it proved to be the most
exciting of toys to the little invalid. There
was always something waiting for her when
she waked up in the morning and the tin
boxes kept bobbing from window to window
until long after dark. The girls kept her
informed of what was going on in the neighborhood
and the boys sent her jokes and
conundrums and puzzle pictures cut from
the newspapers. Gifts came to her at all
hours. Sometimes it would be a bit of
wood-carving—a grotesque face, perhaps—that
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page215">[Pg 215]</a></span>
Arthur had done. Sometimes it was
a bit of Dicky’s pretty paper-work. Rosie
sent her specimens of her cooking from
candy to hot roasted potatoes, and Maida
sent her daily translations of an exciting
fairy tale which she was reading in French
for the first time.</p>
<p>Pretty soon Laura was well enough to answer
the notes herself. She wrote each of
her correspondents a long, grateful and affectionate
letter. By and by, she was able
to sit in a chair at the window and watch
the games. The children remembered every
few moments to look and wave to her
and she always waved back. At last came
the morning when a very thin, pale Laura
was wheeled out into the sunshine. After
that she grew well by leaps and bounds. In
a day or two, she could stand in the ring-games
with the little children. By the end
of a week, she seemed quite herself.</p>
<p>One morning every child in Primrose
Court received a letter in the mail. It was
written on gay-tinted paper with a pretty
picture at the top. It read:</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 3.00em; margin-left: 4.00em; margin-top: 2.00em; margin-right: 4.00em">
“You are cordially invited to a Halloween
party to be given by Miss Laura
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page216">[Pg 216]</a></span>
Lathrop at 29 Primrose Court on Saturday
evening, October 31, at a half after seven.”</p>
<hr />
<p>But as Maida ceased gradually to worry
about Laura, she began to be troubled about
Rosie. For Rosie was not the same child.
Much of the time she was silent, moody and
listless.</p>
<p>One afternoon she came over to the shop,
bringing the Clark twins with her. For awhile
she and Maida played “house” with
the little girls. Suddenly, Rosie tired of
this game and sent the children home.
Then for a time, she frolicked with Fluff
while Maida read aloud. As suddenly as
she had stopped playing “house” she interrupted
Maida.</p>
<p>“Don’t read any more,” she commanded,
“I want to talk with you.”</p>
<p>Maida had felt the whole afternoon that
there was something on Rosie’s mind for
whenever the scowl came between Rosie’s
eyebrows, it meant trouble. Maida closed
her book and sat waiting.</p>
<p>“Maida,” Rosie asked, “do you remember
your mother?”</p>
<p>“Oh, yes,” Maida answered, “perfectly.
She was very beautiful. I could not forget
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page217">[Pg 217]</a></span>
her any more than a wonderful picture.
She used to come and kiss me every night
before she went to dinner with papa. She
always smelled so sweet—whenever I see
any flowers, I think of her. And she wore
such beautiful dresses and jewels. She
loved sparkly things, I guess—sometimes
she looked like a fairy queen. Once she
had a new lace gown all made of roses of
lace and she had a diamond fastened in
every rose to make it look like dew. When
her hair was down, it came to her knees.
She let me brush it sometimes with her gold
brush.”</p>
<p>“A gold brush,” Rosie said in an awed
tone.</p>
<p>“Yes, it was gold with her initials in diamonds
on it. Papa gave her a whole set one
birthday.”</p>
<p>“How old were you when she died?”
Rosie asked after a pause in which her
scowl grew deeper.</p>
<p>“Eight.”</p>
<p>“What did she die of?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know,” Maida answered. “You
see I was so little that I didn’t understand
about dying. I had never heard of it.
They told me one day that my mother had
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page218">[Pg 218]</a></span>
gone away. I used to ask every day when
she was coming back and they’d say <span style="font-style: normal">‘next
week’</span> and <span style="font-style: normal">‘next week’</span> and <span style="font-style: normal">‘next week’</span>
until one day I got so impatient that I cried.
Then they told me that my mother was living
far away in a beautiful country and she
would never come back. They said that I
must not cry for she still loved me and was
always watching over me. It was a great
comfort to know that and of course I never
cried after that for fear of worrying her.
But at first it was very lonely. Why,
Rosie—” She stopped terrified. “What’s
the matter?”</p>
<p>Rosie had thrown herself on the couch,
and was crying bitterly. “Oh, Maida,” she
sobbed, “that’s exactly what they say to me
when I ask them—‘next week’ and ‘next
week’ and ‘next week’ until I’m sick of it.
My mother is dead and I know it.”</p>
<p>“Oh, Rosie!” Maida protested. “Oh no,
no, no—your mother is not dead. I can’t
believe it. I won’t believe it.”</p>
<p>“She is,” Rosie persisted. “I know she
is. Oh, what shall I do? Think how
naughty I was! What shall I do?” She
sobbed so convulsively that Maida was
frightened.
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page219">[Pg 219]</a></span></p>
<p>“Listen, Rosie,” she said. “You don’t
<span style="font-style: italic">know</span> your mother is dead. And I for one
don’t believe that she is.”</p>
<p>“But they said the same thing to you,”
Rosie protested passionately.</p>
<p>“I think it was because I was sick,”
Maida said after a moment in which she
thought the matter out. “They were afraid
that I might die if they told me the truth.
But whether your mother is alive or dead,
the only way you can make up for being
naughty is to be as good to your Aunt
Theresa as you can. Oh, Rosie, please go
to school every day.”</p>
<p>“Do you suppose I could ever hook jack
again?” Rosie asked bitterly. She dried
her eyes. “I guess I’ll go home now,” she
said, “and see if I can help Aunt Theresa
with the supper. And I’m going to get her
to teach me how to cook everything so that
I can help mother—if she ever comes
home.”</p>
<p>The next day Rosie came into the shop
with the happiest look that she had worn
for a long time.</p>
<p>“I peeled the potatoes for Aunt Theresa,
last night,” she announced, “and set the
table and wiped the dishes. She was real
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page220">[Pg 220]</a></span>
surprised. She asked me what had got into
me?”</p>
<p>“I’m glad,” Maida approved.</p>
<p>“I asked her when mother was coming
back and she said the same thing, ‘Next
week, I think.’” Rosie’s lip quivered.</p>
<p>“I think she’ll come back, Rosie,” Maida
insisted. “And now let’s not talk any more
about it. Let’s come out to play.”</p>
<p>Mindful of her own lecture on obedience
to Rosie, Maida skipped home the first
time Granny rang the bell.</p>
<p>Granny met her at the door. Her eyes
were shining with mischief. “You’ve got
a visitor,” she said. Maida could see that
she was trying to keep her lips prim at the
corners. She wondered who it was. Could
it be—</p>
<p>She ran into the living-room. Her father
jumped up from the easy-chair to meet
her.</p>
<p>“Well, well, well, Miss Rosy-Cheeks. No
need to ask how you are!” he said kissing
her.</p>
<p>“Oh papa, papa, I never was so happy in
all my life. If you could only be here with
me all the time, there wouldn’t be another
thing in the world that I wanted. Don’t
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page221">[Pg 221]</a></span>
you think you could give up Wall Street
and come to live in this Court? You might
open a shop too. Papa, I know you’d make
a good shopkeeper although it isn’t so easy
as a lot of people think. But I’d teach you
all I know—and, then, it’s such fun. You
could have a big shop for I know just how
you like big things—just as I like little
ones.”</p>
<p>“Buffalo” Westabrook laughed. “I may
have to come to it yet but it doesn’t look
like it this moment. My gracious, Posie,
how you have improved! I never would
know you for the same child. Where did
you get those dimples? I never saw them
in your face before. Your mother had
them, though.”</p>
<p>The shadow, that the mention of her
mother’s name always brought, darkened
his face. “How you are growing to look
like her!” he said.</p>
<p>Maida knew that she must not let him
stay sad. “Dimples!” she squealed. “Really,
papa?” She ran over to the mirror,
climbed up on a chair and peeked in. Her
face fell. “I don’t see any,” she said
mournfully.</p>
<p>“And you’re losing your limp,” Mr.
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page222">[Pg 222]</a></span>
Westabrook said. Then catching sight of
her woe-begone face, he laughed. “That’s
because you’ve stopped smiling, you little
goose,” he said. “Grin and you’ll see
them.”</p>
<p>Obedient, Maida grinned so hard that it
hurt. But the grin softened to a smile of
perfect happiness. For, sure enough,
pricking through the round of her soft, pink
cheeks, were a pair of tiny hollows.</p>
<hr />
<div>
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page223">[Pg 223]</a></span>
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XI" id="CHAPTER_XI"></a>CHAPTER XI</h2>
<h3>HALLOWEEN</h3>
<p class="returnTOC"><a href="#Contents">Return to Table of Contents</a></p>
</div>
<p>Halloween fell on Saturday that
year. That made Friday a very busy
time for Maida and the other members of
the W.M.N.T. In the afternoon, they
all worked like beavers making jack-o’-lanterns
of the dozen pumpkins that Granny
had ordered. Maida and Rosie and Dicky
hollowed and scraped them. Arthur did
all the hard work—the cutting out of the
features, the putting-in of candle-holders.
These pumpkin lanterns were for decoration.
But Maida had ordered many paper
jack-o’-lanterns for sale. The W.M.N.T.’s
spent the evening rearranging the shop.
Maida went to bed so tired that she could
hardly drag one foot after the other.
Granny had to undress her.</p>
<p>But when the school-children came flocking
in the next morning, she felt more than
repaid for her work. The shop resounded
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page224">[Pg 224]</a></span>
with the “Oh mys,” and “Oh looks,” of
their surprise and delight.</p>
<p>Indeed, the room seemed full of twinkling
yellow faces. Lines of them grinned in the
doorway. Rows of them smirked from the
shelves. A frieze, close-set as peas in a pod,
grimaced from the molding. The jolly-looking
pumpkin jacks, that Arthur had
made, were piled in a pyramid in the window.
The biggest of them all—“he
looks just like the man in the moon,” Rosie
said—smiled benignantly at the passers-by
from the top of the heap. Standing about
everywhere among the lanterns were groups
of little paper brownies, their tiny heads
turned upwards as if, in the greatest astonishment,
they were examining these monster
beings.</p>
<p>The jack-o’-lanterns sold like hot cakes.
As for the brownies, “Granny, you’d think
they were marching off the shelves!” Maida
said. By dark, she was diving breathlessly
into her surplus stock. At the first touch
of twilight, she lighted every lantern left
in the place. Five minutes afterwards, a
crowd of children had gathered to gaze at
the flaming faces in the window. Even the
grown-ups stopped to admire the effect.
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page225">[Pg 225]</a></span></p>
<p>More customers came and more—a great
many children whom Maida had never seen
before. By six o’clock, she had sold out
her entire stock. When she sat down to
dinner that night, she was a very happy
little girl.</p>
<p>“This is the best day I’ve had since I
opened the shop,” she said contentedly.
She was not tired, though. “I feel just
like going to a party to-night. Granny, can
I wear my prettiest Roman sash?”</p>
<p>“You can wear annyt’ing you want, my
lamb,” Granny said, “for ’tis the good, busy
little choild you’ve been this day.”</p>
<p>Granny dressed her according to Maida’s
choice, in white. A very, simple, soft little
frock, it was, with many tiny tucks made by
hand and many insertions of a beautiful,
fine lace. Maida chose to wear with it pale
blue silk stockings and slippers, a sash of
blue, striped in pink and white, a string of
pink Venetian beads.</p>
<p>“Now, Granny, I’ll read until the children
call for me,” she suggested, “so I
won’t rumple my dress.”</p>
<p>But she was too excited to read. She sat
for a long time at the window, just looking
out. Presently the jack-o’-lanterns, lighted
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page226">[Pg 226]</a></span>
now, began to make blobs of gold in the
furry darkness of the street. She could not
at first make out who held them. It was
strange to watch the fiery, grinning heads,
flying, bodiless, from place to place. But
she identified the lanterns in the court by
the houses from which they emerged. The
three small ones on the end at the left meant
Dicky and Molly and Tim. Two big ones,
mounted on sticks, came from across the
way—Rosie and Arthur, of course. Two,
just alike, trotting side by side betrayed
the Clark twins. A baby-lantern, swinging
close to the ground—that could be nobody
but Betsy.</p>
<p>The crowd in the Court began to march
towards the shop. For an instant, Maida
watched the spots of brilliant color dancing
in her direction. Then she slipped into her
coat, and seized her own lantern. When
she came outside, the sidewalk seemed
crowded with grotesque faces, all laughing
at her.</p>
<p>“Just think,” she said, “I have never
been to a Halloween party in my life.”</p>
<p>“You are the queerest thing, Maida,”
Rosie said in perplexity. “You’ve been to
Europe. You can talk French and Italian.
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page227">[Pg 227]</a></span>
And yet, you’ve never been to a Halloween
party. Did you ever hang May-baskets?”</p>
<p>Maida shook her head.</p>
<p>“You wait until next May,” Rosie prophesied
gleefully.</p>
<p>The crowd crossed over into the Court
Two motionless, yellow faces, grinning at
them from the Lathrop steps, showed that
Laura and Harold had come out to meet
them. On the lawn they broke into an impromptu
game of tag which the jack-o’-lanterns
seemed to enjoy as much as the
children: certainly, they whizzed from
place to place as quickly and, certainly,
they smiled as hard.</p>
<p>The game ended, they left their lanterns
on the piazza and trooped into the house.</p>
<p>“We’ve got to play the first games in the
kitchen,” Laura announced after the coats
and hats had come off and Mrs. Lathrop
had greeted them all.</p>
<p>Maida wondered what sort of party it was
that was held in the kitchen but she asked
no questions. Almost bursting with curiosity,
she joined the long line marching to
the back of the house.</p>
<p>In the middle of the kitchen floor stood
a tub of water with apples floating in it.
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page228">[Pg 228]</a></span></p>
<p>“Bobbing for apples!” the children exclaimed.
“Oh, that’s the greatest fun of all.
Did you ever bob for apples, Maida?”</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>“Let Maida try it first, then,” Laura said.
“It’s very easy, Maida,” she went on with
twinkling eyes. “All you have to do is to
kneel on the floor, clasp your hands behind
you, and pick out one of the apples with
your teeth. You’ll each be allowed three
minutes.”</p>
<p>“Oh, I can get a half a dozen in three
minutes, I guess,” Maida said.</p>
<p>Laura tied a big apron around Maida’s
waist and stood, watch in hand. The children
gathered in a circle about the tub.
Maida knelt on the floor, clasped her hands
behind her and reached with a wide-open
mouth for the nearest apple. But at the
first touch of her lips, the apple bobbed
away. She reached for another. That
bobbed away, too. Another and another
and another—they all bobbed clean out of
her reach, no matter how delicately she
touched them. That method was unsuccessful.</p>
<p>“One minute,” called Laura.</p>
<p>Maida could hear the children giggling at
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page229">[Pg 229]</a></span>
her. She tried another scheme, making vicious
little dabs at the apples. Her beads
and her hair-ribbon and one of her long
curls dipped into the water. But she only
succeeded in sending the apples spinning
across the tub.</p>
<p>“Two minutes!” called Laura.</p>
<p>“Why don’t you get those half a dozen,”
the children jeered. “You know you said
it was so easy.”</p>
<p>Maida giggled too. But inwardly, she
made up her mind that she would get one
of those apples if she dipped her whole
head into the tub. At last a brilliant idea
occurred to her. Using her chin as a guide,
she poked a big rosy apple over against the
side of the tub. Wedging it there
against another big apple, she held it
tight. Then she dropped her head a little,
gave a sudden big bite and arose amidst applause,
with the apple secure between her
teeth.</p>
<p>After that she had the fun of watching
the other children. The older ones were
adepts. In three minutes, Rosie secured
four, Dicky five and Arthur six. Rosie did
not get a drop of water on her but the boys
emerged with dripping heads. The little
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page230">[Pg 230]</a></span>
children were not very successful but they
were more fun. Molly swallowed so much
water that she choked and had to be patted
on the back. Betsy after a few snaps of
her little, rosebud mouth, seized one of the
apples with her hand, sat down on the floor
and calmly ate it. But the climax was
reached when Tim Doyle suddenly lurched
forward and fell headlong into the tub.</p>
<p>“I knew he’d fall in,” Molly said in a
matter-of-fact voice. “He always falls into
everything. I brought a dry set of clothes
for him. Come, Tim!”</p>
<p>At this announcement, everybody shrieked.
Molly disappeared with Tim in the direction
of Laura’s bedroom. When she reappeared,
sure enough, Tim had a dry suit
on.</p>
<p>Next Laura ordered them to sit about
the kitchen-table. She gave each child an
apple and a knife and directed him to pare
the apple without breaking the peel. If
you think that is an easy thing to do, try it.
It seemed to Maida that she never would accomplish
it. She spoiled three apples before
she succeeded.</p>
<p>“Now take your apple-paring and form
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page231">[Pg 231]</a></span>
in line across the kitchen-floor,” Laura commanded.</p>
<p>The flock scampered to obey her.</p>
<p>“Now when I say ‘Three!’” she continued,
“throw the parings back over your
shoulder to the floor. If the paring makes
a letter, it will be the initial of your future
husband or wife. One! <span style="font-style: italic">Two</span>! THREE!”</p>
<p>A dozen apple-parings flew to the floor.
Everybody raced across the room to examine
the results.</p>
<p>“Mine is B,” Dicky said.</p>
<p>“And mine’s an O,” Rosie declared, “as
plain as anything. What’s yours, Maida?”</p>
<p>“It’s an X,” Maida answered in great
perplexity. “I don’t believe that there are
any names beginning with X except Xenophon
and Xerxes.”</p>
<p>“Well, mine’s as bad,” Laura laughed,
“it’s a Z. I guess I’ll be Mrs. Zero.”</p>
<p>“That’s nothing,” Arthur laughed,
“mine’s an &—I can’t marry anybody
named ——‘and.’”</p>
<p>“Well, if that isn’t successful,” Laura
said, “there’s another way of finding out
who your husband or wife’s going to be.
You must walk down the cellar-stairs backwards
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page232">[Pg 232]</a></span>
with a candle in one hand and a mirror
in the other. You must look in the mirror
all the time and, when you get to the
foot of the stairs, you will see, reflected in
it, the face of your husband or wife.”</p>
<p>This did not interest the little children
but the big ones were wild to try it.</p>
<p>“Gracious, doesn’t it sound scary?”
Rosie said, her great eyes snapping. “I love
a game that’s kind of spooky, don’t you,
Maida?”</p>
<p>Maida did not answer. She was watching
Harold who was sneaking out of the
room very quietly from a door at the side.</p>
<p>“All right, then, Rosie,” Laura caught
her up, “you can go first.”</p>
<p>The children all crowded over to the door
leading to the cellar. The stairs were as
dark as pitch. Rosie took the mirror and
the candle that Laura handed her and
slipped through the opening. The little audience
listened breathless.</p>
<p>They heard Rosie stumble awkwardly
down the stairs, heard her pause at the
foot. Next came a moment of silence, of
waiting as tense above as below. Then
came a burst of Rosie’s jolly laughter.
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page233">[Pg 233]</a></span>
She came running up to them, her cheeks
like roses, her eyes like stars.</p>
<p>They crowded around her. “What did
you see?” “Tell us about it?” they clamored.</p>
<p>Rosie shook her head. “No, no, no,” she
maintained, “I’m not going to tell you what
I saw until you’ve been down yourself.”</p>
<p>It was Arthur’s turn next. They listened
again. The same thing happened—awkward
stumbling down the stairs, a
pause, then a roar of laughter.</p>
<p>“Oh what did you see?” they implored
when he reappeared.</p>
<p>“Try it yourself!” he advised. “I’m not
going to tell.”</p>
<p>Dicky went next. Again they all listened
and to the same mysterious doings.
Dicky came back smiling but, like the
others, he refused to describe his experiences.</p>
<p>Now it was Maida’s turn. She took the
candle and the mirror from Dicky and
plunged into the shivery darkness of the
stairs. It was doubly difficult for her to go
down backwards because of her lameness.
But she finally arrived at the bottom and
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page234">[Pg 234]</a></span>
stood there expectantly. It seemed a long
time before anything happened. Suddenly,
she felt something stir back of her. A
lighted jack-o’-lantern came from between
the folds of a curtain which hung from the
ceiling. It grinned over her shoulder at
her face in the mirror.</p>
<p>Maida burst into a shriek of laughter and
scrambled upstairs. “I’m going to marry
a jack-o’-lantern,” she said. “My name’s
going to be Mrs. Jack Pumpkin.”</p>
<p>“I’m going to marry Laura’s sailor-doll,”
Rosie confessed. “My name is Mrs. Yankee
Doodle.”</p>
<p>“I’m going to marry Laura’s big doll,
Queenie,” Arthur admitted.</p>
<p>“And I’m going to marry Harold’s Teddy-bear,”
Dicky said.</p>
<p>After that they blew soap-bubbles and
roasted apples and chestnuts, popped corn
and pulled candy at the great fireplace in
the playroom. And at Maida’s request,
just before they left, Laura danced for
them.</p>
<p>“Will you help me to get on my costume,
Maida?” Laura asked.</p>
<p>“Of course,” Maida said, wondering.</p>
<p>“I asked you to come down here, Maida,”
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page235">[Pg 235]</a></span>
Laura said when the two little girls were
alone, “because I wanted to tell you that I
am sorry for the way I treated you just before
I got diphtheria. I told my mother
about it and she said I did those things because
I was coming down sick. She said
that people are always fretty and cross
when they’re not well. But I don’t think it
was all that. I guess I did it on purpose
just to be disagreeable. But I hope you
will excuse me.”</p>
<p>“Of course I will, Laura,” Maida said
heartily. “And I hope you will forgive me
for going so long without speaking to you.
But you see I heard,” she stopped and hesitated,
“things,” she ended lamely.</p>
<p>“Oh, I know what you heard. I said
those things about you to the W.M.N.T.’s
so that they’d get back to you. I wanted
to hurt your feelings.” Laura in her turn
stopped and hesitated for an instant. “I
was jealous,” she finally confessed in a
burst. “But I want you to understand
this, Maida. I didn’t believe those horrid
things myself. I always have a feeling inside
when people are telling lies and I
didn’t have that feeling when you were
talking to me. I knew you were telling the
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page236">[Pg 236]</a></span>
truth. And all the time while I was getting
well, I felt so dreadfully about it that I
knew I never would be happy again unless
I told you so.”</p>
<p>“I did feel bad when I heard those
things,” Maida said, “but of course I forgot
about them when Rosie told me you
were ill. Let’s forget all about it again.”</p>
<p>But Maida told the W.M.N.T.’s something
of her talk with Laura and the result
was an invitation to Laura to join the
club. It was accepted gratefully.</p>
<p>The next month went by on wings. It
was a busy month although in a way, it
was an uneventful one. The weather kept
clear and fine. Little rain fell but, on the
other hand, to the great disappointment of
the little people of Primrose Court, there
was no snow. Maida saw nothing of her
father for business troubles kept him in
New York. He wrote constantly to her
and she wrote as faithfully to him. Letters
could not quite fill the gap that his absence
made. Perhaps Billy suspected
Maida’s secret loneliness for he came
oftener and oftener to see her.</p>
<p>One night the W.M.N.T.’s begged so
hard for a story that he finally began one
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page237">[Pg 237]</a></span>
called “The Crystal Ball.” A wonderful
thing about it was that it was half-game
and half-story. Most wonderful of all, it
went on from night to night and never
showed any signs of coming to an end.
But in order to play this game-story, there
were two or three conditions to which you
absolutely must submit. For instance, it
must always be played in the dark. And
first, everybody must shut his eyes tight.
Billy would say in a deep voice, “Abracadabra!”
and, presto, there they all were,
Maida, Rosie, Laura, Billy, Arthur and
Dicky inside the crystal ball. What people
lived there and what things happened to
them can not be told here. But after an
hour or more, Billy’s deepest voice would
boom, “Abracadabra!” again and, presto,
there they all were again, back in the cheerful
living-room.</p>
<p>Maida hoped against hope that her father
would come to spend Thanksgiving
with her but that, he wrote finally, was impossible.
Billy came, however, and they
three enjoyed one of Granny’s delicious
turkey dinners.</p>
<p>“I hoped that I would have found your
daughter Annie by this time, Granny,”
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page238">[Pg 238]</a></span>
Billy said. “I ask every Irishman I meet
if he came from Aldigarey, County Sligo
or if he knows anybody who did, or if he’s
ever met a pretty Irish girl by the name of
Annie Flynn. But I’ll find her yet—you’ll
see.”</p>
<p>“I hope so, Misther Billy,” Granny said
respectfully. But Maida thought her voice
sounded as if she had no great hope.</p>
<p>Dicky still continued to come for his
reading-lessons, although Maida could see
that, in a month or two, he would not need
a teacher. The quiet, studious, pale little
boy had become a great favorite with
Granny Flynn.</p>
<p>“Sure an’ Oi must be after getting over
to see the poor lad’s mother some noight,”
she said. “’Tis a noice woman she must be
wid such a pretty-behaved little lad.”</p>
<p>“Oh, she is, Granny,” Maida said earnestly.
“I’ve been there once or twice when
Mrs. Dore came home early. And she’s
just the nicest lady and so fond of Dicky
and the baby.”</p>
<p>But Granny was old and very easily tired
and, so, though her intentions were of the
best, she did not make this call.</p>
<p>One afternoon, after Thanksgiving,
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page239">[Pg 239]</a></span>
Maida ran over to Dicky’s to borrow some
pink tissue paper. She knocked gently.
Nobody answered. But from the room
came the sound of sobbing. Maida listened.
It was Dicky’s voice. At first she
did not know what to do. Finally, she
opened the door and peeped in. Dicky was
sitting all crumpled up, his head resting on
the table.</p>
<p>“Oh, what is the matter, Dicky?” Maida
asked.</p>
<p>Dicky jumped. He raised his head and
looked at her. His face was swollen with
crying, his eyes red and heavy. For a moment
he could not speak. Maida could see
that he was ashamed of being caught in
tears, that he was trying hard to control
himself.</p>
<p>“It’s something I heard,” he replied at
last.</p>
<p>“What?” Maida asked.</p>
<p>“Last night after I got to bed, Doc
O’Brien came here to get his bill paid.
Mother thought I was asleep and asked him
a whole lot of questions. He told her that
I wasn’t any better and I never would be
any better. He said that I’d be a cripple
for the rest of my life.”
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page240">[Pg 240]</a></span></p>
<p>In spite of all his efforts, Dicky’s voice
broke into a sob.</p>
<p>“Oh Dicky, Dicky,” Maida said. Better
than anybody else in the world, Maida felt
that she could understand, could sympathize.
“Oh, Dicky, how sorry I am!”</p>
<p>“I can’t bear it,” Dicky said.</p>
<p>He put his head down on the table and
began to sob. “I can’t bear it,” he said.
“Why, I thought when I grew up to be a
man, I was going to take care of mother
and Delia. Instead of that, they’ll be taking
care of me. What can a cripple do?
Once I read about a crippled newsboy. Do
you suppose I could sell papers?” he asked
with a gleam of hope.</p>
<p>“I’m sure you could,” Maida said heartily,
“and a great many other things. But
it may not be as bad as you think, Dicky.
Dr. O’Brien may be mistaken. You know
something was wrong with me when I was
born and I did not begin to walk until a
year ago. My father has taken me to so
many doctors that I’m sure he could not
remember half their names. But they all
said the same thing—that I never would
walk like other children. Then a very
great physician—Dr. Greinschmidt—came
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page241">[Pg 241]</a></span>
from away across the sea, from Germany.
He said he could cure me and he did. I
had to be operated on and—oh—I suffered
dreadfully. But you see that I’m all well
now. I’m even losing my limp. Now, I
believe that Doctor Greinschmidt can cure
you. The next time my father comes home
I’m going to ask him.”</p>
<p>Dicky had stopped crying. He was
drinking down everything that she said.
“Is he still here—that doctor?” he asked.</p>
<p>“No,” Maida admitted sorrowfully.
“But there must be doctors as good as he
somewhere. But don’t you worry about it
at all, Dicky. You wait until my father
sees you—he always gets everything made
right.”</p>
<p>“When’s your father coming home?”</p>
<p>“I don’t quite know—but I look for him
any time now.”</p>
<p>Dicky started to set the table. “I guess
I wouldn’t have cried,” he said after a
while, “if I could have cried last night when
I first heard it. But of course I couldn’t
let mother or Doc O’Brien know that I’d
heard them—it would make them feel bad.
I don’t want my mother ever to know that
I know it.”
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page242">[Pg 242]</a></span></p>
<p>After that, Maida redoubled her efforts
to be nice to Dicky. She cudgeled her
brains too for new decorative schemes for
his paper-work. She asked Billy Potter to
bring a whole bag of her books from the
Beacon Street house and she lent them to
Dicky, a half dozen at a time.</p>
<p>Indeed, they were a very busy quartette—the
W.M.N.T.’s. Rosie went to school
every day. She climbed out of her window
no more at night. She seemed to prefer
helping Maida in the shop to anything else.
Arthur Duncan was equally industrious.
With no Rosie to play hookey with, he, too,
was driven to attending school regularly.
His leisure hours were devoted to his
whittling and wood-carving. He was always
doing kind things for Maida and
Granny, bringing up the coal, emptying the
ashes, running errands.</p>
<p>And so November passed into December.</p>
<hr />
<div>
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page243">[Pg 243]</a></span>
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XII" id="CHAPTER_XII"></a>CHAPTER XII</h2>
<h3>THE FIRST SNOW</h3>
<p class="returnTOC"><a href="#Contents">Return to Table of Contents</a></p>
</div>
<p>“Look out the window, my lamb,”
Granny called one morning early in
December. Maida opened her eyes, jumped
obediently out of bed and pattered across
the room. There, she gave a scream of delight,
jumping up and down and clapping
her hands.</p>
<p>“Snow! Oh goody, goody, goody! Snow
at last!”</p>
<p>It looked as if the whole world had been
wrapped in a blanket of the whitest, fleeciest,
shiningest wool. Sidewalks, streets,
crossings were all leveled to one smoothness.
The fences were so muffled that they
had swelled to twice their size. The houses
wore trim, pointy caps on their gables.
The high bushes in the yard hung to the
very ground. The low ones had become
mounds. The trees looked as if they had
been packed in cotton-wool and put away
for the winter.
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page244">[Pg 244]</a></span></p>
<p>“And the lovely part of it is, it’s still
snowing,” Maida exclaimed blissfully.</p>
<p>“Glory be, it’ull be a blizzard before
we’re t’rough wid ut,” Granny said and
shivered.</p>
<p>Maida dressed in the greatest excitement.
Few children came in to make purchases
that morning and the lines pouring into
the schoolhouse were very shivery and
much shorter than usual. At a quarter to
twelve, the one-session bell rang. When
the children came out of school at one, the
snow was whirling down thicker and faster
than in the morning. A high wind came
up and piled it in the most unexpected
places. Trade stopped entirely in the shop.
No mother would let her children brave so
terrific a storm.</p>
<p>It snowed that night and all the next
morning. The second day fewer children
went to school than on the first. But at
two o’clock when the sun burst through the
gray sky, the children swarmed the streets.
Shovels and brooms began to appear, snow-balls
to fly, sleigh-bells to tinkle.</p>
<p>Rosie came dashing into the shop in the
midst of this burst of excitement. “I’ve
shoveled our sidewalk,” she announced triumphantly.
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page245">[Pg 245]</a></span>
“Is anything wrong with me?
Everybody’s staring at me.”</p>
<p>Maida stared too. Rosie’s scarlet cape
was dotted with snow, her scarlet hat was
white with it. Great flakes had caught in
her long black hair, had starred her soft
brows—they hung from her very eyelashes.
Her cheeks and lips were the color of coral
and her eyes like great velvety moons.</p>
<p>“You look in the glass and see what
they’re staring at,” Maida said slyly.
Rosie went to the mirror.</p>
<p>“I don’t see anything the matter.”</p>
<p>“It’s because you look so pretty, goose!”
Maida exclaimed.</p>
<p>Rosie always blushed and looked ashamed
if anybody alluded to her prettiness. Now
she leaped to Maida’s side and pretended
to beat her.</p>
<p>“Stop that!” a voice called. Startled,
the little girls looked up. Billy stood in the
doorway. “I’ve come over to make a snow-house,”
he explained.</p>
<p>“Oh, Billy, what things you do think of!”
Maida exclaimed. “Wait till I get Arthur
and Dicky!”</p>
<p>“Couldn’t get many more in here, could
we?” Billy commented when the five had
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page246">[Pg 246]</a></span>
assembled in the “child’s size” yard. “I
don’t know that we could stow away another
shovel. Now, first of all, you’re to
pile all the snow in the yard into that corner.”</p>
<p>Everybody went to work. But Billy and
Arthur moved so quickly with their big
shovels that Maida and Rosie and Dicky did
nothing but hop about them. Almost before
they realized it, the snow-pile reached
to the top of the fence.</p>
<p>“Pack it down hard,” Billy commanded,
“as hard as you can make it.”</p>
<p>Everybody scrambled to obey. For a
few moments the sound of shovels beating
on the snow drowned their talk.</p>
<p>“That will do for that,” Billy commanded
suddenly. His little force stopped,
breathless and red-cheeked. “Now I’m going
to dig out the room. I guess I’ll have
to do this. If you’re not careful enough,
the roof will cave in. Then it’s all got to
be done again.”</p>
<p>Working very slowly, he began to hollow
out the structure. After the hole had
grown big enough, he crawled into it. But
in spite of his own warning, he must have
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page247">[Pg 247]</a></span>
been too energetic in his movements. Suddenly
the roof came down on his head.</p>
<p>Billy was on his feet in an instant, shaking
the snow off as a dog shakes off water.</p>
<p>“Why, Billy, you look like a snow-man,”
Maida laughed.</p>
<p>“I feel like one,” Billy said, wiping the
snow from his eyes and from under his collar.
“But don’t be discouraged, my hearties,
up with it again. I’ll be more careful
the next time.”</p>
<p>They went at it again with increased interest,
heaping up a mound of snow bigger
than before, beating it until it was as hard
as a brick, hollowing out inside a chamber
big enough for three of them to occupy at
once. But Billy gave them no time to enjoy
their new dwelling.</p>
<p>“Run into the house,” was his next order,
“and bring out all the water you can
carry.”</p>
<p>There was a wild scramble to see which
would get to the sink first but in a few moments,
an orderly file emerged from the
house, Arthur with a bucket, Dicky with a
basin, Rosie with the dish-pan, Maida with
a dipper.
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page248">[Pg 248]</a></span></p>
<p>“Now I’m going to pour water over the
house,” Billy explained. “You see if it
freezes now it will last longer.” Very
carefully, he sprayed it on the sides and
roof, dashing it upwards on the inside
walls:</p>
<p>“We might as well make it look pretty
while we’re about it,” Billy continued.
“You children get to work and make a lot
of snow-balls the size of an orange and just
as round as you can turn them out.”</p>
<p>This was easy work. Before Billy could
say, “Jack Robinson!” four pairs of eager
hands had accumulated snow-balls enough
for a sham battle. In the meantime, Billy
had decorated the doorway with two tall,
round pillars. He added a pointed roof to
the house and trimmed it with snow-balls,
all along the edge.</p>
<p>“Now I guess we’d better have a snow-man
to live in this mansion while we’re
about it,” Billy suggested briskly. “Each
of you roll up an arm or a leg while I make
the body.”</p>
<p>Billy placed the legs in the corner opposite
the snow-house. He lifted on to
them the big round body which he himself
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page249">[Pg 249]</a></span>
had rolled. Putting the arms on was not
so easy. He worked for a long time before
he found the angle at which they would
stick.</p>
<p>Everybody took a hand at the head.
Maida contributed some dulse for the hair,
slitting it into ribbons, which she stuck on
with glue. Rosie found a broken clothes-pin
for the nose. The round, smooth coals
that Dicky discovered in the coal-hod made
a pair of expressive black eyes. Arthur cut
two sets of teeth from orange peel and inserted
them in the gash that was the mouth.
When the head was set on the shoulders,
Billy disappeared into the house for a moment.
He came back carrying a suit-case.
“Shut your eyes, every manjack of you,”
he ordered. “You’re not to see what I do
until it’s done. If I catch one of you peeking,
I’ll confine you in the snow-house for
five minutes.”</p>
<p>The W.M.N.T.’s shut their eyes tight
and held down the lids with resolute fingers.
But they kept their ears wide open. The
mysterious work on which Billy was engaged
was accompanied by the most tantalizing
noises.
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page250">[Pg 250]</a></span></p>
<p>“Oh, Billy, can’t I please look,” Maida
begged, jiggling up and down. “I can’t
stand it much longer.”</p>
<p>“In a minute,” Billy said encouragingly.
The mysterious noises kept up. “Now,”
Billy said suddenly.</p>
<p>Four pairs of eyes leaped open. Four
pairs of lips shrieked their delight. Indeed,
Maida and Rosie laughed so hard that
they finally rolled in the snow.</p>
<p>Billy had put an old coat on the snow-man’s
body. He had put a tall hat—Arthur
called it a “stove-pipe”—on the snow-man’s
head. He had put an old black pipe
between the snow-man’s grinning, orange-colored
teeth. Gloves hung limply from
the snow-man’s arm-stumps and to one of
them a cane was fastened. Billy had managed
to give the snow-man’s head a cock to
one side. Altogether he looked so spruce
and jovial that it was impossible not to like
him.</p>
<p>“Mr. Chumpleigh, ladies and gentlemen,”
Billy said. “Some members of the W.M.N.T.,
Mr. Chumpleigh.”</p>
<p>And Mr. Chumpleigh, he was until—until—</p>
<p>Billy stayed that night to dinner. They
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page251">[Pg 251]</a></span>
had just finished eating when an excited
ring of the bell announced Rosie.</p>
<p>“Oh, Granny,” she said, “the boys have
made a most wonderful coast down Halliwell
Street and Aunt Theresa says I can go
coasting until nine o’clock if you’ll let
Maida go too. I thought maybe you would,
especially if Billy comes along.”</p>
<p>“If Misther Billy goes, ’twill be all
roight.”</p>
<p>“Oh, Granny,” Maida said, “you dear,
darling, old fairy-dame!” She was so excited
that she wriggled like a little eel all
the time Granny was bundling her into her
clothes. And when she reached the street,
it seemed as if she must explode.</p>
<p>A big moon, floating like a silver balloon
in the sky, made the night like day. The
neighborhood sizzled with excitement for
the street and sidewalks were covered with
children dragging sleds.</p>
<p>“It’s like the <span style="font-style: normal">‘Pied Piper’</span>, Rosie,”
Maida said joyfully, “children everywhere
and all going in the same direction.”</p>
<p>They followed the procession up Warrington
Street to where Halliwell Street
sloped down the hill.</p>
<p>Billy let out a long whistle of astonishment.
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page252">[Pg 252]</a></span>
“Great Scott, what a coast!” he
said.</p>
<p>In the middle of the street was a ribbon
of ice three feet wide and as smooth as
glass. At the foot of the hill, a piled-up
mound of snow served as a buffer.</p>
<p>“The boys have been working on the slide
all day,” Rosie said. “Did you ever see
such a nice one, Maida?”</p>
<p>“I never saw any kind of a one,” Maida
confessed. “How did they make it so
smooth?”</p>
<p>“Pouring water on it.”</p>
<p>“Have you never coasted before,
Maida?” Billy asked.</p>
<p>“Never.”</p>
<p>“Well, here’s your chance then,” said a
cheerful voice back of them. They all
turned. There stood Arthur Duncan with
what Maida soon learned was a “double-runner.”</p>
<p>Billy examined it carefully. “Did you
make it, Arthur?”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“Pretty good piece of work,” Billy commented.
“Want to try it, Maida?”</p>
<p>“I’m crazy to!”</p>
<p>“All right. Pile on!”
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page253">[Pg 253]</a></span></p>
<p>Arthur took his place in front. Rosie
sat next, then Dicky, then Maida, then
Billy.</p>
<p>“Hold on to Dicky,” Billy instructed
Maida, “and I’ll hold on to you.”</p>
<p>Tingling with excitement, Maida did as
she was told. But it seemed as if they
would never start. But at last, she heard
Billy’s voice, “On your marks. Get set!
Go!” The double-runner stirred.</p>
<p>It moved slowly for a moment across the
level top of the street. Then came the first
slope of the hill—they plunged forward.
She heard Rosie’s hysterical shriek, Dicky’s
vociferous cheers and Billy’s blood-curdling
yells, but she herself was as silent as a little
image. They struck the second slope of the
hill—then she screamed, too. The houses
on either side shot past like pictures in the
kinetoscope. She felt a rush of wind that
must surely blow her ears off. They
reached the third slope of the hill—and now
they had left the earth and were sailing
through the air. The next instant the
double-runner had come to rest on the bank
of snow and Rosie and she were hugging
each other and saying, “Wasn’t it
GREAT?”
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page254">[Pg 254]</a></span></p>
<p>They climbed to the top of the hill again.
All the way back, Maida watched the sleds
whizzing down the coast, boys alone on
sleds, girls alone on sleds, pairs of girls,
pairs of boys, one seated in front, the other
steering with a foot that trailed behind on
the ice, timid little girls who did not dare
the ice but contented themselves with sliding
on the snow at either side, daring little boys
who went down lying flat on their sleds.</p>
<p>At the top they were besieged with entreaties
to go on the double-runner and, as
there was room enough for one more, they
took a little boy or girl with them each time.
Rosie lent her sled to those who had none.
At first there were plenty of these, standing
at the top of the coast, wistfully watching
the fun of more fortunate children. But
after a while it was discovered that the
ice was so smooth that almost anything
could be used for coasting. The sledless
ones rushed home and reappeared with all
kinds of things. One little lad went down
on a shovel and his intrepid little sister followed
on a broom. Boxes and shingles and
even dish-pans began to appear. Most
reckless of all, one big fellow slid down on
his two feet, landing in a heap in the snow.
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page255">[Pg 255]</a></span></p>
<p>Maida enjoyed every moment of it—even
the long walks back up the hill. Once the
double-runner struck into a riderless sled
that had drifted on to the course, and was
overturned immediately. Nobody was hurt.
Rosie, Dicky and Arthur were cast safely
to one side in the soft snow. But Maida
and Billy were thrown, whirling, on to the
ice. Billy kept his grip on Maida and they
shot down the hill, turning round and
round and round. At first Maida was a little
frightened. But when she saw that they
were perfectly safe, that Billy was making
her spin about in that ridiculous fashion,
she laughed so hard that she was weak when
they reached the bottom.</p>
<p>“Oh, do let’s do that again!” she said
when she caught her breath.</p>
<p>Never was such a week as followed. The
cold weather kept up. Continued storms
added to the snow. For the first time in
years came four one-session days in a single
week. It seemed as if Jack Frost were on
the side of the children. He would send
violent flurries of snow just before the one-session
bell rang but as soon as the children
were safely on the street, the sun would
come out bright as summer.
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page256">[Pg 256]</a></span></p>
<p>Every morning when Maida woke up, she
would say to herself, “I wonder how Mr.
Chumpleigh is to-day.” Then she would
run over to the window to see.</p>
<p>Mr. Chumpleigh had become a great favorite
in the neighborhood. He was so tall
that his round, happy face with its eternal
orange-peel grin could look straight over
the fence to the street. The passers-by used
to stop, paralyzed by the vision. But after
studying the phenomenon, they would go
laughing on their way. Occasionally a bad
boy would shy a snow-ball at the smiling
countenance but Mr. Chumpleigh was so
hard-headed that nothing seemed to hurt
him. In the course of time, the “stove-pipe”
became very battered and, as the result
of continued storms, one eye sank down
to the middle of his cheek. But in spite of
these injuries, he continued to maintain his
genial grin.</p>
<p>“Let’s go out and fix Mr. Chumpleigh,”
Rosie would say every day. The two little
girls would brush the snow off his hat
and coat, adjust his nose and teeth, would
straighten him up generally.</p>
<p>After a while, Maida threw her bird-crumbs
all over Mr. Chumpleigh. Thereafter,
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page257">[Pg 257]</a></span>
the saucy little English sparrows ate
from Mr. Chumpleigh’s hat-brim, his pipe-bowl,
even his pockets.</p>
<p>“Perhaps the snow will last all winter,”
Maida said hopefully one day. “If it does,
Mr. Chumpleigh’s health will be perfect.”</p>
<p>“Well, perhaps, it’s just as well if he
goes,” Rosie said sensibly; “we haven’t
done a bit of work since he came.”</p>
<p>On Sunday the weather moderated a little.
Mr. Chumpleigh bore a most melancholy
look all the afternoon as if he feared
what was to come. What was worse, he
lost his nose.</p>
<p>Monday morning, Maida ran to the window
dreading what she might see. But instead
of the thaw she expected, a most beautiful
sight spread out before her. The
weather had turned cold in the night. Everything
that had started to melt had frozen
up again. The sidewalks were liked frosted
cakes. Long icicles made pretty fringes
around the roofs of the houses. The trees
and bushes were glazed by a sheathing of
crystal. The sunlight playing through all
this turned the world into a heap of diamonds.</p>
<p>Mr. Chumpleigh had perked up under the
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page258">[Pg 258]</a></span>
influence of the cold. His manner had
gained in solidity although his gaze was a
little glassy. Hopefully Maida hunted
about until she found his nose.</p>
<p>She replaced his old set with some new
orange-peel teeth and stuck his pipe between
them. He looked quite himself.</p>
<p>But, alas, the sun came out and melted
the whole world. The sidewalks trickled
streams. The icicles dripped away in
showers of diamonds. The trees lost their
crystal sheathing.</p>
<p>In the afternoon, Mr. Chumpleigh began
to droop. By night his head was resting
disconsolately on his own shoulder.
When Maida looked out the next morning,
there was nothing in the corner but a mound
of snow. An old coat lay to one side.
Strewn about were a hat, a pair of gloves,
a pipe and a cane.</p>
<p>Mr. Chumpleigh had passed away in the
night.</p>
<hr />
<div>
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page259">[Pg 259]</a></span>
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIII" id="CHAPTER_XIII"></a>CHAPTER XIII</h2>
<h3>THE FAIR</h3>
<p class="returnTOC"><a href="#Contents">Return to Table of Contents</a></p>
</div>
<p style="text-align: center; margin-bottom: 1.00em">
<span style="text-align: center"><span style="font-size: 130%">SAVE YOUR
PENNIES</span></span><br /><span style="text-align: center"><span style="font-size: 90%">A CHRISTMAS
FAIR</span><br /><span style="font-size: 90%">WILL BE HELD IN THIS
SHOP</span><br /><span style="font-size: 90%">THE SATURDAY
BEFORE</span></span><br /><span style="text-align: center"><span style="font-size: 120%">CHRISTMAS</span></span><br /><span style="text-align: center"><span style="font-size: 90%">DELICIOUS
CANDIES MADE BY</span></span><br /><span style="text-align: center"><span style="font-size: 120%">MISS ROSIE
BRINE</span></span><br /><span style="text-align: center"><span style="font-size: 90%">PAPER GOODS DESIGNED
AND</span><br /><span style="font-size: 90%">EXECUTED BY</span></span><br /><span style="text-align: center"><span style="font-size: 120%">MASTER
RICHARD DORE</span></span><br /><span style="text-align: center"><span style="font-size: 90%">WOOD CARVING DESIGNED
AND</span><br /><span style="font-size: 90%">EXECUTED BY</span></span><br /><span style="text-align: center"><span style="font-size: 120%">MASTER ARTHUR
DUNCAN</span><br /><span style="font-size: 120%">DON'T MISS IT!</span></span>
</p>
<p></p>
<p>This sign hung in Maida’s window for
a week. Billy made it. The lettering
was red and gold. In one corner, he
painted a picture of a little boy and girl in
their nightgowns peeking up a chimney-place
hung with stockings. In the other
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page260">[Pg 260]</a></span>
corner, the full-moon face of a Santa Claus
popped like a jolly jack-in-the-box from a
chimney-top. A troop of reindeer, dragging
a sleigh full of toys, scurried through
the printing. The whole thing was enclosed
in a wreath of holly.</p>
<p>The sign attracted a great deal of attention.
Children were always stopping to admire
it and even grown-people paused now
and then. There was such a falling-off of
Maida’s trade that she guessed that the
children were really saving their pennies
for the fair. This delighted her.</p>
<p>The W.M.N.T.’s wasted no time that
last week in spite of a very enticing snowstorm.
Maida, of course, had nothing to do
on her own account, but she worked with
Dicky, morning and afternoon.</p>
<p>Rosie could not make candy until the last
two or three days for fear it would get stale.
Then she set to like a little whirlwind.</p>
<p>“My face is almost tanned from bending
over the stove,” she said to Maida;
“Aunt Theresa says if I cook another batch
of candy, I’ll have a crop of freckles.”</p>
<p>Arthur seemed to work the hardest of all
because his work was so much more difficult.
It took a great deal of time and
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page261">[Pg 261]</a></span>
strength and yet nobody could help him in
it. The sound of his hammering came into
Maida’s room early in the morning. It
came in sometimes late at night when, cuddling
between her blankets, she thought
what a happy girl she was.</p>
<p>“I niver saw such foine, busy little
folks,” Granny said approvingly again and
again. “It moinds me av me own Annie.
Niver a moment but that lass was working
at some t’ing. Oh, I wonder what she’s
doun’ and finking this Christmas.”</p>
<p>“Don’t you worry,” Maida always said.
“Billy’ll find her for you yet—he said he
would.”</p>
<p>Maida, herself, was giving, for the first
time in her experience, a good deal of
thought to Christmas time.</p>
<p>In the first place, she had sent the following
invitation to every child in Primrose
Court:</p>
<p>“Will you please come to my Christmas
Tree to be given Christmas Night in the
<span style="font-style: normal">‘Little Shop.’</span> Maida.”</p>
<p>In the second place, she was spying on
all her friends, listening to their talk, watching
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page262">[Pg 262]</a></span>
them closely in work and play to find
just the right thing to give them.</p>
<p>“Do you know, I never made a Christmas
present in my life,” she said one day to
Rosie.</p>
<p>“You never made a Christmas present?”
Rosie repeated.</p>
<p>Maida’s quick perception sensed in Rosie’s
face an unspoken accusation of selfishness.</p>
<p>“It wasn’t because I didn’t want to, Rosie
dear,” Maida hastened to explain. “It was
because I was too sick. You see, I was always
in bed. I was too weak to make anything
and I could not go out and buy presents
as other children did. But people
used to give me the loveliest things.”</p>
<p>“What did they give you?” Rosie asked
curiously.</p>
<p>“Oh, all kinds of things. Father’s given
me an automobile and a pair of Shetland
ponies and a family of twenty dolls and my
weight in silver dollars. I can’t remember
half the things I’ve had.”</p>
<p>“A pair of Shetland ponies, an automobile,
a family of twenty dolls, your weight
in silver dollars,” Rosie repeated after her.
“Why, Maida, you’re dreaming or you’re
out of your head.”
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page263">[Pg 263]</a></span></p>
<p>“Out of my head! Why, Rosie you’re
out of <span style="font-style: italic">your</span> head. Don’t you suppose I
know what I got for Christmas?” Maida’s
eyes began to flash and her lips to tremble.</p>
<p>“Well, now, Maida, just think of it,” Rosie
said in her most reasonable voice. “Here
you are a little girl just like anybody else
only you’re running a shop. Now just as
if you could afford to have an automobile!
Why, my father knows a man who knows
another man who bought an automobile and
it cost nine hundred dollars. What did
yours cost?”</p>
<p>“Two thousand dollars.” Maida said
this with a guilty air in spite of her knowledge
of her own truth.</p>
<p>Rosie smiled roguishly. “Maida, dear,”
she coaxed, “you dreamed it.”</p>
<p>Maida started to her feet. For a moment
she came near saying something very
saucy indeed. But she remembered in time.
Of course nobody in the neighborhood knew
that she was “Buffalo” Westabrook’s
daughter. It was impossible for her to
prove any of her statements. The flash
died out of her eyes. But another flash
came into her cheeks—the flash of dimples.</p>
<p>“Well, perhaps I <span style="font-style: italic">did</span>
dream it, Rosie,”
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page264">[Pg 264]</a></span>
she said archly. “But I don’t think I did,”
she added in a quiet voice.</p>
<p>Rosie turned the subject tactfully.
“What are you going to give your father?”
she asked.</p>
<p>“That’s bothering me dreadfully,” Maida
sighed; “I can’t think of anything he
needs.”</p>
<p>“Why don’t you buy him the same thing
I’m going to get my papa,” Rosie suggested
eagerly. “That is, I’m going to buy
it if I make enough money at the fair.
Does your father shave himself?”</p>
<p>“Oh, Adolph, his valet, always shaves
him,” Maida answered.</p>
<p>Rosie’s brow knit over the word
<span style="font-style: italic">valet</span>—but
Maida was always puzzling the neighborhood
with strange expressions. Then
her brow lightened. “My father goes to a
barber, too,” she said. “I’ve heard him
complaining lots of times how expensive it
is. And the other day Arthur told me
about a razor his father uses. He says it’s
just like a lawn-mower or a carpet-sweeper.
You don’t have to have anybody shave you
if you have one of them. You run it right
over your face and it takes all the beard off
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page265">[Pg 265]</a></span>
and doesn’t cut or anything. Now, wouldn’t
you think that would be fun?”</p>
<p>“I should think it would be just lovely,”
Maida agreed. “That’s just the thing for
papa—for he is so busy. How much does
it cost, Rosie?”</p>
<p>“About a dollar, Arthur thought. I
never paid so much for a Christmas present
in my life. And I’m not sure yet that I
can get one. But if I do sell two dollars
worth of candy, I can buy something perfectly
beautiful for both father and
mother.”</p>
<p>“Oh, Rosie,” Maida asked breathlessly,
“do you mean that your mother’s come
back?”</p>
<p>Rosie’s face changed. “Don’t you think
I’d tell you that the first thing? No, she
hasn’t come back and they don’t say anything
about her coming back. But if she
ever does come, I guess I’m going to have
her Christmas present all ready for her.”</p>
<p>Maida patted her hand. “She’s coming
back,” she said; “I know it.”</p>
<p>Rosie sighed. “You come down Main
Street the night before Christmas. Dicky
and I are going to buy our Christmas presents
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page266">[Pg 266]</a></span>
then and we can show you where to
get the little razor.”</p>
<p>“I’d love to.” Maida beamed. And indeed,
it seemed the most fascinating prospect
in the world to her. Every night
after she went to bed, she thought it over.
She was really going to buy Christmas presents
without any grown-up person about to
interfere. It was rapture.</p>
<p>The night before the fair, the children
worked even harder than the night before
Halloween, for there were so many things
to display. It was evident that the stock
would overflow windows and shelves and
show cases.</p>
<p>“We’ll bring the long kitchen table in
for your things, Arthur,” Maida decided
after a perplexed consideration of the subject.
“Dicky’s and Rosie’s things ought to
go on the shelves and into the show cases
where nobody can handle them.”</p>
<p>They tugged the table into the shop and
covered it with a beautiful old blue counter-pane.</p>
<p>“That’s fine!” Arthur approved, unpacking
his handicraft from the bushel-baskets
in which he brought them.</p>
<p>The others stood round admiring the
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page267">[Pg 267]</a></span>
treasures and helping him to arrange them
prettily. A fleet of graceful little boats occupied
one end of the table, piles of bread-boards,
rolling-pins and “cats,” the other.
In the center lay a bowl filled with tiny
baskets, carved from peach-stones. From
the molding hung a fringe of hockey-sticks.</p>
<p>Having arranged all Arthur’s things, the
quartette filed upstairs to the closet where
Dicky’s paper-work was kept.</p>
<p>“Gracious, I didn’t realize there were so
many,” Rosie said.</p>
<p>“Sure, the lad has worked day and
night,” Granny said, patting Dicky’s thin
cheek.</p>
<p>They filled Arthur’s baskets and trooped
back to the shop. They lined show case and
shelves with the glittering things—boxes,
big and little, gorgeously ornamented with
stars and moons, caps of gold and silver,
flying gay plumes, rainbow boats too beautiful
to sail on anything but fairy seas, miniature
jackets and trousers that only a circus
rider would wear.</p>
<p>“Dicky, I never did see anything look so
lovely,” Maida said, shaking her hands with
delight. “I really didn’t realize how pretty
they were.”
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page268">[Pg 268]</a></span></p>
<p>Dicky’s big eyes glowed with satisfaction.
“Nor me neither,” he confessed.</p>
<p>“And now,” Maida said, bubbling over
with suppressed importance, “Rosie’s candies—I’ve
saved that until the last.” She
pulled out one of the drawers under the
show case and lifted it on to the counter.
It was filled with candy-boxes of paper,
prettily decorated with flower patterns on
the outside, with fringes of lace paper on
the inside. “I ordered these boxes for you,
Rosie,” she explained. “I knew your
candy would sell better if it was put up
nicely. I thought the little ones could be
five-cent size, the middle-sized ones ten-cent
size, and the big ones twenty-five cent size.”</p>
<p>Rosie was dancing up and down with delight.
“They’re just lovely, Maida, and
how sweet you were to think of it. But it
was just like you.”</p>
<p>“Now we must pack them,” Maida said.</p>
<p>Four pairs of hands made light work of
this. By nine o’clock all the boxes were
filled and spread out temptingly in the
show case. By a quarter past nine, three
of the W.M.N.T.’s were in bed trying
hard to get to sleep. But Maida stayed up.
The boxes were not her only surprise.
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page269">[Pg 269]</a></span></p>
<p>After the others had gone, she and Granny
worked for half an hour in the little shop.</p>
<p>The Saturday before Christmas dawned
clear and fair. Rosie hallooed for Dicky
and Arthur as she came out of doors at half-past
seven and all three arrived at the shop
together. Their faces took on such a
comic look of surprise that Maida burst out
laughing.</p>
<p>“But where did it all come from?” Rosie
asked in bewilderment. “Maida, you slyboots,
you must have done all this after we
left.”</p>
<p>Maida nodded.</p>
<p>But all Arthur and Dicky said was
“Gee!” and “Jiminy crickets!” But
Maida found these exclamatives quite as expressive
as Rosie’s hugs. And, indeed, she
herself thought the place worthy of any degree
of admiring enthusiasm.</p>
<p>The shop was so strung with garlands of
Christmas green that it looked like a bower.
Bunches of mistletoe and holly added their
colors to the holiday cheer. Red Christmas
bells hung everywhere.</p>
<p>“My goodness, I never passed such a day
in my life,” Maida said that night at dinner.
She was telling it all to Granny, who
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page270">[Pg 270]</a></span>
had been away on mysterious business of
her own. “It’s been like a beehive here
ever since eight o’clock this morning. If
we’d each of us had an extra pair of hands
at our knees and another at our waists, perhaps
we could have begun to wait on all the
people.”</p>
<p>“Sure ’twas no more than you deserved
for being such busy little bees,” Granny approved.</p>
<p>“The only trouble was,” Maida went on
smilingly, “that they liked everything so
much that they could not decide which they
wanted most. Of course, the boys preferred
Arthur’s carvings and the girls
Rosie’s candy. But it was hard to say who
liked Dicky’s things the best.”</p>
<p>Granny twinkled with delight. She had
never told Maida, but she did not need to
tell her, that Dicky was her favorite.</p>
<p>“And then the grown people who came,
Granny! First Arthur’s father on his way
to work, then Mrs. Lathrop and Laura—they
bought loads of things, and Mrs. Clark
and Mrs. Doyle and even Mr. Flanagan
bought a hockey-stick. He said,” Maida
dimpled with delight, “he said he bought it
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page271">[Pg 271]</a></span>
to use on Arthur and Rosie if they ever
hooked jack again. Poor Miss Allison
bought one of Arthur’s ‘cats’—what do you
suppose for?”</p>
<p>Granny had no idea.</p>
<p>“To wind her wool on. Then Billy came
at the last minute and bought everything
that was left. And just think, Granny,
there was a crowd of little boys and girls
who had stood about watching all day without
any money to spend and Billy divided
among them all the things he bought.
Guess how much money they made!”</p>
<p>Granny guessed three sums, and each
time Maida said, triumphantly, “More!”
At last Granny had to give it up.</p>
<p>“Arthur made five dollars and thirty
cents. Dicky made three dollars and
eighty-seven cents. Rosie made two dollars
and seventy cents.”</p>
<p>After dinner that night, Maida accompanied
Rosie and Dicky on the Christmas-shopping
expedition.</p>
<p>They went first to a big dry goods store
with Dicky. They helped Dicky to pick out
a fur collar for his mother from a counter
marked conspicuously $2.98. The one they
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page272">[Pg 272]</a></span>
selected was of gray and brown fur. It was
Maida’s opinion that it was sable and chinchilla
mixed.</p>
<p>Dicky’s face shone with delight when at
last he tucked the big round box safely under
his arm. “Just think, I’ve been planning
to do this for three years,” he said,
“and I never could have done it now if it
hadn’t been for you, Maida.”</p>
<p>Next Dicky took the two little girls where
they could buy razors. “The kind that goes
like a lawn-mower,” Rosie explained to the
proprietor. The man stared hard before he
showed them his stock. But he was very
kind and explained to them exactly how the
wonderful little machine worked.</p>
<p>Maida noticed that Rosie examined very
carefully all the things displayed in windows
and on counters. But nothing she
saw seemed to satisfy her, for she did not
buy.</p>
<p>“What is it, Rosie?” Maida asked after
a while.</p>
<p>“I’m looking for something for my
mother.”</p>
<p>“I’ll help you,” Maida said. She took
Rosie’s hand, and, thus linked together, the
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page273">[Pg 273]</a></span>
two little girls discussed everything that
they saw.</p>
<p>Suddenly, Rosie uttered a little cry of joy
and stopped at a jeweler’s window. A tray
with the label, “SOLID SILVER, $1,”
overflowed with little heart-shaped pendants.</p>
<p>“Mama’d love one of those,” Rosie said.
“She just loved things she could hang round
her neck.”</p>
<p>They went inside. “It’s just what I
want,” Rosie declared. “But I wish I had
a little silver chain for it. I can’t afford
one though,” she concluded wistfully.</p>
<p>“Oh, I know what to do,” Maida said.
“Buy a piece of narrow black velvet ribbon.
Once my father gave my mother a beautiful
diamond heart. Mother used to wear it on
a black velvet ribbon. Afterwards papa
bought her a chain of diamonds. But she
always liked the black velvet best and so did
papa and so did I. Papa said it made her
neck look whiter.”</p>
<p>The other three children looked curiously
at Maida when she said, “diamond heart.”
When she said, “string of diamonds,” they
looked at each other.
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page274">[Pg 274]</a></span></p>
<p>“Was that another of your dreams,
Maida?” Rosie asked mischievously.</p>
<p>“Dreams!” Maida repeated, firing up.
But before she could say anything that she
would regret, the dimples came. “Perhaps
it was a dream,” she said prettily. “But if
it was, then everything’s a dream.”</p>
<p>“I believe every word that Maida says,”
Dicky protested stoutly.</p>
<p>“I believe that Maida believes it,” Arthur
said with a smile.</p>
<p>They all stopped with Rosie while she
bought the black velvet ribbon and strung
the heart on it. She packed it neatly away
in the glossy box in which the jeweler had
done it up.</p>
<p>“If my mama doesn’t come back to wear
that heart, nobody else ever will,” she said
passionately. “Never—never—never—unless
I have a little girl of my own some day.”</p>
<p>“Your mother’ll come back,” Maida
said.</p>
<hr />
<div>
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page275">[Pg 275]</a></span>
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIV" id="CHAPTER_XIV"></a>CHAPTER XIV</h2>
<h3>CHRISTMAS HAPPENINGS</h3>
<p class="returnTOC"><a href="#Contents">Return to Table of Contents</a></p>
</div>
<p>Maida was awakened early Christmas
morning by a long, wild peal of the
bell. Before she could collect her scattered
wits, she heard Rosie’s voice, “Merry
Christmas! Merry Christmas! Merry
Christmas! Oh, Granny, won’t you please
let me run upstairs and wake Maida? I’ve
got something dreadfully important to tell
her.”</p>
<p>Maida heard Granny’s bewildered “All
roight, child,” heard Rosie’s rush through
the living-room and then she bounded out
of bed, prickling all over with excitement.</p>
<p>“Maida,” Rosie called from the stairs,
“wake up! I’ve something wonderful to
tell you.”</p>
<p>But Maida had guessed it.</p>
<p>“I know,” she cried, as Rosie burst into
the room. “Your mother’s come home.”</p>
<p>“My mother’s come home,” Rosie echoed.</p>
<p>The two little girls seized each other and
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page276">[Pg 276]</a></span>
hopped around the room in a mad dance,
Maida chanting in a deep sing-song, “Your
mother’s come home!” and Rosie screaming
at the top of her lungs, “My mother’s come
home!” After a few moments of this, they
sank exhausted on the bed.</p>
<p>“Tell me all about it,” Maida gasped.
“Begin at the very beginning and don’t
leave anything out.”</p>
<p>“Well, then,” Rosie began, “I will.
When I went to bed last night after leaving
you, I got to thinking of my mother and
pretty soon I was so sad that I nearly cried
my eyes out. Well, after a long while I got
to sleep and I guess I must have been very
tired, for I didn’t wake up the way I do
generally of my own accord. Aunt Theresa
had to wake me. She put on my best dress
and did my hair this new way and even let
me put cologne on. I couldn’t think why,
because I never dress up until afternoons.
Once when I looked at her, I saw there were
tears in her eyes and, oh, Maida, it made me
feel something awful, for I thought she was
going to tell me that my mother was dead.
When I came downstairs, my father hugged
me and kissed me and sat with me while I
ate my breakfast. Oh, I was so afraid he
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page277">[Pg 277]</a></span>
was going to tell me that mother was dead!
But he didn’t! After awhile, he said,
<span style="font-style: normal">‘Your Christmas presents are all up in your
mother’s bedroom, Rosie.’</span> So I skipped
up there. My father and Aunt Theresa
didn’t come with me, but I noticed they
stood downstairs and listened. I opened
the door.”</p>
<p>Rosie stopped for breath.</p>
<p>“Go on,” Maida entreated; “oh, do
hurry.”</p>
<p>“Well, there, lying on the bed was my
mother. Maida, I felt so queer that I
couldn’t move. My feet wouldn’t walk—just
like in a dream. My mother said,
<span style="font-style: normal">‘Come here, my precious little girl,’</span> but it
sounded as if it came from way, way, way
off. And Maida <span style="font-style: italic">then</span> I could move. I ran
across the room and hugged her and kissed
her until I couldn’t breathe. Then she said,
<span style="font-style: normal">‘I have a beautiful Christmas gift for you,
little daughter,’</span> and she pulled something
over towards me that lay, all wrapped up, in
a shawl on the bed. What do you think it
was?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know. Oh, tell me, Rosie!”</p>
<p>“Guess,” Rosie insisted, her eyes dancing.
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page278">[Pg 278]</a></span></p>
<p>“Rosie, if you don’t tell me this minute,
I’ll pinch you.”</p>
<p>“It was a baby—a little baby brother.”</p>
<p>“A baby! Oh, Rosie!”</p>
<p>The two little girls hopped about the
room in another mad dance.</p>
<p>“Maida, he’s the darlingest baby that
ever was in the whole wide world! His
name is Edward. He’s only six weeks old
and <span style="font-style: italic">he can smile</span>,”</p>
<p>“Smile, Rosie?”</p>
<p>“He can—I saw him—and sneeze!”</p>
<p>“Sneeze, Rosie?”</p>
<p>“That’s not all,” said Rosie proudly.
“He can wink his eyes and double up his
fists—and—and—and a whole lot of things.
There’s no doubt that he’s a remarkable
baby. My mother says so. And pretty as—oh,
he’s prettier than any puppy I ever
saw. He’s a little too pink in the face and
he hasn’t much hair yet—there’s a funny
spot in the top of his head that goes up and
down all the time that you have to be dreadfully
careful about. But he certainly is the
loveliest baby I ever saw. What do you
think my mother let me do?”</p>
<p>“Oh, what?”</p>
<p>“She let me rock him for a moment.
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page279">[Pg 279]</a></span>
And I asked her if you could rock him some
day and she said you could.”</p>
<p>“Oh! oh!”</p>
<p>“And what else do you think she’s going
to let me do?”</p>
<p>“I can’t guess. Oh, tell me quick,
Rosie.”</p>
<p>“She says she’s going to let me give him
his bath Saturdays and Sundays and wheel
him out every day in his carriage.”</p>
<p>“Rosie,” Maida said impressively, “you
ought to be the happiest little girl in the
world. Think of having a baby brother for
a Christmas present. You will let me wheel
him sometimes, won’t you?”</p>
<p>“Of course I will. I shall divide him exactly
in half with you.”</p>
<p>“Where has your mother been all this
time?” Maida asked.</p>
<p>“Oh, she’s been dreadfully sick in a hospital.
She was sick after the baby came to
her—so sick that she couldn’t even take
care of him. She said they were afraid she
was going to die. But she’s all right now.
Father bought her for Christmas a beautiful,
long, red-silk dress that’s just to lie
down in. She looks like a queen in it, and
yet she looks like a little girl, too, for her
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page280">[Pg 280]</a></span>
hair is done in two braids. Her hair comes
way down below her waist like your mother’s
hair. And when I gave her the little
silver heart, she was so pleased with it.
She put it right on and it looked sweet.
She said she would much rather wear it on
a black velvet ribbon than on a silver
chain.”</p>
<p>“Everything’s come out all right, hasn’t
it?” Maida said with ecstasy.</p>
<p>“I guess it has. Now I must go. I want
to be sure to be there when the baby wakes
up. I asked my mother when you could see
the baby, Maida, and she said to-morrow.
I can’t wait to show you its feet—you never
did see such little toes in your life.”</p>
<p>Exciting as this event was, it was as nothing
to what followed.</p>
<p>Granny and Maida were still talking
about Rosie’s happiness when Billy Potter
suddenly came marching through the shop
and into the living-room.</p>
<p>“Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!
Merry Christmas!” they all said at once.</p>
<p>“Granny,” Billy asked immediately, “if
you could have your choice of all the Christmas
gifts in the world, which one would you
choose?”
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page281">[Pg 281]</a></span></p>
<p>An expression of bewilderment came
into Granny’s bright blue eyes.</p>
<p>“A Christmas gift, Misther Billy,” she
said in an uncertain tone; “I cudn’t t’ink
of a t’ing as long as Oi can’t have me little
Annie wid me.”</p>
<p>Maida saw Billy’s eyes snap and sparkle
at the word Annie. She wondered what—Could
it be possible that—She began to
tremble.</p>
<p>“And so you’d choose your daughter,
Granny?” Billy questioned.</p>
<p>“Choose my daughter. Av coorse Oi
wud!” Granny stopped to stare in astonishment
at Billy. “Oh, Misther Billy, if
you cud only foind her!” She gazed imploringly
at him. Billy continued to smile
at her, his eyes all “skrinkled up.” Granny
jumped to her feet. She seized Billy’s arm.
“Oh, Misther Billy, you <span style="font-style: italic">have</span> found her,”
she quavered.</p>
<p>Billy nodded. “I’ve found her, Granny!
I told you I would and I have. Now don’t
get excited. She’s all right and you’re all
right and everything’s all right. She’ll be
here just as soon as you’re ready to see
her.”</p>
<p>For a moment Maida was afraid Granny
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page282">[Pg 282]</a></span>
was going to faint, for she dropped back
into her chair and her eyes filled with tears.
But at Billy’s last words the old fire came
back to her eyes, the color to her cheeks.
“Oi want to see her at wance,” she said with
spirit.</p>
<p>“Listen,” Billy said. “Last night I happened
to fall into conversation with a young
Irishman who had come to read the gas-meter
in my house. I asked him where he
came from. He said, <span style="font-style: normal">‘Aldigarey, County
Sligo.’</span> I asked him if he knew Annie
Flynn. <span style="font-style: normal">‘Sure, didn’t she marry my cousin?
She lives—’</span> Well, the short of it is
that I went right over to see her, though
it was late then. I found her a widow with
two children. She nearly went crazy at the
prospect of seeing her mother again, but
we agreed that we must wait until morning.
We planned—oh, come in, Annie,” he called
suddenly.</p>
<p>At his call, the shop door opened and
shut. There was a rush of two pairs of
feet through the shop. In the doorway appeared
a young woman carrying a baby.
Behind her came a little boy on crutches.
Granny stood like a marble statue, staring.
But Maida screamed.
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page283">[Pg 283]</a></span></p>
<p>Who do you suppose they were?</p>
<p>They were Mrs. Dore and Delia and
Dicky.</p>
<p>“Oh, my mother!” Mrs. Dore said.</p>
<p>“My little Annie—my little girl,” Granny
murmured. The tears began to stream
down her cheeks.</p>
<p>Followed kissings and huggings by the
dozen. Followed questions and answers by
the score.</p>
<p>“And to t’ink you’ve been living forninst
us all this time,” Granny said after the excitement
had died down. She was sitting
on the couch now, with Delia asleep in her
lap, Mrs. Dore on one side and Dicky on the
other. “And sure, me own hearrt was telling
me the trut’ all the toime did Oi but
listhen to ut—for ’twas loving this foine little
lad ivry minut av the day.” She patted
Dicky’s head. “And me niver seeing the
baby that had me own name!” She cuddled
Delia close. “OI’m the happiest
woman in the whole woide wurrld this
day.”</p>
<p>
It was arranged that the two families
were to have Christmas dinner together.
Dicky and Mrs. Dore hurried back for a
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page284">[Pg 284]</a></span>
few moments to bring their turkey to the
feast.</p>
<p>“Granny, will you love me just the same
now that you’ve got Dicky and Delia?”
Maida said wistfully.</p>
<p>“Love you, my lamb? Sure, I’ll love you
all the more for ’twas t’rough you I met
Misther Billy and t’rough Misther Billy I
found me Annie. Ah, Misther Billy, ’tis
the grand man you make for such a b’y that
you are!”</p>
<p>“Yes, m’m,” said Billy.</p>
<p>When Mrs. Dore returned, mother and
daughter went to work on the dinner, while
Billy and Maida and Dicky trimmed the
tree. When the door opened, they caught
bits of conversation, Granny’s brogue
growing thicker and thicker in her excitement,
and Mrs. Dore relapsing, under its influence,
into old-country speech. At such
times, Maida noticed that Billy’s eyes always
“skrinkled up.”</p>
<p>They were just putting the finishing
touches to the tree when the window darkened
suddenly. Maida looked up in surprise.
And then, “Oh, my papa’s come!”
she screamed; “my papa’s come to my
Christmas tree after all!”
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page285">[Pg 285]</a></span></p>
<p>There is so much to tell about the Christmas
tree that I don’t know where to begin.</p>
<p>First of all came Laura and Harold.
Mrs. Lathrop stopped with them for a moment
to congratulate Mrs. Dore on finding
her mother.</p>
<p>“Mrs. Lathrop, permit me to introduce
my father, Mr. Westabrook,” Maida said.</p>
<p>Mrs. Lathrop was very gracious. “The
neighborhood have accepted your daughter
as Mrs. Flynn’s grandchild, Mr. Westabrook.
But I guessed the truth from the
first. I believed, however, that you wished
the matter kept a secret and I have said
nothing of it to anybody.”</p>
<p>“I thank you, madam,” said “Buffalo”
Westabrook, bending on her one of his
piercing scrutinies. “How ever the neighborhood
accepted her, they have given her
back her health. I can never be too grateful
to them.”</p>
<p>Came Rosie next with a, “Oh, Maida, if
you could only have seen Edward when my
mother bathed him to-night!” Came Arthur,
came the Doyles, came the Clark twins
with Betsy tagging at their heels. Last of
all, to Maida’s great delight, came Dr.
Pierce.
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page286">[Pg 286]</a></span></p>
<p>Nobody was allowed to go into the shop
where the tree stood until the last guest
had arrived. But in spite of their impatience
they had a gay half hour of waiting.
Billy amused them with all kinds of games
and tricks and jokes, and when he tired, Dr.
Pierce, who soon became a great favorite,
took them in hand.</p>
<p>Dr. Pierce sat, most of the evening, holding
Betsy in his lap, listening to her funny
baby chatter and roaring at her escapades.
He took a great fancy to the Clark twins
and made all manner of fun for the children
by pretending that there was only one of
them. “Goodness; how you do fly about!”
he would say ruefully to Dorothy, “An instant
ago you were standing close beside
me,” or “How can you be here on the
couch,” he would say to Mabel, “when there
you are as plain as a pikestaff standing up
in the corner?”</p>
<p>“What can you do about that leg, Eli?”
Mr. Westabrook asked Dr. Pierce once
when Dicky swung across the room.</p>
<p>“I’ve been thinking about that,” Dr.
Pierce answered briskly. “I guess Granny
and Annie will have to let me take Dicky for
a while. A few months in my hospital and
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page287">[Pg 287]</a></span>
he’ll be jumping round here like a frog with
the toothache.”</p>
<p>“Oh, Dr. Pierce, do you think you can
cure him?” Mrs. Dore asked, clasping her
hands.</p>
<p>“Cure him!” Dr. Pierce answered with
his jolliest laugh. “Of course we can.
He’s not in half so bad a condition as
Maida was when we straightened her out.
Greinschmidt taught us a whole bag of
tricks. Dicky could almost mend himself if
he’d only stay still long enough. Look at
Maida. Would you ever think she’d been
much worse than Dicky?”</p>
<p>Everybody stared hard at Maida, seated
on her father’s knee, and she dimpled and
blushed under the observation. She was
dressed all in white—white ribbons, white
sash, white socks and shoes, the softest,
filmiest white cobweb dress. Her hair
streamed loose—a cascade of delicate, clinging
ringlets of the palest gold. Her big,
gray eyes, soft with the happiness of the
long day, reflected the firelight. Her
cheeks had grown round as well as pink and
dimpled.</p>
<p>She did not look sick.</p>
<p>“Oh, Dicky,” she cried, “just think,
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page288">[Pg 288]</a></span>
you’re going to be cured. Didn’t I tell you
when my father saw you, he’d fix it all
right? My father’s a magician!”</p>
<p>But Dicky could not answer. He was
gulping furiously to keep back the tears of
delight. But he smiled his radiant smile.
Billy took everybody’s attention away from
him by turning an unexpected cartwheel in
the middle of the floor.</p>
<p>Finally, Maida announced that it was
time for the tree. They formed in line and
marched into the shop to a tune that Billy
thumped out of the silver-toned old spinet.</p>
<p>I wish you could have heard the things
the children said.</p>
<hr />
<p>The tree went close to the ceiling. Just
above it, with arms outstretched, swung a
beautiful Christmas angel. Hanging from
it were all kinds of glittery, quivery,
sparkly things in silver and gold. Festooned
about it were strings of pop corn
and cranberries. At every branch-tip glistened
a long glass icicle. And the whole
thing was ablaze with candles and veiled
in a mist of gold and silver.</p>
<p>At the foot of the tree, groups of tiny
figures in painted plaster told the whole
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page289">[Pg 289]</a></span>
Christmas Day story from the moment of
the first sight of the star by the shepherds
who watched their flocks to the arrival, at
the manger, of the Wise Men, bearing gold,
frankincense and myrrh.</p>
<p>Billy Potter disappeared for a moment
and came in, presently, the most chubby and
pink-faced and blue-eyed of Santa Clauses,
in purple velvet trimmed with ermine, with
long white hair and a long white beard.</p>
<p>I can’t begin to name to you all the fruits
of that magic tree. From Maida, there
came to Rosie a big golden cage with a pair
of canary birds, to Arthur a chest of wonderful
tools, to Dicky a little bookcase full
of beautiful books, to Laura a collection of
sashes and ribbons, to Harold a long train
of cars. For Molly, Betsy and the Clark
twins came so many gifts that you could
hardly count them all—dolls and dolls’
wardrobes, tiny doll-houses and tinier doll-furniture.
For Tim came a sled and bicycle.</p>
<p>To Maida came a wonderful set of paper
boxes from Dicky, a long necklace of carved
beads from Arthur, a beautiful blank-book,
with all her candy recipes, beautifully written
out, from Rosie, a warm little pair of
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page290">[Pg 290]</a></span>
knitted bed-shoes from Granny, a quaint,
little, old-fashioned locket from Dr. Pierce—he
said it had once belonged to another
little sick girl who died.</p>
<p>From Billy came a book. Perhaps you
can fancy how Maida jumped when she read
“The Crystal Ball,” by William Potter, on
the cover. But I do not think you can
imagine how pleased she looked when inside
she read the printed dedication, “To Petronilla.”</p>
<p>From her father came a beautiful miniature
of her mother, painted on ivory.
The children crowded about her to see the
beautiful face of which Maida had told them
so much. There was the mass of golden
hair which she had described so proudly.
There, too, was a heart-shaped pendant of
diamonds, suspended from a black velvet
ribbon tied close to the white throat.</p>
<p>The children looked at the picture. Then
they looked at each other.</p>
<p>But Maida did not notice. She was
watching eagerly while Dr. Pierce and Billy
and her father opened her gifts to them.</p>
<p>She was afraid they would not understand.
“They’re to save time, you see,
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page291">[Pg 291]</a></span>
when you want to shave in a hurry,” she
explained.</p>
<p>“Maida,” her father said gravely, “that
is a very thoughtful gift. It’s strange
when you come to think of it, as busy a man
as I am and with all the friends I have, nobody
has ever thought to give me a safety
razor.”</p>
<p>“I don’t know how I ever managed to get
along without one,” Dr. Pierce declared, his
curls bobbing.</p>
<p>“As for me—I shall probably save about
a third of my income in the future,” Billy
announced.</p>
<p>All three were so pleased that they
laughed for a long time.</p>
<p>“I’m going to give you another Christmas
present, Maida,” Mr. Westabrook said suddenly,
“I’m going to give us both one—a
vacation. We’re going to start for Europe,
week after next.”</p>
<p>“Oh, papa, papa, how lovely!” Maida
said. “Shall we see Venice again? But
how can I give up my little shop and my
friends?”</p>
<p>“Maida going away!” the children exclaimed.
“Oh, dear! oh, dear!” “But
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page292">[Pg 292]</a></span>
Mr. Westabrook, isn’t Maida coming back
again?” Rosie asked. “How I shall miss
her!” Laura chimed in.</p>
<p>“Take my lamb away,” Granny wailed.
“Sure, she’ll be tuk sick in those woild
counthries! You’ll have to take me wid
you, Misther Westabrook—only—only—”
She did not finish her sentence but her eyes
went anxiously to her daughter’s face.</p>
<p>“No, Granny, you’re not to go,” Mr.
Westabrook said decisively; “You’re to stay
right here with your daughter and her children.
You’re all to run the shop and live
over it. Maida’s old enough and well
enough to take care of herself now. And I
think she’d better begin to take care of me
as well. Don’t you think so, Maida?”</p>
<p>“Of course I do, papa. If you need me,
I want to.”</p>
<p>“Mr. Westabrook,” Molly broke into the
conversation determinedly, “did you ever
give Maida a pair of Shetland ponies?”</p>
<p>Mr. Westabrook bent on the Robin the
most amused of his smiles.</p>
<p>“Yes,” he said.</p>
<p>“And an automobile?” Tim asked.</p>
<p>Mr. Westabrook turned to the Bogle.
“Yes,” he said, a little puzzled.
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page293">[Pg 293]</a></span></p>
<p>“And did Maida’s mother have a gold
brush with her initials in diamonds on it?”
Rosie asked.</p>
<p>Mr. Westabrook roared. “Yes,” he
said.</p>
<p>“And have you got twelve peacocks, two
of them white?” Arthur asked.</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“And has Maida a little theater of her
own and a doll-house as big as a cottage?”
Laura asked.</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“And did she have a May-party last year
that she invited over four hundred children
to?” Harold asked.</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“And did you give her her weight in silver
dollars once?” Mabel asked.</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“And a family of twenty dolls?” Dorothy
asked.</p>
<p>“Yes, you shall see all these things when
we come back,” Mr. Westabrook promised.</p>
<p>“Then why did she run away?” Betsy
asked solemnly.</p>
<p>Everybody laughed.</p>
<p>“I always said Maida was a princess in
disguise,” Dicky maintained, “and now I
<span class='pagenum'><a id="page294">[Pg 294]</a></span>
suppose she’s going back and be a princess
again.”</p>
<p>“Dicky was the first friend I made,
papa,” Maida said, smiling at her first
friend.</p>
<p>“But you’ll come back some time, won’t
you, Maida?” Dicky begged.</p>
<p>“Yes, Dicky,” Maida answered,
“<span style="font-style: italic">I’ll</span>
come back.”</p>
<p>Yes, Maida did come back. And what fun
they all have, the Little Six in their private
quarters, and the Big Six with their picnics,
and their adventures with the Gypsies, is
told in <span style="font-style: italic">Maida’s Little House</span>.<br /></p>
<p style="text-align: center; margin-bottom: 1.00em">THE END<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></p>
<hr class="full" />
<p style="font-size: 125%; text-align: center; margin-bottom: 1.00em">THE CAROLYN WELLS BOOKS FOR GIRLS</p>
<hr />
<p style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Fresh, spirited stories that the modern small girl will take to her
heart these well known books by a famous author have won an important
place in the field of juvenile fiction.</p>
<p style="margin-top:2.0em; text-align: center; margin-bottom: 1.00em">THE FAMOUS “PATTY” BOOKS</p>
<table style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto" summary="Patty Books" width="60%">
<tr><td>Patty Fairfield</td><td>Patty’s Motor Car</td></tr>
<tr><td>Patty at Home</td><td>Patty’s Butterfly Days</td></tr>
<tr><td>Patty in the City</td><td>Patty’s Social Season</td></tr>
<tr><td>Patty’s Summer Days</td><td>Patty’s Suitors</td></tr>
<tr><td>Patty in Paris</td><td>Patty’s Romance</td></tr>
<tr><td>Patty’s Friend</td><td>Patty’s Fortune</td></tr>
<tr><td>Patty’s Pleasure Trip</td><td>Patty Blossom</td></tr>
<tr><td>Patty’s Success</td><td>Patty—Bride</td></tr>
<tr><td colspan="2" align="center">Patty and Azalea</td></tr>
</table>
<p style="text-align: center; margin-top: 2.00em; margin-bottom: 1.00em">THE MARJORIE BOOKS</p>
<table style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto" summary="Marjorie Books" width="60%">
<tr><td>Marjorie’s Vacation</td><td>Marjorie in Command</td></tr>
<tr><td>Marjorie’s Busy Days</td><td>Marjorie’s Maytime</td></tr>
<tr><td>Marjorie’s New Friend</td><td>Marjorie at Seacote</td></tr>
</table>
<p style="text-align: center; margin-top: 2.00em ;margin-bottom: 1.00em">TWO LITTLE WOMEN SERIES</p>
<p style="text-align: center">Two Little Women<br />
Two Little Women and Treasure House<br />
Two Little Women on a Holiday
</p>
<p style="text-align: center; margin-top: 2.00em; margin-bottom: 1.00em">DORRANCE SERIES</p>
<p style="text-align: center">The Dorrance Domain<br />
Dorrance Doings
</p>
<hr class="full" />
<p style="font-size: 125%; text-align: center; ">THE MARY JANE SERIES</p>
<p style="text-align: center; margin-bottom: 1.00em">By CLARA INGRAM JUDSON</p>
<hr />
<p style="text-align: center; margin-bottom: 1.00em">Each Volume Complete in Itself.</p>
<hr />
<p>Take a trip with Mary Jane. She is the heroine of this popular
series for young girls. You’ll find her a charming traveling
companion. Her good nature, her abounding interest in her
friends and surroundings, and her fascinating adventures both
at home and abroad have endeared her to thousands all over
the country.</p>
<blockquote><p>MARY JANE—HER BOOK<br />
MARY JANE—HER VISIT<br />
MARY JANE’S KINDERGARTEN<br />
MARY JANE DOWN SOUTH<br />
MARY JANE’S CITY HOME<br />
MARY JANE IN NEW ENGLAND<br />
MARY JANE’S COUNTRY HOME<br />
MARY JANE AT SCHOOL<br />
MARY JANE IN CANADA<br />
MARY JANE’S SUMMER FUN<br />
MARY JANE’S WINTER SPORTS<br />
MARY JANE’S VACATION<br />
MARY JANE IN ENGLAND<br />
MARY JANE IN SCOTLAND<br />
MARY JANE IN FRANCE<br />
MARY JANE IN SWITZERLAND<br />
MARY JANE IN ITALY<br />
MARY JANE IN SPAIN<br />
MARY JANE’S FRIENDS IN HOLLAND</p>
</blockquote>
<hr class="full" />
<p style="font-size: 125%; text-align: center; ">THE BEVERLY GRAY STORIES</p>
<p style="text-align: center; margin-bottom: 1.00em">by <br />CLAIR BANK</p>
<hr />
<p style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">These stories, full of the fun and thrills of college
life, with an exciting mystery in each, have unusual
appeal for the modern girl.</p>
<blockquote><p>BEVERLY GRAY, FRESHMAN<br />
BEVERLY GRAY, SOPHOMORE<br />
BEVERLY GRAY, JUNIOR<br />
BEVERLY GRAY, SENIOR<br />
BEVERLY GRAY’S CAREER<br />
BEVERLY GRAY ON A WORLD CRUISE<br />
BEVERLY GRAY IN THE ORIENT<br />
BEVERLY GRAY ON A TREASURE HUNT<br />
BEVERLY GRAY’S RETURN<br />
BEVERLY GRAY, REPORTER<br />
BEVERLY GRAY’S ROMANCE</p>
</blockquote>
<hr class="full" />
<p style="font-size: 125%; text-align: center; ">MELODY LANE MYSTERY STORIES</p>
<p style="text-align: center; margin-bottom: 1.00em">By <br />LILIAN GARIS</p>
<hr />
<p style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Thrills, secrets, ghosts—adventures that
will fascinate you seem to surround
pretty Carol Duncan. A vivid, plucky girl, her cleverness at solving mysteries
will captivate and thrill every mystery fan.</p>
<p></p>
<p>THE GHOST OF MELODY LANE</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 1.00em; margin-left: 5.00em">Three people see the "ghost" that wanders in the grove carrying a waxy white
rose. And in the end Carol finds the rose and the ghost too!</p>
<p>THE FORBIDDEN TRAIL</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 1.00em; margin-left: 5.00em">Carol has several bad frights before she clears up the mystery that keeps
the family at Splatter Castle unhappy and afraid.</p>
<p>THE TOWER SECRET</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 1.00em; margin-left: 5.00em">The winking lights from the old tower defy explanation. Had the engaging
circus family anything to do with them?</p>
<p>THE WILD WARNING</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 1.00em; margin-left: 5.00em">What power did the strange, wild warning in the woods have over Polly
Flinders? Carol brings happiness to three families when she solves this mystery.</p>
<p>THE TERROR AT MOANING CLIFF</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 1.00em; margin-left: 5.00em">Carol finally tracks the uncanny “haunts” in the great, bleak house on
“moaning cliff” to their source.</p>
<p>THE DRAGON OF THE HILLS</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 1.00em; margin-left: 5.00em">When Carol runs a tea shop for a friend, a baffling mystery comes to her with
her first customer.</p>
<p>THE MYSTERY OF STINGYMAN’S ALLEY</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 1.00em; margin-left: 5.00em">An adorable child is left at the day nursery where Carol works—who are all
the mysterious people trying to claim her?</p>
<p>THE SECRET OF THE KASHMIR SHAWL</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 1.00em; margin-left: 5.00em"><span style="font-style: italic">A sequel to </span>“The Wild
Warning”<br />A shawl brought from Egypt brings with it an absorbing mystery which
Cecy, with the aid of Polly Flinders, finally solves.</p>
<hr class="full" />
<p style="font-size: 125%; text-align: center; ">FAIRY TALES</p>
<p style="text-align: center"><span style="font-style: italic">and
tales of wonder that are favorites of young people the world over</span>
</p>
<table summary="Fairy Tales" width="80%">
<tr><td>ADVENTURES OF A BROWNIE</td><td>Miss Mulock</td></tr>
<tr><td>ANDERSEN’S FAIRY TALES</td><td>Hans Christian Andersen</td></tr>
<tr><td>AT THE BACK OF THE NORTH WIND</td><td>George MacDonald</td></tr>
<tr><td>THE BLUE FAIRY BOOK</td><td>Andrew Lang</td></tr>
<tr><td>ENGLISH FAIRY TALES</td><td>Joseph Jacobs</td></tr>
<tr><td>GRANNY’S WONDERFUL CHAIR</td><td>Frances Browne</td></tr>
<tr><td>GRIMM’S FAIRY TALES</td><td>The Brothers Grimm</td></tr>
<tr><td>JAPANESE FAIRY TALES</td><td>Yei Theadora Ozaki</td></tr>
<tr><td>THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE</td><td>Miss Mulock</td></tr>
<tr><td>PINOCCHIO</td><td>C. Collodi</td></tr>
<tr><td>THE PRINCESS AND CURDIE</td><td>George MacDonald</td></tr>
<tr><td>THE PRINCESS AND THE GOBLIN</td><td>George MacDonald</td></tr>
<tr><td>THE RED FAIRY BOOK</td><td>Andrew Lang</td></tr>
<tr><td>THE WATER BABIES</td><td>Charles Kingsley</td></tr>
</table>
<table style="margin-top: 2.00em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto" summary="Publisher" width="60%">
<tr>
<td colspan="2" align="center"><span style="font-size: 125%">GROSSET &. DUNLAP</span></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="text-align: left"><span style="font-style: italic;">Publishers</span></td>
<td style="text-align: right"><span style="font-variant: small-caps">New York</span></td>
</tr>
</table>
<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAIDA'S LITTLE SHOP ***</div>
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