← catalogue

Maida's Little Shop

by Inez Haynes Gillmore · English · Gutenberg #17530 · 314,616 chars · public domain (US)

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Maida's Little Shop
    
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: Maida's Little Shop

Author: Inez Haynes Gillmore


        
Release date: January 16, 2006 [eBook #17530]
                Most recently updated: December 16, 2023

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/17530

Credits: Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed
        Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAIDA'S LITTLE SHOP ***




[Illustration: Maida’s Little Shop]


Maida’s Little Shop
By
Inez Haynes Irwin

Author of
MAIDA'S LITTLE HOUSE,
MAIDA'S LITTLE SCHOOL, ETC.

Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers
New York

Copyright, 1909, by
B. W. HUEBSCH



TO
LITTLE P. D.
FROM
BIG P. D.



CONTENTS

Chapter I: The Ride
Chapter II: Cleaning Up
Chapter III: The First Day
Chapter IV: The Second Day
Chapter V: Primrose Court
Chapter VI: Two Calls
Chapter VII: Trouble
Chapter VIII: A Rainy Day
Chapter IX: Work
Chapter X: Play
Chapter XI: Halloween
Chapter XII: The First Snow
Chapter XIII: The Fair
Chapter XIV: Christmas Happenings




                         MAIDA’S LITTLE SHOP

                         CHAPTER I: THE RIDE


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.

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 sea. Maida half-shut her eyes and the whole
world seemed to flash by in ribbons.

“May I get out for a moment, papa?” she asked suddenly in a thin
little voice. “I’d like to watch the waves.”

“All right,” her father answered briskly. To the chauffeur he said,
“Stop here, Henri.” To Maida, “Stay as long as you want, Posie.”

“Posie” was Mr. Westabrook’s pet-name for Maida.

Billy Potter jumped out and helped Maida to the ground. The three
men watched her limp to the sea-wall.

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.

“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 _do_.”

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.

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 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.

“But what can I find for her to do?” “Buffalo” Westabrook said.

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.

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 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.

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.

“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 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.”

“It isn’t anything you can _give_ her,” Dr. Pierce said impatiently;
“you must find something for her to _do_.”

“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.

“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.”

“Petronilla” was Billy Potter’s pet-name for Maida.

“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 either the value or the
worthlessness of things.”

“And then,” Billy went on, “nobody’s ever used an ounce of
imagination in entertaining the poor child.”

“Imagination!” “Buffalo” Westabrook growled. “What has imagination
to do with it?”

Billy grinned.

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.

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 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.

“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.

“What has imagination to do with it?” Mr. Westabrook repeated.

“It would have a great deal to do with it, I fancy,” Billy Potter
answered, “if somebody would only imagine the right thing.”

“Well, imagine it yourself,” Mr. Westabrook snarled. “Imagination
seems to be the chief stock-in-trade of you newspaper men.”

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.

“All right,” Billy agreed pleasantly; “I’ll put the greatest
creative mind of the century to work on the job.”

“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.”

“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.

“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.”

“Where are we now, Jerome?” Dr. Pierce asked suddenly.

Mr. Westabrook looked about him. “Getting towards Revere.”

“Let’s go home through Charlestown,” 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.”

“Pinkwink” was Dr. Pierce’s pet-name for Maida.

“Oh, I’d love to see it.” A little thrill of pleasure sparkled in
Maida’s flat tones. “I’d just love to.”

Dr. Pierce gave some directions to the chauffeur.

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.

“Now down the hill and then to the left,” Dr. Pierce instructed
Henri.

Warrington Street was wide and old-fashioned. Big elms marching in a
double 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.

“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.”

Maida’s eyes brightened. “And there’s the garret window where the
squirrels used to come in,” she exclaimed.

“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.”

Maida stared. The trees looked very high indeed to her. And she
thought the street quite wide enough for anybody, the houses very
stately.

“Now show me the school,” she begged.

“Just a block or two, Henri,” Dr. Pierce directed.

The car stopped in front of a low, rambling wooden building with a
yard in front.

“That’s where you covered the ceiling with spit-balls,” Maida asked.

“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.

“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!”

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 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.

“Primrose Court!” Dr. Pierce exclaimed. “Well, well, well!”

“Primrose Court,” Maida repeated. “Do primroses grow there?”

“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.”

But Maida was scarcely listening. “Oh, what a cunning little shop!”
she exclaimed. “There, opposite the court. What a perfectly darling
little place!”

“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.”

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.

“What are those yellow things in that glass jar?” Maida asked.

“Pickled limes,” Dr. Pierce responded promptly. “How I used to love
them!”

“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.’”

“All right,” Mr. Westabrook said. “Let’s come in and treat Maida to
a pickled lime.”

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.

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.

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.

“I like pickled limes,” Maida said after 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.”

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.

Her father studied her with increasing anxiety as they neared the
big house on Beacon Street. Dr. Pierce’s face was shadowed too.

“Eureka! I’ve found it!” Billy exclaimed as they swept past the
State House. “I’ve got it, Mr. Westabrook.”

“Got what?”

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.

“Got what?” Mr. Westabrook repeated impatiently.

“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.”

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.

“How’s my lamb?” she asked tenderly of Maida.

“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.”

Billy Potter smiled all over his pink face. He followed Mr.
Westabrook and Dr. Pierce into the drawing-room.

                        ----------------------

Maida went upstairs with Granny Flynn.

Granny Flynn had come straight to the Westabrook house from the boat
that brought her from Ireland years ago. She 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.”

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.

Just before Maida went to bed that night, she was surprised by a
visit from her father.

“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?”

“Oh, yes, father! I’ve been thinking it over ever since I came home
from our ride this afternoon. A little shop, you know, just like the
one we saw to-day.”

“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.”

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.”

“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 games sometimes.
You’re going _in disguise_. Do you understand?”

“Yes, father, I understand.”

“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.

“Or I can pretend I’m poor Granny’s lost daughter’s little girl,”
Maida suggested.

“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?”

“Yes, father. Father, dear, I’m so happy. Does Granny know?”

“Yes.”

Maida heaved an ecstatic sigh. “I’m afraid I shan’t get to sleep
to-night—just thinking of it.”

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 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.

                        ----------------------

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 harder they worked. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, all
the work stopped.

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:

                         MAIDA’S LITTLE SHOP





                       CHAPTER II: CLEANING UP


The next two weeks were the busiest Maida ever knew.

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.

First, Mrs. Murdock called, at Billy’s request, at his rooms on
Mount Vernon Street. Granny and Maida were there to meet her.

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.

“I’ve made out a list of things for the shop that I’m all out of,”
she began briskly. “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.”

“How long will it take you to get out of the shop?” Billy asked.

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.

“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, 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.”

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.

They left the car at City Square in Charlestown and walked the rest
of the way. 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.

“It makes me think of St. Mark’s in Venice,” Maida said to Billy.

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.

“Oh, oh, oh!” she cried, “how nice and clean it looks!”

The shop seemed even larger than she remembered it. The confused,
dusty, cluttery look had gone. But with its dull paint and its
blackened ceiling, it still seemed dark and dingy.

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:

“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!”

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?”

“It surely is little,” Billy agreed, “not much bigger than a pocket
handkerchief, is it?”

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, 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.

“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!”

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.

“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.”

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.

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.

“We’ll put a carpet on it if you think it’s too cold, Granny,” Billy
suggested immediately.

“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.”

“All right,” Billy agreed cheerfully. “What you say goes, Granny.
Now upstairs to the sleeping-rooms.”

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.

“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?”

Maida examined both rooms carefully. “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.”

“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.”

“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.”

“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.”

Granny Flynn was working the latch of 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.

“And look at the windows, Granny,” Billy said. “Sixteen panes of
glass each. I hope you’ll make Petronilla wash them.”

“Oh, Granny, will you let me wash the windows?” Maida asked
ecstatically.

“When you’re grand and sthrong,” Granny promised.

“I know just how I’ll furnish the room,” Billy said half to himself.

“Oh, Billy, tell me!” Maida begged.

“Can’t,” he protested mischievously. “You’ve got to wait till it’s
all finished before you see hide or hair of it.”

“I know I’ll die of curiosity,” Maida protested. “But then of course
I shall be very busy with my own business.”

“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.”

Billy spoke so seriously that most little girls would have been awed
by his manner. 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.

“Now can we look at the things downstairs?” she pleaded.

“Yes,” Billy assented. “To-day is a very important day. Behind
locked doors and sealed windows, we’re going to take account of
stock.”

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.

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.

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.

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 was “half-past ten.”
For the rest of the day, one of his cheeks stuck out as if he had
the toothache.

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.

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.

All this happened on Saturday. Maida did not see the little shop
again until it was finished.

By Monday the place was as busy as a beehive. Men were putting in a
furnace, putting in a telephone, putting in a bathroom, whitening
the plaster, painting the woodwork.

Finally came two days of waiting for the paint to dry. “Will it
ever, _ever_, EVER dry?” Maida used to ask Billy in the most
despairing of voices.

By Thursday, the rooms were ready for their second coat of paint.

“Oh, Billy, do tell me what color it is—I can’t wait to see it,”
Maida begged.

But, “Sky-blue-pink” was all she got from Billy.

Saturday the furniture came.

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.

Maida enjoyed this tremendously, although often she had to go to bed
before dark. She said it was the responsibility that tired her.

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 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.

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.

“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.”

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.

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.

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!”

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.

“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.”

“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.”

“All right,” Billy agreed, smiling peculiarly. He continued to smile
as he opened the boxes.

It did not occur to Maida to ask them 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.

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.

“I say!” Billy emitted a long loud whistle.

“Oh, do you like it?” Maida asked anxiously.

“It’s a grand piece of work, Petronilla,” Billy said heartily.

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 lay neat piles of blank-books
and paper-blocks, with files of pens, pencils, and rubbers arranged
in a decorative pattern surrounding them all.

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.

“To-morrow, I’m going to fill that bowl with asters,” Maida
explained.

“OI’m sure the choild has done foine,” Granny Flynn said, “Oi cudn’t
have done betther mesilf.”

“Now come and look at your rooms, Petronilla,” Billy begged, his
eyes dancing.

Maida opened the door leading into the living-room. Then she
squealed her delight, not once, but continuously, like a very happy
little pig.

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 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.

In the center of the room stood a table set for three.

“It’s just the dearest place,” Maida said. “Billy, you’ve remembered
everything. I thought I heard a bird peep once, but I was too busy
to think about it.”

“Want to go upstairs?” Billy asked.

“I’d forgotten all about bedrooms.” Maida flew up the stairs as if
she had never known a crutch.

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.

“Granny, Granny,” Maida called down to them, “Did you ever see any
place in all your life that felt so _homey_?”

“I guess it will do,” Billy said in an undertone.

That night, for the first time, Maida slept in the room over the
little shop.





                      CHAPTER III: THE FIRST DAY


If you had gone into the little shop the next day, you would have
seen a very pretty picture.

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:

“Oh, Granny, do you think _anybody’s_ going to buy _anything_
to-day?”

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 carved nut of a face—an old woman who kept soothing
the little girl with a cheery:

“Now joost you be patient, my lamb, sure somebody’ll be here soon.”

The shop was unchanged since yesterday, except for a big bowl of
asters, red, white and blue.

“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.

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.

The door swung wide. A young man entered. It was Billy Potter.

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.

“Please, mum,” he asked humbly, “do you sell fairy-tales here?”

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 she had made
her mouth quite firm. “How much do you want to pay for them?”

“Not more than a penny each, mum,” he replied.

Maida took out of a drawer the pamphlet-tales that Billy had liked
so much.

“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?”

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.

“Yes, mum,” he said, making his face quite serious again. “My
teacher says I’m the best reader in the room.”

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,’—no, ‘The Sleeping Beauty,’ ‘The
Babes in the Wood.’ I guess I’ll take these ten, mum.”

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.

He took the books, turned and left the shop. Maida watched him in
astonishment. Was he really going for good?

In a few minutes the little bell tinkled a second time and there
stood Billy again.

“Good morning, Petronilla,” he said pleasantly, as if he had not
seen her before that morning, “How’s business?”

“Fine!” Maida responded promptly. “I’ve just sold ten fairy books to
the funniest little boy you ever saw.”

“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.”

He opened the bag he carried and took a box out from it. “Hold out
your two hands,—it’s heavy,” he warned.

In spite of his preparation, the box nearly fell to the floor—it was
so much heavier than Maida expected. “What can be in it?” she cried
excitedly. She pulled the cover off—then murmured a little “oh!” of
delight.

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.

“Gracious, what pretty money!” Maida exclaimed. “There must be a
million here.”

“Five hundred,” Billy corrected her.

He put some tiny cylindrical rolls of paper on the counter. Maida
handled them curiously—they, too, were heavy.

“Open them,” Billy commanded.

Maida pulled the papers away from the tops. Bright new dimes fell
out of one, bright new nickels came from the other.

“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.

The bell rang again. Billy went out to talk with Granny, leaving
Maida alone to cope with her first strange customer.

Again her heart began to jump into her throat. Her mouth felt dry on
the inside. She watched the door, fascinated.

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.

“Come in, little girls,” she called.

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.

“I want to buy some candy for a cent,” one of them whispered in a
timid little voice.

“I want to buy some candy for a cent, too,” the other whispered in a
voice, even more timid.

“All the cent candy is in this case,” Maida explained, smiling.

“What are you going to have, Dorothy?” one of them asked.

“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.

“Have you anything two-for-a-cent?” Mabel whispered finally.

“Oh, yes—all the candy in this corner.”

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.

The two pennies which the twins handed her were still moist from the
hot little hands 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 _precious-looking_ money. The gold eagles which her father had
given her at Christmas and on her birthday did not seem half so
valuable.

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.

“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.

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.

It was getting towards school-time. 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.

“Do you need any help?” Granny called.

“No, Granny, not yet,” Maida answered cheerfully.

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.

For an hour or more, nobody entered the shop. Billy left in a little
while for Boston. 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.

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.

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.

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 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.

“I’d like a sheet of red tissue paper,” he said briskly.

Maida’s happy expression changed. It was the first time that anybody
had asked her for anything which she did not have.

“I’m afraid I haven’t any,” she said regretfully.

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.

“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.

“What did Mrs. Murdock charge for it?” she inquired.

“A cent a sheet.”

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.”

“Sure!” the boy exclaimed. “Jiminy crickets! That’s a stroke of luck
I wasn’t expecting.”

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.”

The praise—the first she had had from outside—pleased Maida. It
emboldened her to go on with the conversation.

“You don’t go to school,” she said.

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.

“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 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.”

“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.

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.”

“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.

Granny Flynn appeared in the doorway. Her eyes grew soft with pity
when they fell on the little lame boy. “The poor little gossoon!”
she murmured.

“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.”

It had all poured out in an uninterrupted stream. She had to stop
here to get breath.

“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’?”

“No—why, I’m only in the first reader.”

“I’ll read them to you,” Maida said decisively, “and ‘Treasure
Island’ and ‘The Princes and the Goblins’ and ‘The Princess and
Curdie.’” She reeled off the long list of her favorites.

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 _to want to do things_.”

“What’s your name, my lad?” she asked.

“Dicky Dore, ma’am,” the boy answered respectfully.

“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.”

“We’ll begin next week, Monday,” Maida said eagerly. “You come over
here right after dinner.”

“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.

“My name’s Maida.”

“Thank you, Maida,” the boy said with even a greater display of
bashfulness. He settled the crutches under his thin shoulders.

“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.”

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.”

“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?”

“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.”

Maida’s brow wrinkled. “I don’t like him,” she said. “He’s not
polite.”

“Well, I like him,” Dicky Dore maintained stoutly. “He’s the best
friend I’ve got anywhere. Arthur hasn’t any mother, 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.”

The bell tinkling on his departure did not ring again till noon. But
Maida did not mind.

“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!”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

“How much is that candy?” the girl asked, pointing to one of the
trays.

Maida told her.

“Dear me, haven’t you anything better than that?”

Maida gave her all her prices.

“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.”

“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.”

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.

Maida put the candy into a bag and handed it to her without
speaking. The girl bustled towards the door. Half-way, she stopped
and came back.

“My name is Laura Lathrop,” she said. “What’s yours?”

“Maida.”

“Maida?” the girl repeated questioningly. “Maida?—oh, yes, I
know—Maida Flynn. Where did you live before you came here?”

“Oh, lots of places.”

“But where?” Laura persisted.

“Boston, New York, Newport, Pride’s Crossing, the Adirondacks,
Europe.”

“Oh, my! Have you been to Europe?” Laura’s tone was a little
incredulous.

“I lived abroad a year.”

“Can you speak French?”

“Oui, Mademoiselle, je parle Français un peu.”

“Say some more,” Laura demanded.

Maida smiled. “Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf,
dix, onze, douze—”

Laura looked impressed. “Do you speak any other language?”

“Italian and German—a very little.”

Laura stared hard at her and her look was full of question. But it
was evident that she decided to believe Maida.

“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.”

“Thank you,” Maida said in her most civil voice. “Come and play with
me sometime,” she added after a pause.

“Oh, my mother doesn’t let me play in other children’s houses,”
Laura said airily. “Good-bye.”

“Good-bye,” Maida answered.

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.”

“Why, what did the choild do?” Granny asked in surprise.

“Do?” Maida repeated. “She did everything. 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.”

“There’s manny folks that-a-way,” said Granny. “The woisest way is
to take no notuce av ut.”

“Take no notice of it!” Maida stormed. “It’s just like not taking
any notice of a bee when it’s stinging you.”

Maida was so angry that she walked into the living-room without
limping.

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.”

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.

“I boneys that red top, first,” said the little boy in a piping
voice.

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.

“I boneys that little pink doll with the curly hair, first,” said
the girl.

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.”

“I boneys that big agate, second,” said the Bogle.

“I boneys that little table, second,” said the Robin.

“I boneys that knife, third,” said the Bogle.

“I boneys that little chair, third,” said the Robin.

Maida could not imagine what kind of game they were playing. She
went to the door. “Come in, children,” she called.

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.

“Tell me about the game you were playing,” Maida said. “I never
heard of it before.”

“’Tain’t any game,” the Bogle said.

“We were just boneying,” the Robin explained. “Didn’t you ever boney
anything?”

“No.”

“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.”

“I see,” Maida said.

She went to the window and took out the red top and the little pink
doll with curly hair. “Here, these are the things you boneyed first.
You may have them.”

“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.

“Thank you,” the Bogle echoed. He did not look at Maida but he began
at once to wind his top.

“What is your name?” Maida asked.

“Molly Doyle,” the Robin answered. “And this is my brother, Timmie
Doyle.”

“My name’s Maida. Come and see me again, Molly, and you, too,
Timmie.”

“Of course I’ll come,” Molly answered, “and I’m going to name my
doll ‘Maida.’”

Molly ran all the way home, her doll tightly clutched to her breast.
But Timmie stopped to spin his top six times—Maida counted.

No more customers came that evening. At six, Maida closed and locked
the shop.

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 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.”

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.





                      CHAPTER IV: THE SECOND DAY


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!”

A huge puddle stretched across Primrose Court. When Maida took her
place in the 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.

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.

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 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.

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.

“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. 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.

“Oh, Betsy Hale!” Dicky said. “You naughty, naughty girl! How could
you drown your own children like that?”

“I were divin’ them a baff,” Betsy explained.

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:

“I aren’t naughty, is I?” she asked.

“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.

“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 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.”

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.

“Calls herself _her_ half the time,” Dicky explained. He gathered up
the dresses and shooing Betsy ahead of him, followed her into the
yard.

“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 she
turned the hose on Mr. Flanagan—that’s the policeman on the beat.”

“What did he say?” Maida asked in alarm. She had a vague imaginary
picture of Betsy being dragged to the station-house.

“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?”

Betsy had come out of the yard again. She was carrying a huge
feather duster over her head as if it were a parasol.

“The darling!” Maida said joyously. “I hope she’ll do something
naughty every day.”

“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?”

“Yes, just a little while ago.”

“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.”

“Do come and see me, Dicky, won’t you?” 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.”

At the word _friend_, Dicky’s beautiful smile shone bright. “Sure,
I’ll come,” he said heartily. “I’ll come often.”

“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.

“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.”

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?”

“Why, me blessid lamb, ’twas too sick that you was to be naughty.
You cud hardly lift one little hand from the bed.”

“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.”

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.

“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.”

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?”

“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.”

Maida bounded back to the shop in high spirits. Granny heard her say
“Every bottle!” again and again in a whispering little voice.

“Just think, Granny,” she called after a while. “I’ve made one, two,
three, four, five friends—Dicky, Molly, Tim, Betsy and Laura—though
I don’t call her quite a friend yet. Pretty good for so soon!”

Maida was to make a sixth friend, although not quite so quickly.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

“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.

Arthur nodded.

“Nobody’s going to hurt helpless creatures while I’m about! He was a
sweet little, precious little, pretty little puppy, so he was.”

Rose-Red marched into the court with the puppy, opened a gate and
dropped him inside.

“That pup belongs to me, now,” she said marching back.

The school bell ringing at this moment ended the scene.

“Who’s that little girl who wears the scarlet cape?” Maida asked
Dorothy and Mabel Clark when they came in together at four.

“Rosie Brine,” they answered in chorus.

“She’s a dreffle naughty girl,” Mabel said in a whisper, and “My
mommer won’t let me play with her,” Dorothy added.

“Why not?” Maida asked.

“She’s a tom-boy,” Mabel informed her.

“What’s a tom-boy?” Maida asked Billy that night at dinner.

“A tom-boy?” Billy repeated. “Why, a tom-boy is a girl who acts like
a boy.”

“How can a girl be a boy?” Maida queried after a few moments of
thought. “Why don’t they call her a tom-girl?”

“Why, indeed?” Billy answered, taking up the dictionary.

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 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.

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 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.

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.

“Do you know Rosie Brine?” Maida asked Dicky Dore one evening when
they were reading together.

“Sure!” Dicky’s face lighted up. “Isn’t she a peach?”

“They say she is a tom-boy,” Maida objected. “Is she?”

“Surest thing you know,” Dicky said 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.”

Then boys liked girls to be tom-boys. This was a great surprise.

“How does it happen that she doesn’t go to school often?”

Dicky grinned. “Hooking jack!”

“Hooking jack?” Maida repeated in a puzzled tone.

“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.

“Oh,” Maida said. “I understand now.”

“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 a week. But the moment she stops, Rosie begins to
hook jack again.”

“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.

“She must be very brave,” she said soberly.

“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.”

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.

“Oh, wouldn’t it be grand to be able to 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.”

“I’m going to do them all, sometime,” Dicky prophesied. “Doc O’Brien
says so.”

“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.”

“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.”

“The W.M.N.T.,” Maida repeated. “What does that mean?”

“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.”

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 other people’s dogs
and then trying to induce them not to follow her.

“It seems strange that she never comes into the shop,” Maida said
mournfully to Dicky one day.

“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.”

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.

“Let me look at your tops, please,” Rosie said, marching to the
counter with the usual proud swing of her body.

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. Maida lifted all
the tops from the window and placed them on the counter.

“Mind if I try them?” Rosie asked.

“Oh, do.”

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.

“Oh, how lovely!” Maida exclaimed. Then in fervent admiration: “What
a wonderful girl you are!”

Rosie smiled. “Easy as pie if you know how. Want to learn?”

“Oh, will you teach me?”

“Sure! Begin now.”

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.

“She’s sorry for me,” Maida thought. “How sweet she looks!”

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 gained in confidence. At last
she succeeded in making one top spin feebly.

“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.”

“Oh, do,” Maida begged, “and come to see me in the evening sometime.
Come this evening if your mother’ll let you.”

Rosie laughed scornfully. “I guess nobody’s got anything to say
about _letting me_, if I make up my mind to come. Well, goodbye!”

She whirled out of the shop and soon the scarlet cape was a
brilliant spot in the distance.

But about seven that evening the bell rang. When Maida opened the
door there stood Rosie.

“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.”

Billy shook hands gravely with the little 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.

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.

“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.”

“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.”

“You know Laura Lathrop, don’t you?” Rosie asked with a sideways
look.

“Yes, but I don’t like her.”

“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.”

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.

“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?”

“Oh, yes, we have several at Pride’s.”

“Pride’s?”

“Pride’s Crossing. That’s where we go summers.”

“And what do your parrots say?”

“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.”

“And did you have other animals besides parrots?” Rosie asked. “I
love animals.”

“Oh, yes, we had horses and dogs and cats and rabbits and dancing
mice and marmosets and macaws and parokets and—I guess 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.”

“Who do they belong to?”

“My father.”

Rosie considered this. “Does he keep a bird-place?” she asked in a
puzzled tone.

“No.” Maida’s tone was a little puzzled too. She did not know what a
bird-place was.

“Well, did he sell them?”

“I don’t think he ever sold any. He gave a great many away, though.”

When Rosie went home, Maida walked as far as her gate with her.

“Want to know a secret, Maida?” Rosie asked suddenly, her eyes
dancing with mischief.

“Oh, yes. I love secrets.”

“Cross your throat then.”

Maida did not know how to cross her throat but Rosie taught her.

“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 anybody
knowing it. She’ll never know the difference.”

“Oh, Rosie,” Maida said in a horrified tone, “Please never do it
again.” In spite of herself, Maida’s eyes twinkled.

But Rosie only laughed. Maida watched her steal into her yard,
watched her climb over the shed, watched her disappear through the
window.

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.

“Oh, papa, papa,” she whispered, cuddling her face against his, “how
glad I am to see you.”

He marched with her over to the light.

“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.”





                      CHAPTER V: PRIMROSE COURT


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.”

At noon and night the bell sounded a continuous tinkle.

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.

After a day or two her life fell into a regular programme.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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 _how_ did she
creep past the window without my seeing her?” And outside would be
rosy-cheeked, brass-buttoned Mr. 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!”

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.”

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

“There’s that choild in the water again,” Granny would cry from the
living-room.

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.

“Hello, Tim,” Billy Potter would say whenever they met. “Fallen into
a pud-muddle lately?”

The word _pud-muddle_ 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.

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.

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, 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.

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.

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.

The more Maida watched Laura the less she liked her. She could see
that what Rosie 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.

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.

When the proceedings reached this stage, Maida would be so angry
that she could 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.”

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 told
her, she knew that, next to Dicky, Rosie was Granny’s favorite of
all the children in the neighborhood.

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.

But Granny had no objections to the gentler fun of “Miss
Jennie-I-Jones,” “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.

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.

“You let her jump just one jump every morning and night, Granny,”
Rosie advised, “and I’m sure it will be all right. 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.”

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.

“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.

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?”

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.

“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.”

Granny looked, as Dr. Pierce afterwards said, “as tickled as Punch.”

“How do you like shop-keeping?” Dr. Pierce went on.

“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.

“Tired!” Maida’s indignation was so intense that Dr. Pierce shook
until every curl bobbed.

“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.”

“Sure, tis a foine little pig OI’m growing now,” Granny said.

“And as for sleeping—” Maida stopped as if there were no words
anywhere to describe her condition.

Granny finished it for her. “The choild sleeps like a top.”

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 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.

“Oh, Masther Billy, ’tis the choild that you are!” Granny would say,
twinkling.

“Yes, ma’am,” Billy would answer.

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.

Here was a child who had never played,
“London-Bridge-is-falling-down” or jackstones 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.

Because of all these things the children had a kind of contempt for
her mingled with a curious awe.

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 “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.

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.

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.

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 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!”

It did not seem to Maida that the days were long enough to do all
the things she wanted to do.





                        CHAPTER VI: TWO CALLS


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.”

“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.”

“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.”

“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.”

“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.

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.”

“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.”

“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.

“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 afternoon and I just love the thought of
going. Isn’t it strange?”

“Very,” Granny said, smiling. “But you be sure to be a noice choild
this afternoon, no matter what that wan says to you.”

Granny always referred to Laura as “that wan.”

“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.”

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.”

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.

“How do you like my room, Maida?”

“It’s very pretty.”

“This is my toilet-set.” Laura pointed 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?”

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.

“Ivory! I shouldn’t think that would be very pretty.”

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.

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.

“Oh, what a darling doll-house,” Maida exclaimed, pausing before the
miniature mansion, very elegantly furnished.

“Oh, do you like it?” Laura beamed with pride.

“I just love it! Particularly because it’s so little.”

“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?”

Maida looked embarrassed. “Only one.”

“Whose was it?”

“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.”

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 in which she seemed to think of nothing
else to show.

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.

“Did you have a cupola at Pride’s Crossing?” Laura asked
triumphantly.

“Oh, no—how I wish I had!”

Laura beamed again.

“Laura likes to have things other people haven’t,” Maida thought.

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—

“Oh, oh, oh!” she exclaimed, stopping before one of the pictures;
“that’s Santa Maria in Cosmedin. I haven’t seen that since I left
Rome.”

“How long did you stay in Rome, little girl?” a voice asked back of
her. Maida turned. Mrs. Lathrop had come into the room.

Maida arose immediately from her chair. “We stayed in Rome two
months,” she said.

“Indeed. And where else did you go?”

“London, Paris, Florence and Venice.”

“Do you know these other pictures?” Mrs. Lathrop asked. “I’ve been
collecting photographs of Italian churches.”

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 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 _Volute_ instead of
_Salute_ because it’s all covered with volutes.” Maida smiled
sunnily into Mrs. Lathrop’s face as if expecting sympathy with this
architectural joke.

But Mrs. Lathrop did not smile. She looked a little staggered. She
studied Maida for a long time out of her shrewd, light eyes.

“Whose family did you travel with?” she asked at last.

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.

“The family of Mr. Jerome Westabrook,” she said at last.

“Oh!” It was the “oh” of a person who is much impressed. “‘Buffalo’
Westabrook?” Mrs. Lathrop asked.

“Yes.”

“Did your grandmother, Mrs. Flynn, go with you?”

“Yes.”

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.

“Mr. Westabrook has a little girl, hasn’t he?” Mrs. Lathrop said.

Maida felt extremely uncomfortable now. But she looked Mrs. Lathrop
straight in the eye. “Yes,” she answered.

“About your age?”

“Yes.”

“She is an invalid, isn’t she?”

“She _was_,” Maida said with emphasis.

Mrs. Lathrop did not ask any more questions. She went presently into
the back library. An old gentleman sat there, reading.

“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 ‘Buffalo’ Westabrook’s 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.”

The two little girls returned after awhile to the playroom.

“How would you like to have me dance for you?” Laura asked abruptly.
“You know I take fancy dancing.”

“Oh, Laura,” Maida said delightedly “will you?”

“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.”

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 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.

“Oh, Laura, how lovely you do look!” Maida said, “I think you’re
perfectly beautiful!”

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.

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.

Once again Laura went out. This time, she returned dressed like a
little sailor boy. She danced a gay little hornpipe.

“I never saw anything so marvelous in 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?”

“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.”

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.”

“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?”

“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.”

“My birthday comes in the summer, too. 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?”

“We sent out over five hundred invitations, I believe. But not quite
four hundred accepted.”

“Four hundred,” Laura repeated. “Goodness, what could so many
children do?”

“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.”

Laura’s eyes had grown very big. “Didn’t you have a perfectly
splendiferous time?” she asked.

“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.”

“Goodness!” was all Laura could say for a moment. But finally she
added, “I don’t believe that, Maida!”

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.”

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.

                        ----------------------

“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?”

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.”

                        ----------------------

The next afternoon, Maida went, as she had promised, to see Dicky.

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.

“Dicky, how do you manage to keep so clean here?” Maida asked in
genuine wonder.

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.

“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.”

“Arthur must be a very clever boy,” Maida said thoughtfully.

“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.”

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.

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.”

“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 _my_
work away the moment she wakes up. Isn’t she a buster, though?”

“I should say she was!” And indeed, the baby was as fat as a little
partridge. Maida wondered how Dicky could lift her. 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.

“Is she named after your mother?” Maida asked.

“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.”

“Granny must see her sometime—Granny’s name is Delia.”

“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.

“Let her open it,” Maida said, “I brought it for her.”

They watched.

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.

“Say ‘Thank you, Maida,’” Dicky prompted.

Delia said something and Dicky assured her that the baby had obeyed
him. It sounded like, “Sank-oo-Maysa.”

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:

“Did you ever see a peacock, Maida?”

“Oh, yes—a great many.”

“Where?”

“I saw ever so many in the Jardin des Plantes in Paris and then my
father has some in his camp in the Adirondacks.”

“Has he many?”

“A dozen.”

“I’m just wild to see one. Are they as beautiful as that picture in
the fairy-tale?”

“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.

“And do they really open their tails like a fan?”

“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
_cried_ 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.”

“_White_ peacocks! I never heard of white ones.”

“They’re not common.”

“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.”

“It seems more like a fairy-tale here.”

They laughed at this difference of opinion.

“Dicky,” Maida asked suddenly, “do you know that Rosie steals out of
her window at night sometimes when her mother doesn’t know it?”

“Sure—I know that. You see,” he went 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.”

“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.”

“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.”

When Maida got home that night, Billy Potter sat with Granny in the
living-room. Maida came in so quietly that they took no notice of
her. Granny was talking. Maida could see that the tears were
coursing down the wrinkles in her cheeks.

“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!”

Billy’s face was all screwed up, but it was not with laughter. “Did
you ever speak to Mr. Westabrook about it?”

“Oh, Misther Westabruk done iv’ry t’ing he cud—the foine man that he
is. Adver_tise_ments and _de_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.”

Maida knew what they were talking about—Granny had often told her
the sad story of her lost daughter.

“What town in Ireland did you live in, Granny?” Billy asked.

“Aldigarey, County Sligo.” “Now don’t you get discouraged, Granny,”
Billy said, “I’m going to find your daughter for you.”

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.”

“Oh, Billy, do—please do,” Maida burst in. “It will make Granny so
happy.”

Granny seemed happier already. She dried her tears.

“’Tis the good b’y ye are, Misther Billy,” she said gratefully.

“Yes, m’m,” said Billy.





                         CHAPTER VII: TROUBLE


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.

It began with a conversation.

Rosie came marching in early Monday, head up, eyes flaming.

“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 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?”

“Oh, yes, I told her that—and more,” Maida answered directly.

“Laura said it was all a pack of lies, but I don’t believe that. Is
it all true?”

“It’s all true,” Maida said.

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.

Maida answered the look. “Yes, I told him that.”

“And it’s all true?” Rosie asked again.

“Yes, it’s all true,” Maida repeated.

Rosie hesitated a moment. “Harold Lathrop says that you’re daffy.”

Maida said nothing.

“Arthur Duncan says,” Rosie went on more timidly, “that you probably
dreamed those things.”

Still Maida said nothing.

“Do you think you did dream them, Maida?”

Maida smiled. “No, I didn’t dream them.”

“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?”

Maida laughed. “No, Rosie,” she said in her quietest voice, “I did
not imagine them.”

For a moment neither of the two little girls spoke. But they stared,
a little defiantly, into each other’s eyes.

“What did Dicky say?” Maida asked after awhile.

“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.”

“Dear, dear Dicky!” Maida said. “He was the first friend I made in
Primrose Court and I guess he’s the best one.”

“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.”

Saying which she marched out.

Maida’s second trouble began that night.

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.

Granny and Maida rushed to the door. Nobody was in sight.

“Who was it? What does it mean, Granny?” Maida asked in
bewilderment. “Only naughty b’ys, taysing you,” Granny explained.

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.

Tuesday night the same thing happened. Who the boys were Maida could
not find out. Why they bothered her, she could not guess.

“Take no notuce av ut, my lamb,” Granny counselled. “When they foind
you pay no attintion to ut, they’ll be afther stopping.”

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.

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 could not have anything to do with Laura
after what had happened. But she looked straight at Laura and
waited.

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.

“A cent’s worth of dulse, please,” she said airily.

“Dulse?” Maida repeated questioningly; “I guess I haven’t any. What
is dulse?”

“Haven’t any dulse?” Laura repeated with an appearance of being
greatly shocked. “Do you mean to say you haven’t any dulse?”

Maida did not answer—she put her lips tight together.

“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.”

She bustled out of the shop. Maida 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.

“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?”

“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.”

“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?”

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.

“I saw that hateful Laura come out of here,” she said. “I just knew
she’d come in to make trouble. What did she say to you?”

Maida told her slowly between her sobs.

“Horrid little smarty-cat!” was Rosie’s comment and she scowled
until her face looked like a thunder-cloud.

“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.”

“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.”

“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.”

She limped over to the desk. There the black head bent over the
golden one.

“What is dulse?” Maida demanded first.

“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.”

“I have,” Maida answered instantly, “in Paris.”

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.”

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.”

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, ‘_apples on the stick and
mollolligobs to-day_.’ You put that in the window to-morrow morning
and by to-morrow night, you’ll be all sold out.”

“Oh, Rosie,” Maida said happily, “I shall be so much obliged to
you!”

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.

“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.”

The next day the shop was crowded. By night there was not an apple,
a corn-ball or a mollolligob left.

“I shall have a sale like this once a week in the future,” Maida
said. “Why, Granny, lots and lots of children came here who’d never
been in the shop before.”

And so what looked like serious trouble ended very happily.

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.

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.”

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.

“Guess I won’t take one to-day,” Arthur said, while her back was
still turned, and walked out.

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.

Two days later, Arthur Duncan came in 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.

“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.

A day or two later, Arthur Duncan came in for the third time. It
happened that Granny was out marketing.

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.

_Reflected in the glass she saw Arthur Duncan stow one of the blank
books away in his pocket._

Maida felt sick all over. She did not know what to do. She did not
know what to say.

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.

“Perhaps he’ll pay for it,” she thought; “I hope he will.”

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.

Granny, coming in a few moments later, was surprised to find Maida
leaning on the counter, her face buried in her hands.

“What’s the matter with my lamb?” the old lady asked cheerfully.

“Nothing, Granny,” Maida said. But she did not meet Granny’s eye and
during dinner she was quiet and serious.

That night Billy Potter called. “Well, how goes the _Bon Marché of_
Charlestown?” he asked cheerfully.

“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?”

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.

“I guess that’s what I’ll have to do.” But Maida’s tone was
mournful.

But Granny interrupted.

“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?”

Neither Billy nor Maida spoke for a moment.

“I guess Granny’s right,” Billy said finally.

“I guess she is,” Maida said with a sigh.

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 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.

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.

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 knelt upright on the floor, seeking for the box.
Suddenly, reflected in the glass door, she saw another terrifying
picture.

_Arthur Duncan’s arm was just closing the money drawer._

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.

She whirled around in a flash and looked him straight in the eye.

“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.

“Aw, what are you talking about?” Arthur demanded. He attempted to
out-stare her.

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 a blank-book from me and just now
you tried to take some money from the money-drawer.”

Arthur sneered. “How are you going to prove it?” he asked
impudently.

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.

“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 _wants_ to steal. Now
when you want anything so bad as that, come to me and I’ll see if I
can get it for you.”

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.

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.

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.

He strode straight over to her.

“Here’s three cents for your rubber,” he said, “and five for your
pencil, five for the blank book and there’s two dimes I took out of
the money-drawer.”

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.

“I didn’t know it would make you feel as bad as that,” he said.

“I don’t feel bad,” Maida sobbed—and to prove it she smiled while
the tears ran down her cheeks—“I feel glad.”

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.

“What’s that?” Arthur asked.

“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.”

“Well, I do,” Arthur said. “You wait!”

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 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:

“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.”

Maida did not see him again then. But just before dinner the bell
rang. When Maida opened the door there stood Arthur.

“I had this kitten and I thought you might like him,” he said
awkwardly, holding out a little bundle of gray fluff.

“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!”

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 some bold deed but her flashing eyes showed
her excitement.

“Can we see you alone for a moment, Maida?” she asked in her most
business-like tones.

Wondering, Maida shut the door to the living-room and came back to
them.

“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.”

“Yes, I saw them over at Dicky’s,” Maida said.

“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 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 _stealing_. 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.

Arthur shuffled and looked embarrassed. “No,” he said sheepishly,
“not until you’re grown up.”

“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.”

“Of course I wouldn’t tell anybody,” Maida said in a shocked voice,
“not even Granny or Billy—not even my father.”

“Then that’s settled,” Rosie said with a sigh. “Good night.”

The next day the following note reached Maida:


    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.

    P.S. The name means, WE MUST NEVER TELL.


Maida dreamed nothing but happy dreams that night.





                      CHAPTER VIII: A RAINY DAY


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.

Even the Clark twins in rubber boots, long rain-capes and a baby
umbrella came in to spend their daily pennies.

“I guess it’ll be one session, Maida,” Dorothy whispered.

“Oh goody, Dorothy!” Mabel lisped. “Don’t you love one session,
Maida?”

Maida was ashamed to confess to two such tiny girls that she did not
know what “one session” meant. But she puzzled over it 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.

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.

A little later Dicky came swinging along, the sides of his old rusty
raincoat flapping like the wings of some great bird.

“It’s one-session, Maida,” he said jubilantly, “did you hear the
bell?”

“What’s one session, Dicky?” Maida asked.

“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.”

“Oh, that’s why they don’t come out,” Maida said.

At one o’clock the umbrellas began to file out of the school door.
The street looked 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.

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.

“Oh, Billy, how glad I am to see you,” Maida said. “It’s been the
lonesomest day.”

“Sure, the sight av ye’s grand for sore eyes,” said Granny.

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, Maida’s cup of
happiness brimmed over.

While Billy talked with Granny, the two little girls rearranged the
stock.

“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.”

“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.”

“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.

“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.”

“I guess you don’t know what you’d do until you tried it,” Rosie
said.

Granny and Billy had been curiously quiet in the other room.
Suddenly Billy Potter stepped to the door.

“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.”

The children raced after him. “What is it?” they asked in chorus.

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.

“Guess,” he said.

“Sure and Oi know what ut’s going to be,” smiled Granny.

Maida and Rosie watched him closely. Suddenly they both shouted
together:

“Hopscotch! Hopscotch!”

“Right you are!” Billy approved. He searched among the coals in the
hod until he found a hard piece of slate.

“All ready now!” he said briskly. “Your turn, first, Rosie, because
you’re company.”

Rosie failed on “fivesy.” Maida’s turn came next and she failed on
“threesy.” Billy followed Maida but he hopped on the line on
“twosy.”

“Oi belave Oi cud play that game, ould as Oi am,” Granny said
suddenly.

“I bet you could,” Billy said.

“Sure, ’twas a foine player Oi was when Oi was a little colleen.”

“Come on, Granny,” Billy said.

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.

Granny took her turn after Billy. She hopped about like a very
active and a very benevolent old fairy.

“Oh, doesn’t she look like the Dame in fairy tales?” Maida said.

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.

“Mrs. Delia Flynn, champion of America and Ireland,” Billy greeted
the victor. “Granny, we’ll have to enter you in the next Olympic
games.”

They returned after this breathless work to the living-room.

“Now I’m going to tell you a story,” Billy announced.

“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.”

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.

“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 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.

“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.’

“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.

“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.

“The strange thing about the moon, though, was that it grew larger
instead of smaller. It rose higher and higher, growing 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.

“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 against the shore right under Klara’s window and Klara saw
that it was the wake of the moon. She watched.

“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.

“‘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.’

“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 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.

“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.

“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.

“Klara reached into the water and tried to catch some of these
marvelous beings.

“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.

“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.

“A little farther on, Klara came upon a 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.

“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.

“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 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.

“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!

“‘Oh, good mer-king,’ she called entreatingly, ‘and good mer-queen,
please let me come to live in your palace.’

“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.

“‘Well, if they don’t want me, they shan’t get me, Klara said. And
she walked on twice as proud.’

“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 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.

“Klara could not scramble through the door quickly enough.

“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.

“‘Are you the little girl who’s run away?’ the old lady asked.

“‘Yes,’ Klara faltered.

“‘And you want to live in the Kingdom of the Moon?’

“‘Yes.’

“‘Enter then.’

“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.

“And then—and then—what do you think happened?”

Billy stopped for a moment. Rosie and Maida rose to their knees.

“What happened?” they asked breathlessly.

“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.

“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 been dumped here—it was so
covered with heaps of old rubbish.

“Klara turned to the old lady. She had not changed except that her
cruel mouth sneered.

“Klara burst into tears. ‘I want to go home,’ she screamed. ‘Let me
go back to my mother.’

“The old lady only smiled. ‘You open that door and let me go back to
my mother,’ Klara cried passionately.

“‘But I can’t open it,’ the old lady said. ‘It’s locked. I have no
keys.’

“‘Where are the keys?’ Klara asked.

“The old lady pointed to the endless heaps of rubbish. ‘There,
somewhere,’ she said.

“‘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.’

“‘Nobody wants to keep you,’ the old lady said. ‘You came of your
own accord. Find the keys if you want to go back.’

“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 the longer she hunted the more
determined she grew. It seemed to her that she searched for weeks
and weeks.

“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.

“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 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.

“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.’

“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.

“‘I’m sorry,’ Klara whispered to herself. ‘I’ll never do so again.’

“She had a feeling that as long as she said those magic words,
everything would go well with her.

“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 with her cat and her broomstick standing in
the doorway. But the old lady’s face had grown very gentle and kind.

“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.’

“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.

“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.

“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 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.’”

                        ----------------------

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.”





                           CHAPTER IX: WORK


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.

“What do you think’s happened, Maida?” Rosie asked.

“I don’t know. Oh, what?” Maida asked affrighted.

“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. I feel dreadfully homesick and lonesome without
mother.”

“Oh Rosie, I am sorry,” Maida said. “But perhaps your mother won’t
stay long. Do you like your Aunt Theresa?”

“Oh, yes, I like her. But of course she isn’t mother.”

“No, of course. Nobody is like your mother.”

“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.”

“Of course I’ll come.” Maida’s whole face sparkled. “That is, if
Granny doesn’t think it’s too wet.”

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.

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.

Very early she had put out on her bed the clothes that she intended
to wear—a tanbrown 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.

“I don’t suppose I can go, Granny,” she faltered when the clock
struck four.

“Sure an you _can_,” Granny responded briskly.

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.”

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.

“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 to dry land or I’ll have to wait until somebody comes
and shovels me out.”

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.

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.

Arthur and Dicky sat opposite each other, working at the round
table.

“What do you think of that dog now, Maida?” Rosie asked proudly.
“His name is ‘Tag.’ You wouldn’t know him for the same dog, would
you? Isn’t he a nice-looking little puppy?”

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 new toy, kept trying to catch it and hold it in her little
fingers.

“He’s a lovely doggie,” Maida said. “I wish I’d brought Fluff.”

“And did you ever see such a dear baby,” Rosie went on, hugging
Delia. “Oh, if I only had a baby brother or sister!”

“She’s a darling,” Maida agreed heartily. “Babies are so much more
fun than dolls, don’t you think so, Rosie?”

“Dolls!” No words can express the contempt that was in Miss Brine’s
accent.

“What are you doing, Dicky?” Maida asked, limping over to the table.

“Making things,” Dicky said cheerfully.

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.

“What are they?” Maida asked. “Aren’t they lovely? I never saw
anything like them in my life.”

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 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.”

“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.”

“I’ll show you, sure,” Dicky offered generously.

“What are you making so many for?” Maida queried.

“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.”

“And do you make much money?” Maida asked, deeply interested.

“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.”

“But what do you want nails for?” Maida asked in bewilderment.

“Why, nails are junk.”

“And what’s junk?”

The three children stared at her. “Don’t you know what _junk_ is,
Maida?” Rosie asked in despair.

“No.”

“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?”

Maida nodded.

“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 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.”

“How much have you made ordinarily?” Maida asked thoughtfully.

“Once we made forty cents a-piece but that’s the most.”

“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.

“It would be grand business for us,” Dicky said soberly, “but
somehow it doesn’t seem quite fair to you.”

“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.

But nobody spoke for a moment. “It seems somehow as if we oughtn’t
to,” Dicky said awkwardly at last.

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.

“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.”

The three faces lighted up.

“Of course we will,” Dicky said heartily.

“Gee, I bet Dicky and I could make some great lanterns,” Arthur said
reflectively.

“And I’ll help you fix up the store,” Rosie said with enthusiasm. “I
just love to make things look pretty.”

“It’s a bargain then,” Maida said. “And now you must teach me how to
help you this very afternoon, Dicky.”

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.

“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.”

“Of course,” Dicky said.

“Don’t the other children ever try to copy your things?” Maida
asked.

“They try to,” Arthur answered, “but they never do so well as
Dicky.”

“You ought to see their nose-pinchers,” Rosie laughed. “They can’t
stand up straight. And their boxes and steamships are the wobbliest
things.”

“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.”

“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.”

“That’s settled. What do you whittle, Arthur?”

“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 and little baskets out of
cherry-stones.”

“Jiminy crickets, he’s forgetting the boats,” Dicky burst in
enthusiastically. “He makes the dandiest boats you ever saw in your
life.”

Maida looked at Arthur in awe. “I never heard anything like it! Can
you make anything for girls?”

“Made me a set of the darlingest dolls’ furniture you ever saw in
your life,” Rosie put in from the floor.

“Say, did you get into any trouble last night?” Arthur turned
suddenly to Rosie. “I forgot to ask you.”

“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.”

“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 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?”

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.

“No, I wouldn’t,” she said.

“Oh, that’s all right for _you_ 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?”

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 that line of children every morning and
afternoon of my life and wish and _wish_ 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.”

“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.”

“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.”

To their great surprise, Maida put her head down on the table and
cried.

For a moment the room was perfectly silent. The fire snapped and
Dicky went over to look at it. He stood with his back 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.

“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.”

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.”

“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.

Maida had never pulled candy before and she thought it the most
enchanting fun in the world. It was hard to keep at work, 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.

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.

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.

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 big,
awkward-looking hands could perform feats of such delicacy. Her
own fingers, small and delicate as they were, bungled surprisingly
at times.

“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.”

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.

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
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.

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.

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.

“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 _ay_ 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 _way_, like I—I-way. O—O-way. EEL—eel-way. US—us-way.
OUT—out-way.”

Thus Maida could say to Rosie:

“Are-way ou-yay oing-gay o-tay ool-schay o-tay ay-day?” and mean
simply, “Are you going to school to-day?”

And sometimes to Maida’s grief, Rosie would reply roguishly:

“O-nay I-way am-way oing-gay o-tay ook-hay ack-jay ith-way
Arthur-way.”

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.

“Why do you call Maida, ‘Petronilla’?” Dicky asked him curiously one
day when Maida had run home for more paper.

“Petronilla is the name of a little girl in a fairy-tale that I read
when I was a little boy,” Billy answered.

“And was she like Maida?” Arthur asked.

“Very.”

“How?” Rosie inquired.

“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 the light of Petronilla’s star, no matter how wicked or
hopeless or unhappy he was, was made better and hopefuller and
happier.”

Nobody spoke for an instant.

Then, “I guess Maida’s got the star all right,” Dicky said.

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:

“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.”

For a moment nobody could speak. Then a deafening, “es-yay!” was
shouted at the top of four pairs of lungs.





                           CHAPTER X: PLAY


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.

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.

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.

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.

“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.”

After that her progress was rapid. She learned to jump in the rope
with Rosie.

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 and cap, her
airy ringlets streaming in the breeze and the eyes that had once
been so wistful now shining with happiness.

“Do you kno

Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/17530