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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.
Granny’s scoldings for this carelessness were very gentle—Maida’s face was too radiant with her triumph in this new skill.
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.
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.
Maida hoped against hope that her father would come to spend Thanksgiving with her but that, he wrote finally, was impossible. Billy came, however, and they three enjoyed one of Granny’s delicious turkey dinners.
Maida heard Granny’s bewildered “All roight, child,” heard Rosie’s rush through the living-room and then she bounded out of bed, prickling all over with excitement. “Maida,” Rosie called from the stairs, “wake up! I’ve something wonderful to tell you.” But Maida had guessed it. “I know,” she cried, as Rosie burst into the room. “Your mother’s come home.” “My mother’s come home,” Rosie echoed.
“Granny,” Billy asked immediately, “if you could have your choice of all the Christmas gifts in the world, which one would you choose?” An expression of bewilderment came into Granny’s bright blue eyes. “A Christmas gift, Misther Billy,” she said in an uncertain tone; “I cudn’t t’ink of a t’ing as long as Oi can’t have me little Annie wid me.”
“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.
“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?”
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.
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