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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.
“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?”
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.”
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.”
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.
I can’t wait to show you its feet—you never did see such little toes in your life.” Exciting as this event was, it was as nothing to what followed. Granny and Maida were still talking about Rosie’s happiness when Billy Potter suddenly came marching through the shop and into the living-room. “Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!” they all said at once.
“I’m looking for something for my mother.” “I’ll help you,” Maida said. She took Rosie’s hand, and, thus linked together, the two little girls discussed everything that they saw. Suddenly, Rosie uttered a little cry of joy and stopped at a jeweler’s window. A tray with the label, “SOLID SILVER, $1,” overflowed with little heart-shaped pendants.
Maida was awakened early Christmas morning by a long, wild peal of the bell. Before she could collect her scattered wits, she heard Rosie’s voice, “Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas! Oh, Granny, won’t you please let me run upstairs and wake Maida? I’ve got something dreadfully important to tell her.”
“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.
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.
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