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Poor Miss Allison bought one of Arthur’s ‘cats’—what do you suppose for?” Granny had no idea. “To wind her wool on. Then Billy came at the last minute and bought everything that was left. And just think, Granny, there was a crowd of little boys and girls who had stood about watching all day without any money to spend and Billy divided among them all the things he bought.
Hattersley spends much of his time at Arthur’s bed-side. With more good feeling than I gave him credit for, he evinces considerable sympathy for his unhappy friend, and is far more willing than able to comfort him.
A crowd of excited children followed him about, asking him dozens of questions and chattering frantically among themselves. First, he opened one of the bundles—out dropped eight little pulleys. Second, he went up into Maida’s bedroom and fastened one of the little pulleys on the sill outside her window. Third, he did the same thing in Rosie’s house, in Arthur’s and in Dicky’s.
The old woman brought my supper and Arthur’s into the parlour, and told me, with all due formality, that ‘the master desired his compliments to Mrs. Graham, and he had prepared the rooms as well as he could upon so short a notice; but he would do himself the pleasure of calling upon her to-morrow, to receive her further commands.’
But an apology for invading the hermitage was still necessary; so I had furnished myself with a blue morocco collar for Arthur’s little dog; and that being given and received, with much more joy and gratitude, on the part of the receiver, than the worth of the gift or the selfish motive of the giver deserved, I ventured to ask Mrs. Graham for one more look at the picture, if it was still there.
On the eighth of April we went to London, on the eighth of May I returned, in obedience to Arthur’s wish; very much against my own, because I left him behind. If he had come with me, I should have been very glad to get home again, for he led me such a round of restless dissipation while there, that, in that short space of time, I was quite tired out.
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.
‘Not this week,’ I replied. Not these three weeks, I might have said. ‘I had a letter from him this morning. I wish it were such a one as I could show to his lady.’ He half drew from his waistcoat-pocket a letter with Arthur’s still beloved hand on the address, scowled at it, and put it back again, adding—‘But he tells me he is about to return next week.’ ‘He tells me so every time he writes.’
Then came a burst of Rosie’s jolly laughter. She came running up to them, her cheeks like roses, her eyes like stars. They crowded around her. “What did you see?” “Tell us about it?” they clamored. Rosie shook her head. “No, no, no,” she maintained, “I’m not going to tell you what I saw until you’ve been down yourself.” It was Arthur’s turn next. They listened again.
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