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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.
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.
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.
Granny’s scoldings for this carelessness were very gentle—Maida’s face was too radiant with her triumph in this new skill.
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?
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.
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.
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.
“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.”
Letters could not quite fill the gap that his absence made. Perhaps Billy suspected Maida’s secret loneliness for he came oftener and oftener to see her. One night the W.M.N.T.’s begged so hard for a story that he finally began one called “The Crystal Ball.” A wonderful thing about it was that it was half-game and half-story.
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