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Updated: April 30, 2025
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.
Westabrook promised. “Then why did she run away?” Betsy asked solemnly. Everybody laughed. “I always said Maida was a princess in disguise,” Dicky maintained, “and now I suppose she’s going back and be a princess again.” “Dicky was the first friend I made, papa,” Maida said, smiling at her first friend. “But you’ll come back some time, won’t you, Maida?” Dicky begged.
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 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.
“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.
“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.
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.
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.
Lathrop said. “She’s a very sweet little girl,” she went on earnestly for she had been touched by the sight of Maida’s grief the day that she held Laura to the window. “I hope Mr. Westabrook’s own little girl is as sweet.” “She is, Mrs. Lathrop, I assure you she is,” Billy said gravely. “What is the name of the Westabrook child?” “Elizabeth Fairfax Westabrook.” “What is she like?”
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.
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