One morning, Laura Lathrop came importantly into the shop. “Good morning, Maida,” she said; “you may come over to my house this afternoon and play with me if you’d like.”  
“Thank you, Laura,” Maida answered. To anybody else, she would have added, “I shall be delighted to come.” But to Laura, she only said, “It is kind of you to ask me.”
 
“From about two until four,” Laura went on in her most superior tone. “I suppose you can’t get off for much longer than that.”
 
“Granny is always willing to wait on customers if I want to play,” Maida explained, “but I think she would not want me to stay longer than that, anyway.”
 
“Very well, then. Shall we say at two?” Laura said this with a very grown-up air. Maida knew that she was imitating her mother.
 
Laura had scarcely left when Dicky appeared, swinging between his . “Maida,” he said, “I want you to come over to-morrow afternoon and see my place. You’ve not seen Delia yet and there’s a whole lot of things I want to show you. I’m going to clean house to-day so’s I’ll be all ready for you to-morrow.”
 
“Oh, thank you,” Maida said. The sparkle that always meant delight came into her face. “I shall be delighted. I’ve always wanted to go over and see you ever since I first knew you. But Granny said to wait until you invited me. And I really have never seen Delia except when Rosie’s had her in the carriage. And then she’s always been asleep.”
 
“You have to see Delia in the house to know what a naughty baby she is,” Dicky said. He as if that were the finest tribute that he could pay his little sister.
 
“Granny,” Maida said that noon at lunch, “Laura Lathrop came here and invited me to come to see her this afternoon and I just hate the thought of going—I don’t know why. Then Dicky came and invited me to come and see him to-morrow afternoon and I just love the thought of going. Isn’t it strange?”
 
“Very,” Granny said, smiling. “But you be sure to be a noice choild this afternoon, no matter what that says to you.”
 
Granny always referred to Laura as “that wan.”
 
“Oh, yes, I’ll be good, Granny. Isn’t it funny,” Maida went on. The tone of her voice showed that she was thinking hard. “Laura makes me mad—oh, just 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.”
 
Laura was waiting for her on the when Maida presented herself at the Lathrop door. “Won’t you come in and take your things off, first?” she said. “I thought we’d play in the house for awhile.”
 
She took Maida immediately upstairs to her bedroom—a large room all furnished in blue—blue paper, blue bureau scarf covered with lace, blue bed-spread covered with lace, a big, round, blue roller where the pillows should be.
 
“How do you like my room, Maida?”
 
“It’s very pretty.”
 
“This is my toilet-set.” Laura to the glittering articles on the bureau. “Papa’s given them to me, one piece at a time. It’s all of silver and every thing has my initials on it. What is your set of?”
 
Laura paused before she asked this last question and one of her sideways looks at Maida. “She thinks I haven’t any toilet-set and she wants to make me say so,” Maida thought. “Ivory,” she said aloud.
 
“Ivory! I shouldn’t think that would be very pretty.”
 
Laura opened her bureau drawers, one at a time, and showed Maida the pretty clothes packed in neat piles there. She opened the large closet and displayed elaborately-made frocks, suspended on . And all the time, with little sharp, sideways glances, she was studying the effect on Maida. But Maida’s face betrayed none of the wonder and envy that Laura evidently expected. Maida was very polite but it was evident that she was not much interested.
 
Next they went upstairs to a big playroom which covered the whole top of the house. Shelves covered with books and toys lined the walls. A fire, burning in the big fireplace, made it very cheerful.
 
“Oh, what a darling doll-house,” Maida exclaimed, pausing before the miniature , very elegantly furnished.
 
“Oh, do you like it?” Laura beamed with pride.
 
“I just love it! Particularly because it’s so little.”
 
“Little!” Laura . “I don’t think it’s so very little. It’s the biggest doll-house I ever saw. Did you ever see a bigger one?”
 
Maida looked embarrassed. “Only one.”
 
“Whose was it?”
 
“It was the one my father had built for me at Pride’s. It was too big to be a doll’s house. It was really a small cottage. There were four rooms—two upstairs and two downstairs and a staircase that you could really walk up. But I don’t like it half so well as this one,” Maida went on truthfully. “I think it’s very queer but, somehow, the smaller things are the better I like them. I guess it’s because I’ve seen so many big things.”
 
Laura looked impressed and puzzled at the same time. “And you really could walk up the stairs? Let’s go up in the cupola,” she suggested, after an uncertain in which she seemed to think of nothing else to show.
 
The stairs at the end of the playroom led into the cupola. Maida exclaimed with delight over the view which she saw from the windows. On one side was the river with the draw-bridge, the Navy Yard and the monument on Bunker Hill. On the other stretched the smoky expanse of Boston with the golden of the state house gleaming in the midst of a huge, red-brick .
 
“Did you have a cupola at Pride’s Crossing?” Laura asked .
 
“Oh, no—how I wish I had!”
 
Laura beamed again.
 
“Laura likes to have things other people haven’t,” Maida thought.
 
Her hostess now conducted her back over the two flights of stairs to the lower floor. They went into the dining-room, which was all shining oak and glittering cut-glass; into the , which was filled with gold furniture, puffily upholstered in blue brocade; into the libraries, which Maida liked best of all, because there were so many books and—
 
“Oh, oh, oh!” she exclaimed, stopping before one of the pictures; “that’s Santa Maria in Cosmedin. I haven’t seen that since I left Rome.”
 
“How long did you stay in Rome, little girl?” a voice asked back of her. Maida turned. Mrs. Lathrop had come into the room.
 
Maida arose immediately from her chair. “We stayed in Rome two months,” she said.
 
“Indeed. And where else did you go?”
 
“London, Paris, Florence and Venice.”
 
“Do you know these other pictures?” Mrs. Lathrop asked. “I’ve been collecting photographs of Italian churches.”
 
Maida went about identifying the places with little cries of joy. “Ara Coeli—I saw in there the little wooden bambino who cures sick people. It’s so covered with and rings and lockets and pins and chains that grateful people have given it that it looks as if it were dressed in jewels. The bambino’s such a darling little thing with such a sweet look in its face. That’s St. Agnes outside the wall—I saw two dear little baby lambs blessed on the altar there on St. Agnes’s day. One was all covered with red garlands and the other with green. Oh, they were such sweethearts! They were going to use the fleece to make some garment for the pope. That’s Santa Maria della —they call it Santa Maria della Volute instead of Salute because it’s all covered with volutes.” Maida smiled sunnily into Mrs. Lathrop’s face as if expecting sympathy with this architectural joke.
 
But Mrs. Lathrop did not smile. She looked a little staggered. She studied Maida for a long time out of her shrewd, light eyes.
 
“Whose family did you travel with?” she asked at last.
 
Maida felt a little embarrassed. If Mrs. Lathrop asked her certain questions, it would place her in a very uncomfortable position. On the one hand, Maida could not tell a lie. On the other, her father had told her to tell nobody that she was his daughter.
 
“The family of Mr. Jerome Westabrook,” she said at last.
 
“Oh!” It was the “oh” of a person who is much impressed. “‘Buffalo’ Westabrook?” Mrs. Lathrop asked.
 
“Yes.”
 
“Did your grandmother, Mrs. Flynn, go with you?”
 
“Yes.”
 
Mrs. Lathrop continued to look very hard at Maida. 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 , 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. Lathrop straight in the eye. “Yes,” she answered.
 
“About your age?”
 
“Yes.”
 
“She is an , isn’t she?”
 
“She was,” Maida said with emphasis.
 
Mrs. Lathrop did not ask any more questions. She went presently into the back library. An old gentleman sat there, reading.
 
“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. Curious how rubs off—the child has really a good deal of manner. I don’t know that I quite like to have Laura playing with her, though.”
 
The two little girls returned after awhile to the playroom.
 
“How would you like to have me dance for you?” Laura asked . “You know I take fancy dancing.”
 
“Oh, Laura,” Maida said delightedly “will you?”
 
“Of course I will,” Laura said with her most beaming expression. “You wait here while I go downstairs and get into my costume. Watch that door, for I shall make my entrance there.”
 
Maida waited what seemed a long time to her. Then suddenly Laura came whirling into the room. She had put on a little frock of pale-blue liberty silk that lay, skirt, bodice and tiny sleeves, in many little pleats—“accordion-pleated,” Laura afterwards described it. Laura’s neck and arms were bare. She wore blue silk stockings and little blue-kid , heelless and tied across the ankles with ribbons. Her hair hung in a crimpy to below her waist.
 
“Oh, Laura, how lovely you do look!” Maida said, “I think you’re beautiful!”
 
Laura smiled. Lifting both arms above her head, she floated about the room, dancing on the very tips of her toes. Turning and smiling over her shoulder, she and swayed and attitudinized. Maida could have watched her forever.
 
In a few moments she disappeared again. This time she came back in a red-silk frock with a little bolero jacket of black , hung with many coins. Whenever her fingers moved, a little pretty clapping sound came from them—Maida discovered that she carried tiny wooden clappers. Whenever her heels came together, a pretty musical clink came from them—Maida discovered that on her shoes were tiny metal plates.
 
Once again Laura went out. This time, she returned dressed like a little sailor boy. She danced a gay little hornpipe.
 
“I never saw anything so marvelous in my life,” Maida said, her eyes shining with . “Oh, Laura how I wish I could dance like that. How did you ever learn? Do you practice all the time?”
 
“Oh, it’s not so very hard—for me,” Laura returned. “Of course, everybody couldn’t learn. And I suppose you, being , could never do anything at all.”
 
This was the first that had been made in Court to Maida’s . Her face shadowed a little. “No, I’m afraid I couldn’t,” she said regretfully. “But—oh—think what a lovely dancer Rosie would make.”
 
“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?”
 
“Oh, yes,” Maida said. “My birthday comes on May Day and last year father gave me a party. He had a May-pole set up on the lawn and all the children danced about it.”
 
“My birthday comes in the summer, too. [Pg 128]I always have a party on our place in Marblehead,” Laura said. “I had fifty children at my party last year. How many did you have?”
 
“We sent out over five hundred invitations, I believe. But not quite four hundred accepted.”
 
“Four hundred,” Laura repeated. “Goodness, what could so many children do?”
 
“Oh, there were all sorts of things for them to do,” Maida answered. “There was archery and diabolo and croquet and fishing-ponds and a merry-go-round and Punch and Judy on the lawn and a play in my little theater—I can’t remember everything.”
 
Laura’s eyes had grown very big. “Didn’t you have a perfectly splendiferous time?” she asked.
 
“No, not particularly,” Maida said. “Not half such a good time as I’ve had playing in Primrose Court. I wasn’t very well and then, somehow, I didn’t care for those children the way I care for Dicky and Rosie and the court children.”
 
“Goodness!” was all Laura could say for a moment. But finally she added, “I don’t believe that, Maida!”
 
Maida stared at her and started to speak. “Oh, there’s the clock striking four?” was all she said though. “I must go. Thank you for dancing for me.”
 
She flew into her coat and hat. She could not seem to get away quick enough. Nobody had ever doubted her word before. She could not exactly explain it to herself but she felt if she talked with Laura another moment, she would fly out of her skin.
 
“Mother,” Laura said, after Maida had gone, “Maida Flynn told me that her father gave her a birthday party last year and invited five hundred children to it and they had a theater and a Punch and Judy show and all sorts of things. Do you think it’s true?”
 
Mrs. Lathrop set her lips firmly. “No, I think it is probably not true. I think you’d better not play with the little Flynn girl any more.”
 
The next afternoon, Maida went, as she had promised, to see Dicky.
 
She could see at a glance that Mrs. Dore was having a hard struggle to support her little family. In the size and comfort of its furnishings, the place was the exact opposite of the Lathrop home. But, somehow, there was a wonderful feeling of home there.
 
“Dicky, how do you manage to keep so clean here?” Maida asked in genuine wonder.
 
And indeed, hard work showed everywhere. The oilcloth shone like glass. The stove was as clean as a newly-polished shoe. The rows of pans on the wall fairly twinkled. Delicious smells were filling the air. Maida guessed that Dicky was making one of the Irish that were his .
 
“See that little truck over there?” Dicky said. “That helps a lot. Arthur Duncan made that for me. You see we have to keep our coal in that closet, way across the room. I used to get awful tired filling the coal-hod and it over to the stove. But now you see I fill that truck at the closet, wheel it over to the stove and I don’t have to think of coal for three days.”
 
“Arthur must be a very clever boy,” Maida said thoughtfully.
 
“You bet he is. See that tin can in the sink? Well, I wanted a soap-shaker but couldn’t afford to get one. Arthur took that can and punched the bottom full of holes. I keep it filled up with all the and ends of soap. When I wash the dishes, I just let the boiling water from the kettle flow through it. It makes water grand and soapy. Arthur made me that iron dish-rag and that dish-mop.”
 
A sleepy cry came from the corner. Dicky swung across the room. Balancing himself against the cradle there, he lifted the baby to the floor. “She can’t walk yet but you watch her go,” he said proudly.
 
Go! The baby crept across the room so fast that Maida had to run to keep up with her. “Oh, the love!” she said, taking Delia into her arms. “Think of having a whole baby to yourself.”
 
“Can’t leave a thing round where she is,” Dicky said proudly, as if this were the best thing he could say about her. “Have to put my work away the moment she wakes up. Isn’t she a buster, though?”
 
“I should say she was!” And indeed, the baby was as fat as a little partridge. Maida wondered how Dicky could lift her. Also Delia was as healthy-looking as Dicky was sickly. Her cheeks showed a pink that was almost purple and her head looked like a mop, so thickly was it overgrown with , red-gold curls.
 
“Is she named after your mother?” Maida asked.
 
“No—after my grandmother in Ireland. But of course we don’t call her anything but ‘baby’ yet. My, but she’s a case! If I didn’t watch her all the time, every pan in this room would be on the floor in a jiffy. 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. Finally her busy fingers pulled off so much paper that a pair of tiny rubber dolls dropped into her lap.
 
“Say ‘Thank you, Maida,’” Dicky prompted.
 
Delia said something and Dicky assured her that the baby had obeyed him. It sounded like, “Sank-oo-Maysa.”
 
While Delia occupied herself with the dolls, Maida listened to Dicky’s reading lesson. He was getting on beautifully now. At least he could puzzle out by himself some of the stories that Maida lent him. When they had finished that day’s fairy-tale, Dicky said:
 
“Did you ever see a peacock, Maida?”
 
“Oh, yes—a great many.”
 
“Where?”
 
“I saw ever so many in the Jardin des Plantes in Paris and then my father has some in his camp in the Adirondacks.”
 
“Has he many?”
 
“A dozen.”
 
“I’m just wild to see one. Are they as beautiful as that picture in the fairy-tale?”
 
“They’re as beautiful as—as—” Maida groped about in her mind to find something to compare them to “—as angels,” she said at last.
 
“And do they really open their tails like a fan?”
“That is the most wonderful sight, Dicky, that you ever saw.” Maida’s manner was almost solemn. “When they unfurl the whole fan and the sun shines on all the green and blue eyes and on all the little gold feathers, it’s so beautiful. Well, it makes you ache. I cried the first time I saw one. And when their fans are down, they carry them so daintily, straight out, not a single feather trailing on the ground. There are two white peacocks on the Adirondacks place.”
 
“White peacocks! I never heard of white ones.”
 
“They’re not common.”
 
“Think of seeing a dozen peacocks every day!” Dicky exclaimed. “Jiminy crickets! Why, Maida, your life must have been just like a fairy-tale when you lived there.”
 
“It seems more like a fairy-tale here.”
 
They laughed at this difference of opinion.
 
“Dicky,” Maida asked suddenly, “do you know that Rosie steals out of her window at night sometimes when her mother doesn’t know it?”
 
“Sure—I know that. You see,” he went on to explain, “it’s like this. 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.”
 
“Isn’t it dreadful?” Maida said in a frightened tone. “Run away! I never heard of such a thing. Think of having a mother and then not getting along with her. Suppose she died sometime, as my mother did.”
 
“I don’t know what I’d do without my mother,” Dicky said thoughtfully. “But then I’ve got the best mother that ever was. I wish she didn’t have to work so hard. But you wait until I get on my feet. Then you’ll see how I’m going to earn money for her.”
 
When Maida got home that night, Billy Potter sat with Granny in the living-room. Maida came in so quietly that they took no notice of her. Granny was talking. Maida could see that the tears were coursing down the wrinkles in her cheeks.
 
“And after that, the poor choild ran away to America and I niver have seen her since. Her father died av his anger aginst her. But ut was too late. At last, in me old age, Oi came over to America, hoping Oi cud foind her. But, glory be, Oi had no idea ’twas such a big place! And Oi’ve hunted and Oi’ve hunted and Oi’ve hunted. But niver a track of her cud Oi foind—me little Annie!”
 
Billy’s face was all screwed up, but it was not with laughter. “Did you ever speak to Mr. Westabrook about it?”
 
“Oh, Misther Westabruk done iv’ry t’ing he cud—the foine man that he is. Advertisements and detayktives, but wid all his money, he cudn’t foind out a t’ing. If ut wasn’t for my blissed lamb, I’d pray to the saints to let me die.”
 
Maida knew what they were talking about—Granny had often told her the sad story of her lost daughter.
 
“What town in Ireland did you live in, Granny?” Billy asked.
 
“Aldigarey, County Sligo.” “Now don’t you get discouraged, Granny,” Billy said, “I’m going to find your daughter for you.”
 
He jumped to his feet and walked about the room. “I’m something of a detective myself, and you’ll see I’ll make good on this job if it takes twenty years.”
 
“Oh, Billy, do—please do,” Maida burst in. “It will make Granny so happy.”
 
Granny seemed happier already. She dried her tears.
 
“’Tis the good b’y ye are, Misther Billy,” she said gratefully.
 
“Yes, m’m,” said Billy.