“But they said the same thing to you,” Rosie protested passionately.

“I think it was because I was sick,” Maida said after a moment in which she thought the matter out.  “They were afraid that I might die if they told me the truth.  But whether your mother is alive or dead, the only way you can make up for being naughty is to be as good to your Aunt Theresa as you can.  Oh, Rosie, please go to school every day.”

“Do you suppose I could ever hook jack again?” Rosie asked bitterly.  She dried her eyes.  “I guess I’ll go home now,” she said, “and see if I can help Aunt Theresa with the supper.  And I’m going to get her to teach me how to cook everything so that I can help mother—­if she ever comes home.”

The next day Rosie came into the shop with the happiest look that she had worn for a long time.

“I peeled the potatoes for Aunt Theresa, last night,” she announced, “and set the table and wiped the dishes.  She was real surprised.  She asked me what had got into me?”

“I’m glad,” Maida approved.

“I asked her when mother was coming back and she said the same thing, ‘Next week, I think.’” Rosie’s lip quivered.

“I think she’ll come back, Rosie,” Maida insisted.  “And now let’s not talk any more about it.  Let’s come out to play.”

Mindful of her own lecture on obedience to Rosie, Maida skipped home the first time Granny rang the bell.

Granny met her at the door.  Her eyes were shining with mischief.  “You’ve got a visitor,” she said.  Maida could see that she was trying to keep her lips prim at the corners.  She wondered who it was.  Could it be—­

She ran into the living-room.  Her father jumped up from the easy-chair to meet her.

“Well, well, well, Miss Rosy-Cheeks.  No need to ask how you are!” he said kissing her.

“Oh papa, papa, I never was so happy in all my life.  If you could only be here with me all the time, there wouldn’t be another thing in the world that I wanted.  Don’t you think you could give up Wall Street and come to live in this Court?  You might open a shop too.  Papa, I know you’d make a good shop-keeper although it isn’t so easy as a lot of people think.  But I’d teach you all I know—­and, then, it’s such fun.  You could have a big shop for I know just how you like big things—­just as I like little ones.”

“Buffalo” Westabrook laughed.  “I may have to come to it yet but it doesn’t look like it this moment.  My gracious, Posie, how you have improved!  I never would know you for the same child.  Where did you get those dimples?  I never saw them in your face before.  Your mother had them, though.”

The shadow, that the mention of her mother’s name always brought, darkened his face.  “How you are growing to look like her!” he said.

Maida knew that she must not let him stay sad.  “Dimples!” she squealed.  “Really, papa?” She ran over to the mirror, climbed up on a chair and peeked in.  Her face fell.  “I don’t see any,” she said mournfully.