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 d.i.c.ky.

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.

"d.i.c.ky, how do you manage to keep so clean here?" Maida asked in genuine wonder.

And indeed, hard work showed everywhere. The oilcloth shone like gla.s.s. 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 d.i.c.ky was making one of the Irish stews that were his specialty.

"See that little truck over there?" d.i.c.ky 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 lugging 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 odds 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. d.i.c.ky 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," d.i.c.ky 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 d.i.c.ky could lift her. Also Delia was as healthy-looking as d.i.c.ky was sickly. Her cheeks showed a pink that was almost purple and her head looked like a mop, so thickly was it overgrown with tangled, 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!" d.i.c.ky 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,'" d.i.c.ky prompted.

Delia said something and d.i.c.ky a.s.sured her that the baby had obeyed him. It sounded like, "Sank-oo-Maysa."

While Delia occupied herself with the dolls, Maida listened to d.i.c.ky'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, d.i.c.ky said:

"Did you ever see a peac.o.c.k, 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, d.i.c.ky, 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 peac.o.c.ks on the Adirondacks place."

"_White_ peac.o.c.ks! I never heard of white ones."

"They're not common."

"Think of seeing a dozen peac.o.c.ks every day!" d.i.c.ky 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.

"d.i.c.ky," 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," d.i.c.ky 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 repenting 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. Adver_tise_ments and _de_tayktives, 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."