to give up anything that she owned for the little shop.

They left the car at City Square in Charlestown and walked the rest
of the way. It was Saturday, a brilliant morning in a beautiful
autumn. All the children in the neighborhood were out playing. Maida
looked at each one of them as she passed. They seemed as wonderful
as fairy beings to her—for would they not all be her customers soon?
And yet, such was her excitement, she could not remember one face
after she had passed it. A single picture remained in her mind—a
picture of a little girl standing alone in the middle of the court.
Black-haired, black-eyed, a vivid spot of color in a scarlet cape
and a scarlet hat, the child was scattering bread-crumbs to a flock
of pigeons. The pigeons did not seem afraid of her. They flew close
to her feet. One even alighted on her shoulder.

“It makes me think of St. Mark’s in Venice,” Maida said to Billy.

But, little girl—scarlet cape—flocks of doves—St. Mark’s, all went
out of her head entirely when she unlocked the door of the little
shop.

“Oh, oh, oh!” she cried, “how nice and clean it looks!”

The shop seemed even larger than she remembered it. The confused,
dusty, cluttery look had gone. But with its dull paint and its
blackened ceiling, it still seemed dark and dingy.

Maida ran behind the counter, peeped into the show cases, poked her
head into the window, drew out the drawers that lined the wall,
pulled covers from the boxes on the shelves. There is no knowing