where her investigations would have ended if Billy had not said:

“See here, Miss Curiosity, we can’t put in the whole morning on the
shop. This is a preliminary tour of investigation. Come and see the
rest of it. This way to the living-room!”

The living-room led from the shop—a big square room, empty now, of
course. Maida limped over to the window. “Oh, oh, oh!” she cried;
“did you ever see such a darling little yard?”

“It surely is little,” Billy agreed, “not much bigger than a pocket
handkerchief, is it?”

And yet, scrap of a place as the yard was, it had an air of
completeness, a pretty quaintness. Two tiny brick walks curved from
the door to the gate. On either side of these spread out microscopic
flower-beds, crowded tight with plants. Late-blooming dahlias and
asters made spots of starry color in the green. A vine, running over
the door to the second story, waved like a crimson banner dropped
from the window.

“The old lady must have been fond of flowers,” Billy Potter said. He
squinted his near-sighted blue eyes and studied the bunches of
green. “Syringa bush in one corner. Lilac bush in the other.
Nasturtiums at the edges. Morning-glories running up the fence.
Sunflowers in between. My, won’t it be fun to see them all racing up
in the spring!”

Maida jumped up and down at the thought. She could not jump like
other children. Indeed, this was the first time that she had ever