hopefully. “Mrs. Murdock always kept her tissue paper in that drawer
there,” he said, pointing.

“Oh, yes, I do remember,” Maida exclaimed. She recalled now a few
sheets of tissue paper that she had left there, not knowing what to
do with them. She pulled the drawer open. There they were, neatly
folded, as she had left them.

“What did Mrs. Murdock charge for it?” she inquired.

“A cent a sheet.”

Maida thought busily. “I’m selling out all the old stock,” she said.
“You can have all that’s left for a cent if you want it.”

“Sure!” the boy exclaimed. “Jiminy crickets! That’s a stroke of luck
I wasn’t expecting.”

He spread the half dozen sheets out on the counter and ran through
them. He looked up into Maida’s face as if he wanted to thank her
but did not know how to put it. Instead, he stared about the shop.
“Say,” he exclaimed, “you’ve made this store look grand. I’d never
know it for the same place. And your sign’s a crackajack.”

The praise—the first she had had from outside—pleased Maida. It
emboldened her to go on with the conversation.

“You don’t go to school,” she said.

The moment she had spoken, she regretted it. It was plain to be