“What’s your name, my lad?” she asked.

“Dicky Dore, ma’am,” the boy answered respectfully.

“Well, Oi don’t see why you shouldn’t thry ut, acushla,” she said to
Maida. “A half an hour iv’ry avening after dinner. Sure, in a wake,
’twill be foine and grand we’ll be wid the little store running like
a clock.”

“We’ll begin next week, Monday,” Maida said eagerly. “You come over
here right after dinner.”

“All right.” The little lame boy looked very happy but, again, he
did not seem to know what to say. “Thank you, ma’am,” he brought out
finally. “And you, too,” turning to Maida.

“My name’s Maida.”

“Thank you, Maida,” the boy said with even a greater display of
bashfulness. He settled the crutches under his thin shoulders.

“Oh, don’t go, yet,” Maida pleaded. “I want to ask you some
questions. Tell me the names of those dear little girls—the twins.”

Dicky Dore smiled his radiant smile. “Their last name’s Clark. Say,
ain’t they the dead ringers for each other? I can’t tell Dorothy
from Mabel or Mabel from Dorothy.”

“I can’t, either,” Maida laughed. “It must be fun to be a twin—to
have any kind of a sister or brother. Who’s that big boy—the one