Timmie.”

“Of course I’ll come,” Molly answered, “and I’m going to name my
doll ‘Maida.’”

Molly ran all the way home, her doll tightly clutched to her breast.
But Timmie stopped to spin his top six times—Maida counted.

No more customers came that evening. At six, Maida closed and locked
the shop.

After dinner she thought she would read one of her new books. She
settled herself in her little easy chair by the fire and opened to a
story with a fascinating picture. But the moment her eyes fell on
the page—it was the strangest thing—a drowsiness, as deep as a
fairy’s enchantment, fell upon her. She struggled with it for
awhile, but she could not throw it off. The next thing she knew,
Granny was helping her up the stairs, was undressing her, had laid
her in her bed. The next thing she was saying dreamily, “I made one
dollar and eighty-seven cents to-day. If my papa ever gets into any
more trouble in Wall Street, he can borrow from me.”

The next thing, she felt the pillow soft and cool under her cheek.
The next thing—bright sunlight was pouring through the window—it was
morning again.