“Queer how you love a naughty child,” Dick said musingly. “They’re
an awful lot of trouble but you can’t help liking them. Has Tim
Doyle fallen into the puddle yet?”

“Yes, just a little while ago.”

“He’s always falling in mud puddles. I guess if Molly fishes him out
once after a rain, she does a half a dozen times.”

“Do come and see me, Dicky, won’t you?” Maida asked when they got to
the shop door. “You know I shall be lonely when all the children are
in school and—then besides—you’re the first friend I’ve made.”

At the word _friend_, Dicky’s beautiful smile shone bright. “Sure,
I’ll come,” he said heartily. “I’ll come often.”

“Granny,” Maida exclaimed, bursting into the kitchen, “wait until
you hear about Betsy Hale.” She told the whole story. “Was I ever a
naughty little girl?” she concluded.

“Naughty? Glory be, and what’s ailing you? ’Twas the best choild
this side of Heaven that you was. Always so sick and yet niver a
cross wurrud out of you.”

A shadow fell over Maida’s face. “Oh, dear, dear,” she grieved. “I
wish I had been a naughty child—people love naughty children so. Are
you quite sure I was always good, Granny?”

“Why, me blessid lamb, ’twas too sick that you was to be naughty.
You cud hardly lift one little hand from the bed.”