“They’re as beautiful as—­as—­” Maida groped about in her mind to find something to compare them to “—­as angels,” she said at last.

“And do they really open their tails like a fan?”

“That is the most wonderful sight, Dicky, that you ever saw.”  Maida’s manner was almost solemn.  “When they unfurl the whole fan and the sun shines on all the green and blue eyes and on all the little gold feathers, it’s so beautiful.  Well, it makes you ache.  I cried the first time I saw one.  And when their fans are down, they carry them so daintily, straight out, not a single feather trailing on the ground.  There are two white peacocks on the Adirondacks place.”

“White peacocks!  I never heard of white ones.”

“They’re not common.”

“Think of seeing a dozen peacocks every day!” Dicky exclaimed.  “Jiminy crickets!  Why, Maida, your life must have been just like a fairy-tale when you lived there.”

“It seems more like a fairy-tale here.”

They laughed at this difference of opinion.

“Dicky,” Maida asked suddenly, “do you know that Rosie steals out of her window at night sometimes when her mother doesn’t know it?”

“Sure—­I know that.  You see,” he went on to explain, “it’s like this.  Rosie is an awful bad girl in some ways—­there’s no doubt about that.  But my mother says Rosie isn’t as bad as she seems.  My mother says Rosie’s mother has never learned how to manage her.  She whips Rosie an awful lot.  And the more she whips Rosie, the naughtier she gets.  Rosie says she’s going to run away some day, and by George, I bet she’ll do it.  She always does what she says she’ll do.”

“Isn’t it dreadful?” Maida said in a frightened tone.  “Run away!  I never heard of such a thing.  Think of having a mother and then not getting along with her.  Suppose she died sometime, as my mother did.”

“I don’t know what I’d do without my mother,” Dicky said thoughtfully.  “But then I’ve got the best mother that ever was.  I wish she didn’t have to work so hard.  But you wait until I get on my feet.  Then you’ll see how I’m going to earn money for her.”

When Maida got home that night, Billy Potter sat with Granny in the living-room.  Maida came in so quietly that they took no notice of her.  Granny was talking.  Maida could see that the tears were coursing down the wrinkles in her cheeks.

“And after that, the poor choild ran away to America and I niver have seen her since.  Her father died repenting av his anger aginst her.  But ut was too late.  At last, in me old age, Oi came over to America, hoping Oi cud foind her.  But, glory be, Oi had no idea ’twas such a big place!  And Oi’ve hunted and Oi’ve hunted and Oi’ve hunted.  But niver a track of her cud Oi foind—­me little Annie!”

Billy’s face was all screwed up, but it was not with laughter.  “Did you ever speak to Mr. Westabrook about it?”

“Oh, Misther Westabruk done iv’ry t’ing he cud—­the foine man that he is.  Adver_tise_ments and detayktives, but wid all his money, he cudn’t foind out a t’ing.  If ut wasn’t for my blissed lamb, I’d pray to the saints to let me die.”