Two days later, Arthur Duncan came in again.  Maida had just been selling some pencils—­pretty striped ones with a blue stone in the end.  Three of them were left lying out on the counter.  Arthur asked her to show him some penholders.  Maida took three from the shelves back of her.  He bought one of these.  After he had gone, she discovered that there were only two pencils left on the counter.

“One of them must have rolled off,” Maida thought.  But although she looked everywhere, she could not find it.  The incident of the rubber occurred to her.  She felt a little troubled but she resolved to put both circumstances out of her mind.

A day or two later, Arthur Duncan came in for the third time.  It happened that Granny was out marketing.

Piled on the counter was a stack of blank-books—­pretty books they were, with a child’s head in color on the cover.  Arthur asked for letter-paper.  Maida turned back to the shelf.  With her hand on the sliding door, she stopped, half-stunned.

Reflected in the glass she saw Arthur Duncan stow one of the blank books away in his pocket.

Maida felt sick all over.  She did not know what to do.  She did not know what to say.

She fumbled with trembling hands among the things on the shelf.  She dreaded to turn for fear her face would express what she had seen.

“Perhaps he’ll pay for it,” she thought; “I hope he will.”

But Arthur made no offer to pay.  He looked over the letter-paper that Maida, with downcast eyes, put before him, decided that he did not want any after all, and walked coolly from the shop.

Granny, coming in a few moments later, was surprised to find Maida leaning on the counter, her face buried in her hands.

“What’s the matter with my lamb?” the old lady asked cheerfully.

“Nothing, Granny,” Maida said.  But she did not meet Granny’s eye and during dinner she was quiet and serious.

That night Billy Potter called.  “Well, how goes the Bon Marche of Charlestown?” he asked cheerfully.

“Billy,” Maida said gravely, “if you found that a little boy—­I can’t say what his name is—­was stealing from you, what would you do?”

Billy considered the question as gravely as she had asked it.  “Tell the policeman on the beat and get him to throw a scare into him,” he said at last.

“I guess that’s what I’ll have to do.”  But Maida’s tone was mournful.

But Granny interrupted.

“Don’t you do ut, my lamb—­don’t you do ut!” She turned to them both—­they had never seen her blue eyes so fiery before.  “Suppose you was one av these poor little chilthren that lives round here that’s always had harrd wurruds for their meals and hunger for their pillow, wudn’t you be afther staling yersilf if ut came aisy-loike and nobody was luking?”

Neither Billy nor Maida spoke for a moment.

“I guess Granny’s right,” Billy said finally.