One afternoon she came over to the shop, bringing the Clark twins with her.  For awhile she and Maida played “house” with the little girls.  Suddenly, Rosie tired of this game and sent the children home.  Then for a time, she frolicked with Fluff while Maida read aloud.  As suddenly as she had stopped playing “house” she interrupted Maida.

“Don’t read any more,” she commanded, “I want to talk with you.”

Maida had felt the whole afternoon that there was something on Rosie’s mind for whenever the scowl came between Rosie’s eyebrows, it meant trouble.  Maida closed her book and sat waiting.

“Maida,” Rosie asked, “do you remember your mother?”

“Oh, yes,” Maida answered, “perfectly.  She was very beautiful.  I could not forget her any more than a wonderful picture.  She used to come and kiss me every night before she went to dinner with papa.  She always smelled so sweet—­whenever I see any flowers, I think of her.  And she wore such beautiful dresses and jewels.  She loved sparkly things, I guess—­sometimes she looked like a fairy queen.  Once she had a new lace gown all made of roses of lace and she had a diamond fastened in every rose to make it look like dew.  When her hair was down, it came to her knees.  She let me brush it sometimes with her gold brush.”

“A gold brush,” Rosie said in an awed tone.

“Yes, it was gold with her initials in diamonds on it.  Papa gave her a whole set one birthday.”

“How old were you when she died?” Rosie asked after a pause in which her scowl grew deeper.

“Eight.”

“What did she die of?”

“I don’t know,” Maida answered.  “You see I was so little that I didn’t understand about dying.  I had never heard of it.  They told me one day that my mother had gone away.  I used to ask every day when she was coming back and they’d say ‘next week’ and ‘next week’ and ‘next week’ until one day I got so impatient that I cried.  Then they told me that my mother was living far away in a beautiful country and she would never come back.  They said that I must not cry for she still loved me and was always watching over me.  It was a great comfort to know that and of course I never cried after that for fear of worrying her.  But at first it was very lonely.  Why, Rosie—­” She stopped terrified.  “What’s the matter?”

Rosie had thrown herself on the couch, and was crying bitterly.  “Oh, Maida,” she sobbed, “that’s exactly what they say to me when I ask them—­’next week’ and ‘next week’ and ‘next week’ until I’m sick of it.  My mother is dead and I know it.”

“Oh, Rosie!” Maida protested.  “Oh no, no, no—­your mother is not dead.  I can’t believe it.  I won’t believe it.”

“She is,” Rosie persisted.  “I know she is.  Oh, what shall I do?  Think how naughty I was!  What shall I do?” She sobbed so convulsively that Maida was frightened.

“Listen, Rosie,” she said.  “You don’t know your mother is dead.  And I for one don’t believe that she is.”