The next month went by on wings.  It was a busy month although in a way, it was an uneventful one.  The weather kept clear and fine.  Little rain fell but, on the other hand, to the great disappointment of the little people of Primrose Court, there was no snow.  Maida saw nothing of her father for business troubles kept him in New York.  He wrote constantly to her and she wrote as faithfully to him.  Letters could not quite fill the gap that his absence made.  Perhaps Billy suspected Maida’s secret loneliness for he came oftener and oftener to see her.

One night the W.M.N.T.’s begged so hard for a story that he finally began one called “The Crystal Ball.”  A wonderful thing about it was that it was half-game and half-story.  Most wonderful of all, it went on from night to night and never showed any signs of coming to an end.  But in order to play this game-story, there were two or three conditions to which you absolutely must submit.  For instance, it must always be played in the dark.  And first, everybody must shut his eyes tight.  Billy would say in a deep voice, “Abracadabra!” and, presto, there they all were, Maida, Rosie, Laura, Billy, Arthur and Dicky inside the crystal ball.  What people lived there and what things happened to them can not be told here.  But after an hour or more, Billy’s deepest voice would boom, “Abracadabra!” again and, presto, there they all were again, back in the cheerful living-room.

Maida hoped against hope that her father would come to spend Thanksgiving with her but that, he wrote finally, was impossible.  Billy came, however, and they three enjoyed one of Granny’s delicious turkey dinners.

“I hoped that I would have found your daughter Annie by this time, Granny,” Billy said.  “I ask every Irishman I meet if he came from Aldigarey, County Sligo or if he knows anybody who did, or if he’s ever met a pretty Irish girl by the name of Annie Flynn.  But I’ll find her yet—­you’ll see.”

“I hope so, Misther Billy,” Granny said respectfully.  But Maida thought her voice sounded as if she had no great hope.

Dicky still continued to come for his reading-lessons, although Maida could see that, in a month or two, he would not need a teacher.  The quiet, studious, pale little boy had become a great favorite with Granny Flynn.

“Sure an’ Oi must be after getting over to see the poor lad’s mother some noight,” she said. “’Tis a noice woman she must be wid such a pretty-behaved little lad.”

“Oh, she is, Granny,” Maida said earnestly.  “I’ve been there once or twice when Mrs. Dore came home early.  And she’s just the nicest lady and so fond of Dicky and the baby.”

But Granny was old and very easily tired and, so, though her intentions were of the best, she did not make this call.

One afternoon, after Thanksgiving, Maida ran over to Dicky’s to borrow some pink tissue paper.  She knocked gently.  Nobody answered.  But from the room came the sound of sobbing.  Maida listened.  It was Dicky’s voice.  At first she did not know what to do.  Finally, she opened the door and peeped in.  Dicky was sitting all crumpled up, his head resting on the table.