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--you