For a week Maida kept rather close to the shop. She wanted to get
acquainted with all her customers. Moreover, she wanted to find out
which of the things she had bought sold quickly and which were
unpopular.

After a day or two her life fell into a regular programme.

Early in the morning she would put the shop to rights for the day's
sale, dusting, replacing the things she had sold, rearranging them
often according to some pretty new scheme.

About eight o'clock the bell would call her into the shop and it
would be brisk work until nine. Then would come a rest of three
hours, broken only by an occasional customer. In this interval she
often worked in the yard, raking up the leaves that fell from vine
and bush, picking the bravely-blooming dahlias, gathering sprays of
woodbine for the vases, scattering crumbs to the birds.

At twelve the children would begin to flood the shop again and Maida
would be on her feet constantly until two. Between two and four came
another long rest. After school trade started up again. Often it
lasted until six, when she locked the door for the night.

In her leisure moments she used to watch the people coming and going
in Primrose Court. With Rosie's and Dicky's help, she soon knew
everybody by name. She discovered by degrees that on the right side
of the court lived the Hales, the Clarks, the Doyles and the Dores;
on the left side, the Duncans, the Brines and the Allisons. In the
big house at the back lived the Lathrops.

Betsy was a great delight to Maida, for the neighborhood brimmed
with stories of her mischief. She had buried her best doll in the
ash-barrel, thrown her mother's pocketbook down the cesspool, put
all the clean laundry into a tub of water and painted the parlor
fireplace with tomato catsup. In a single afternoon, having become
secretly possessed of a pair of scissors, she cut all the fringe off
the parlor furniture, cut great scallops in the parlor curtains, cut
great patches of fur off the cat's back. When her mother found her,
she was busy cutting her own hair.

Often Granny would hear the door slam on Maida's hurried rush from
the shop. Hobbling to the window, she would see the child leading
Betsy by the hand. "Running away again," was all Maida would say.
Occasionally Maida would call in a vexed tone, "Now _how_ did she
creep past the window without my seeing her?" And outside would be
rosy-cheeked, brass-buttoned Mr. Flanagan, carrying Betsy home. Once
Billy