“Well,” Laura concluded generously, “if anybody’s got a right to be cross once in a while, it’s Maida. She’s always so sweet.”
After breakfast, the children separated, as was the custom of the Little House, to the early morning tasks. But Rosie and Laura lingered about, talking in low tones, before one went to the library and the other into the living room to do her daily stint of dusting. After this work was finished, they proceeded to the garden and plucked flowers together.
It was phlox season and Laura cut great bunches of blossoms that ran all the shades from white to a deep magenta through pink, vermilion, lavender and purple-blue. But Rosie chose caligulas—changelessly orange; zinnias—purple, garnet, crimson; marigolds—yellow and gold.
“Oh how lovely they look,” Laura exclaimed burying her face in the delicately-perfumed mass of phlox. She put her harvest on a rock and helped Rosie with the more difficult work of gathering nasturtiums. The vines and plants were now full of blossoms. It was impossible to keep ahead of them. They picked all they could.
“I hope Maida isn’t sick,” Laura said after a while.
“I don’t believe she is,” Rosie reassured her.
“I wonder if we ought not to go up to her room,” Laura mused. “Let’s!”
Rosie reflected. “No, I think we’d better wait until after we’ve come back from the errands. Maida wants to be alone so seldom that I guess we’d better not interrupt her. Besides I heard her slam her door hard and then lock it. I guess that means she doesn’t want anybody around for a time.”
“I guess it does too,” Laura agreed. “It isn’t my turn to go to market, but I’m going with you this morning, Rosie. It’ll give Maida a chance to be alone for a while.”
The little girls trundled their bicycles out of the barn; mounted them and speeded down the long trail which led to the road.