But as Maida ceased gradually to worry about Laura, she began to be troubled about Rosie. For Rosie was not the same child. Much of the time she was silent, moody and listless.
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.”