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.
“Oh, what is the matter, Dicky?” Maida asked.
Dicky jumped. He raised his head and looked at her. His face was swollen with crying, his eyes red and heavy. For a moment he could not speak. Maida could see that he was ashamed of being caught in tears, that he was trying hard to control himself.