But Arthur made no offer to pay. He looked over the letter-paper that Maida, with downcast eyes, put before him, decided that he did not want any after all, and walked coolly from the shop.
Granny, coming in a few moments later, was surprised to find Maida leaning on the counter, her face buried in her hands.
“What’s the matter with my lamb?” the old lady asked cheerfully.
“Nothing, Granny,” Maida said. But she did not meet Granny’s eye and during dinner she was quiet and serious.
That night Billy Potter called. “Well, how goes the Bon Marché of Charlestown?” he asked cheerfully.
“Billy,” Maida said gravely, “if you found that a little boy—I can’t say what his name is—was stealing from you, what would you do?”
Billy considered the question as gravely as she had asked it. “Tell the policeman on the beat and get him to throw a scare into him,” he said at last.
“I guess that’s what I’ll have to do.” But Maida’s tone was mournful.
But Granny interrupted.
“Don’t you do ut, my lamb—don’t you do ut!” She turned to them both—they had never seen her blue eyes so fiery before. “Suppose you was one av these poor little chilthren that lives round here that’s always had harrd wurruds for their meals and hunger for their pillow, wudn’t you be afther staling yersilf if ut came aisy-loike and nobody was luking?”