Mrs. Bacon took good care to keep out of sight whenever the new tenants were passing through the entry-way. One small pair of boots had considerable traveling to do up and down the stairs for a stroll on the sidewalk or to old Dorchester Heights, just beyond, for spoils of wild flowers.
One day Little Boots came back from this favorite resort, and instead of climbing the stairs, as usual, strayed hesitatingly toward Mrs. Bacon's kitchen door.
"Smells the gingerbread," soliloquized Mrs. Bacon, grimly. "Glad the door is locked." She glanced toward it to be sure; yes, it was locked, though the key had been transferred to another door. But shining through the keyhole was a very bright and sweet-looking star of an eye. Only a moment it twinkled, and then there was thrust in very gently the stem of a dandelion, and the small boots scampered away up the stairs.
"Little mischief!" exclaimed Mrs. Bacon, and she would have pushed the intruding stem outside, but her hands were in the dough. "If he wanted a piece of gingerbread, why didn't he say so? Mebbe he was afraid of me; cats run like all possessed when they see me. I can't have my key-holes choked up with dandelion stems—that's so. Soon's I get my hands out of this it will walk into the stove, that dandelion will." But the dandelion was too fresh and perfect, and brought back the old childhood days to Mrs. Bacon so clearly that she changed her mind. There was an old horseradish bottle on the pantry-shelf which, filled with water, received the dandelion. There, resting in the kitchen window, it smiled all day.
There was quite a commotion upstairs that night, and John and his wife, drowsily hearing it, thanked their stars that they were not routed by children's ails. The next day Mrs. Bacon's watchful ear caught the sound of "Little Boots" on the stairs, and again the blue eyes twinkled at the keyhole. This time the door opened in response:
"Well, child, what is it? Want some gingerbread?"
"Oh no, thank you, dear," said the little voice—a very hoarse little voice it was, and the throat was all wrapped in flannel.
"I wanted to know if you liked my f'ower?"
"See?" Mrs. Bacon pointed to the glorified horseradish bottle.
"Is your name Mrs. Bacon, dear?"