Maida reflectively tapped the top of her egg; meditatively removed the little bit of broken shell; absently salted and buttered it; thoughtfully tasted it. “I don’t know what I like,” she declared after a while, “I like to do anything--if I’m doing it with people I love. But I just despise to do anything with people I don’t like.” An hour later, Maida, one foot on the pedal of her bicycle was accepting last orders in regard to marketing from Rosie and Laura; giving equally hurried advice to them. “Don’t forget to buy all the different kinds of berries you can find,” Rosie said. “Berries make such an easy dessert.” “And oh, if there are any tomatoes yet, order all you can find, Maida,” Laura chimed in. “I can make so many things with tomatoes: tomato and macaroni; tomato and crackers; stewed tomatoes and boiled tomatoes.” “And don’t let the fire go out,” Maida replied, “and always have some one near the telephone if anybody calls up. And remember, if the baby doesn’t seem all right, telephone for the doctor at once. Get the hospital on the telephone at nine o’clock and ask how Mrs. Dore is this morning.” Then mounting her machine in a flash, Maida was off like a bird. “Who would ever have thought,” Rosie said looking after her, “that the Maida Westabrook who first came to Primrose Court--so pale and thin and lame--would ever grow into such a strong girl? Do you remember, Laura?” “Of course I do. My mother didn’t think she was going to live.” In the meantime, Maida was proceeding down the dewy trail, the prey to some worry but with a gradually-growing, comfortable feeling that her troubles were all over and that now things would go smoothly. She did all the marketing that had been intrusted to her and was even able, being the first on the spot, to secure a basket of early tomatoes for Laura. As for berries--they were everywhere. Maida ordered, a little recklessly, blueberries, blackberries, currants. It was ten o’clock as she had agreed--Maida was a very prompt little girl, having been brought up to promptness by a business-like father--ten o’clock to the dot, when she walked up the Fosdick path and knocked on the door by means of a big brass knocker. A maid servant opened the door; but just behind appeared a white-haired lady in a black silk and black silk mitts; a three-cornered bit of black lace on her soft hair. “You are Maida Westabrook,” she said smiling, “and you have come to see our little invalid. She’s awake and waiting for you. If you will follow me, I will take you to her.” Maida followed Mrs. Fosdick up broad carpeted stairs and down a long sunny hallway. At the very end, the old lady pushed open a door. Silva was lying on a day couch, placed near a back window which overlooked the garden. A light gayly-flowered down puff covered her. Silva looked white but her strange amber-colored eyes seemed to hold a drop of fire. “Good morning, Silva,” Maida said.