In the middle of the afternoon, the bell rang with an important-sounding tinkle. Immediately after, the door shut with an important-sounding slam. The footsteps, clattering across the room to the show case, had an important-sounding tap. And the little girl, who looked inquisitively across the counter at Maida, had decidedly an important manner. She was not a pretty child. Her skin was too pasty, her blue eyes too full and staring. But she had beautiful braids of glossy brown hair that came below her waist. And you would have noticed her at once because of the air with which she wore her clothes and because of a trick of holding her head very high. Maida could see that she was dressed very much more expensively than the other children in the neighborhood. Her dark, blue coat was elaborate with straps and bright buttons. Her pale-blue beaver hat was covered with pale-blue feathers. She wore a gold ring with a turquoise in it, a silver bracelet with a monogram on it, a little gun-metal watch pinned to her coat with a gun-metal pin, and a long string of blue beads from which dangled a locket. Maida noticed all this decoration with envy, for she herself was never permitted to wear jewelry. Occasionally, Granny would let her wear one string from a big box of bead necklaces which Maida had bought in Venice. “How much is that candy?” the girl asked, pointing to one of the trays. Maida told her. “Dear me, haven’t you anything better than that?” Maida gave her all her prices. “I’m afraid there’s nothing good enough here,” the little girl went on disdainfully. “My mother won’t let me eat cheap candy. Generally, she has a box sent over twice a week from Boston. But the one we expected to-day didn’t come.” “The little girl likes to make people think that she has nicer things than anybody else,” Maida thought. She started to speak. If she had permitted herself to go on, she would have said: “The candy in this shop is quite good enough for any little girl. But I won’t sell it to you, anyway.” But, instead, she said as quietly as she could: “No, I don’t believe there’s anything here that you’ll care for. But I’m sure you’ll find lots of expensive candy on Main Street.” The little girl evidently was not expecting that answer. She lingered, still looking into the show case. “I guess I’ll take five cents’ worth of peppermints,” she said finally. Some of the importance had gone out of her voice. Maida put the candy into a bag and handed it to her without speaking. The girl bustled towards the door. Half-way, she stopped and came back. “My name is Laura Lathrop,” she said. “What’s yours?” “Maida.” “Maida?” the girl repeated questioningly. “Maida?—oh, yes, I know—Maida Flynn. Where did you live before you came here?” “Oh, lots of places.” “But where?” Laura persisted. “Boston, New York, Newport, Pride’s Crossing, the Adirondacks, Europe.” “Oh, my! Have you been to Europe?” Laura’s tone was a little incredulous. “I lived abroad a year.”