But a whole week passed. And then one day, to Maida’s great delight, the tinkle of the bell preceded the entrance of Rose-Red. “Let me look at your tops, please,” Rosie said, marching to the counter with the usual proud swing of her body. Seen closer, she was even prettier than at a distance. Her smooth olive skin glistened like satin. Her lips showed roses even more brilliant than those that bloomed in her cheeks. A frown between her eyebrows gave her face almost a sullen look. But to offset this, her white teeth turned her smile into a flash of light. Maida lifted all the tops from the window and placed them on the counter. “Mind if I try them?” Rosie asked. “Oh, do.” Rosie wound one of them with an expert hand. Then with a quick dash forward of her whole arm, she threw the top to the floor. It danced there, humming like a whole hiveful of bees. “Oh, how lovely!” Maida exclaimed. Then in fervent admiration: “What a wonderful girl you are!” Rosie smiled. “Easy as pie if you know how. Want to learn?” “Oh, will you teach me?” “Sure! Begin now.” Maida limped from behind the counter. Rosie watched her. Rosie’s face softened with the same pity that had shone on the frightened little dog. “She’s sorry for me,” Maida thought. “How sweet she looks!” But Rosie said nothing about Maida’s limp. She explained the process of top-spinning from end to end, step by step, making Maida copy everything that she did. At first Maida was too eager—her hands actually trembled. But gradually she gained in confidence. At last she succeeded in making one top spin feebly. “Now you’ve got the hang of it,” Rosie encouraged her, “You’ll soon learn. All you want to do is to practice. I’ll come to-morrow and see how you’re getting on.” “Oh, do,” Maida begged, “and come to see me in the evening sometime. Come this evening if your mother’ll let you.” Rosie laughed scornfully. “I guess nobody’s got anything to say about _letting me_, if I make up my mind to come. Well, goodbye!” She whirled out of the shop and soon the scarlet cape was a brilliant spot in the distance. But about seven that evening the bell rang. When Maida opened the door there stood Rosie. “Oh, Rosie,” Maida said joyfully, throwing her arms about her guest, “how glad I am to see you!” She hurried her into the living-room where Billy Potter was talking with Granny. “This is Rosie Brine, Billy,” she said, her voice full of pride in her new friend. “And this is Billy Potter, Rosie.” Billy shook hands gravely with the little girl. And Rosie looked at him in open wonder. Maida knew exactly what she was thinking. Rosie was trying to make up her mind whether he was a boy or a man. The problem seemed to grow more perplexing as the evening went on. For part of the time Billy played with them, sitting on the floor like a boy, and part of the time he talked with Granny, sitting in a chair like a man.