“Oh, yes,” Maida answered, “perfectly. She was very beautiful. I could not forget her any more than a wonderful picture. She used to come and kiss me every night before she went to dinner with papa. She always smelled so sweet—whenever I see any flowers, I think of her. And she wore such beautiful dresses and jewels. She loved sparkly things, I guess—sometimes she looked like a fairy queen. Once she had a new lace gown all made of roses of lace and she had a diamond fastened in every rose to make it look like dew. When her hair was down, it came to her knees. She let me brush it sometimes with her gold brush.” “A gold brush,” Rosie said in an awed tone. “Yes, it was gold with her initials in diamonds on it. Papa gave her a whole set one birthday.” “How old were you when she died?” Rosie asked after a pause in which her scowl grew deeper. “Eight.” “What did she die of?” “I don’t know,” Maida answered. “You see I was so little that I didn’t understand about dying. I had never heard of it. They told me one day that my mother had gone away. I used to ask every day when she was coming back and they’d say ‘next week’ and ‘next week’ and ‘next week’ until one day I got so impatient that I cried. Then they told me that my mother was living far away in a beautiful country and she would never come back. They said that I must not cry for she still loved me and was always watching over me. It was a great comfort to know that and of course I never cried after that for fear of worrying her. But at first it was very lonely. Why, Rosie—” She stopped terrified. “What’s the matter?” Rosie had thrown herself on the couch, and was crying bitterly. “Oh, Maida,” she sobbed, “that’s exactly what they say to me when I ask them—‘next week’ and ‘next week’ and ‘next week’ until I’m sick of it. My mother is dead and I know it.” “Oh, Rosie!” Maida protested. “Oh no, no, no—your mother is not dead. I can’t believe it. I won’t believe it.” “She is,” Rosie persisted. “I know she is. Oh, what shall I do? Think how naughty I was! What shall I do?” She sobbed so convulsively that Maida was frightened. “Listen, Rosie,” she said. “You don’t _know_ your mother is dead. And I for one don’t believe that she is.” “But they said the same thing to you,” Rosie protested passionately. “I think it was because I was sick,” Maida said after a moment in which she thought the matter out. “They were afraid that I might die if they told me the truth. But whether your mother is alive or dead, the only way you can make up for being naughty is to be as good to your Aunt Theresa as you can. Oh, Rosie, please go to school every day.” “Do you suppose I could ever hook jack again?” Rosie asked bitterly. She dried her eyes. “I guess I’ll go home now,” she said, “and see if I can help Aunt Theresa with the supper. And I’m going to get her to teach me how to cook everything so that I can help mother—if she ever comes home.”