e
counted the money she had taken in. Thirty-seven cents! It seemed a
great deal to her.

For an hour or more, nobody entered the shop. Billy left in a little
while for Boston. Granny, crooning an old Irish song, busied herself
upstairs in her bedroom. Maida sat back in her chair, dreaming
happily of her work. Suddenly the bell tinkled, rousing her with a
start.

It seemed a long time after the bell rang before the door opened.
But at last Maida saw the reason of the delay. The little boy who
stood on the threshold was lame. Maida would have known that he was
sick even if she had not seen the crutches that held him up, or the
iron cage that confined one leg.

His face was as colorless as if it had been made of melted wax. His
forehead was lined almost as if he were old. A tired expression in
his eyes showed that he did not sleep like other children. He must
often suffer, too--his mouth had a drawn look that Maida knew well.

The little boy moved slowly over to the counter. It could hardly be
said that he walked. He seemed to swing between his crutches exactly
as a pendulum swings in a tall clock. Perhaps he saw the sympathy
that ran from Maida's warm heart to her pale face, for before he
spoke he smiled. And when he smiled you could not possibly think of
him as sick or sad. The corners of his mouth and the corners of his
eyes seemed to fly up together. It made your spirits leap just to
look at him.

"I'd like a sheet of red tissue paper," he said briskly.

Maida's happy expression changed. It was the first time that anybody
had asked her for anything which she did not have.

"I'm afraid I haven't any," she said regretfully.

The boy looked disappointed. He started to go away. Then he turned
hopefully. "Mrs. Murdock always kept her tissue paper in that drawer
there," he said, pointing.

"Oh, yes, I do remember," Maida exclaimed. She recalled now a few
sheets of tissue paper that she had left there, not knowing what to
do with them. She pulled the drawer open. There they were, neatly
folded, as she had left them.

"What did Mrs. Murdock charge for it?" she inquired.

"A cent a sheet."

Maida thought busily. "I'm selling out all the old stock," she said.
"You can have all that's left for a cent if you want it."

"Sure!" the boy exclaimed. "Jiminy crickets! That's a stroke of luck
I wasn't expecting."

He spread the half dozen sheets out on the counter and ran through
them. He looked up into Maida's face