the one what owns the parrot--well, Miss Allison painted
one of her old chairs red and put it out in the yard to dry. Then
she washed a whole lot of lace and put that out to dry. Next thing
she knew she looked out and there was Betsy washing all the red
paint off the chair with the lace. You'd have thought that would
have been enough for one day, wouldn't you? Well, that afternoon she
turned the hose on Mr. Flanagan--that's the policeman on the beat."

"What did he say?" Maida asked in alarm. She had a vague imaginary
picture of Betsy being dragged to the station-house.

"Roared! But then Mr. Flanagan thinks Betsy's all right. Always
calls her 'sophy Sparkles.' Betsy runs away about twice a week. Mr.
Flanagan's always finding her and lugging her home. I guess every
policeman in Charlestown knows her by this time. There, look at her
now! Did you ever see such a kid?"

Betsy had come out of the yard again. She was carrying a huge
feather duster over her head as if it were a parasol.

"The darling!" Maida said joyously. "I hope she'll do something
naughty every day."

"Queer how you love a naughty child," Dick said musingly. "They're
an awful lot of trouble but you can't help liking them. Has Tim
Doyle fallen into the puddle yet?"

"Yes, just a little while ago."

"He's always falling in mud puddles. I guess if Molly fishes him out
once after a rain, she does a half a dozen times."

"Do come and see me, Dicky, won't you?" Maida asked when they got to
the shop door. "You know I shall be lonely when all the children are
in school and--then besides--you're the first friend I've made."

At the word _friend_, Dicky's beautiful smile shone bright. "Sure,
I'll come," he said heartily. "I'll come often."

"Granny," Maida exclaimed, bursting into the kitchen, "wait until
you hear about Betsy Hale." She told the whole story. "Was I ever a
naughty little girl?" she concluded.

"Naughty? Glory be, and what's ailing you? 'Twas the best choild
this side of Heaven that you was. Always so sick and yet niver a
cross wurrud out of you."

A shadow fell over Maida's face. "Oh, dear, dear," she grieved. "I
wish I had been a naughty child--people love naughty children so. Are
you quite sure I was always good, Granny?"

"Why, me blessid lamb, 'twas too sick that you was to be naughty.
You cud hardly lift one little hand from the bed."

"But, Granny, dear," Maida persisted, "can't you think of one
single, naughty thing I did? I'