BOOK II

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SUZANNA STIRS THE FIRE

[Illustration: "I've come to you, Mrs. Reynolds, to stay. I've

adopted myself out to you"

[_Page 83_]]

Suzanna Stirs the Fire

BY

Emily Calvin Blake

_Author of "Marcia of the Little Home," etc._

Illustrations by F. V. Poole

[Illustration]

CHICAGO

A. C. McCLURG & CO.

1915

Copyright

A. C. McClurg & Co. 1915

Published September, 1915

Copyrighted in Great Britain

W. F. HALL PRINTING COMPANY, CHICAGO

CONTENTS

BOOK I

CHAPTER PAGE

I The Tucked-In Day 3

II The Only Child 27

III With Father in the Attic 40

IV The New Dress 55

V Suzanna Comes to a Decision 69

VI Suzanna Makes her Entry 82

VII Regrets 88

VIII Suzanna Meets a Character 99

IX A Leaf Missing from the Bible 119

X A Picnic in the Woods 132

BOOK II

XI The Indian Drill 161

XII Drusilla's Reminiscences 172

XIII Mrs. Graham Woods Bartlett 185

XIV The Stray Dog 197

XV A Lent Mother 215

XVI Suzanna Aids Cupid 221

XVII A Simple Wedding 236

XVIII The Eagle Man Visits the Attic 253

XIX Suzanna Puts a Request 265

XX Drusilla Sets Out on a Journey 278

XXI Mr. Bartlett Sees the Machine 292

BOOK III

XXII Happy Days 307

XXIII To the Seashore 320

XXIV The Seashore 329

XXV Last Days 341

XXVI Suzanna and her Father 345

ILLUSTRATIONS

PAGE

"I've come to you, Mrs. Reynolds, to stay. I've adopted

myself out to you" _Frontispiece_

The prettiest old lady she had ever seen 14

Very carefully he looked at the mended place 116

"We thought you might like a dog," began Suzanna 206

BOOK I

SUZANNA STIRS THE FIRE

CHAPTER I

THE TUCKED-IN DAY

Maizie wanted to sleep a little longer, but though the clock had but

just chimed six Suzanna was up and had drawn the window curtain letting

in a flood of sunshine. Maizie lay watching her sister, her gray eyes

still blurred with sleep; not wide and interested as a little later they

would be. Her soft little features expressing her naïve personality

seemed unsubtle, yet of contours so lovely in this period just after

babyhood that one longed to cuddle her.

Suzanna stood a long time at the window, so long indeed that Maizie

feared she was lost to all materialities. Suzanna, wonderful one, who

could strike from dull stuff magic dreams; who could vivify and

gloriously color the little things of life; who could into the simplest

happenings read thrilling interpretations! What bliss to accompany her

upon her wanderings, and what sadness to be forgotten!

Indeed Suzanna seemed oblivious. Certainly in spirit she was absent and

at last Maizie could bear the silence no longer.

"Suzanna!" she cried.

Then Suzanna turned. She did not speak, however, but placed a warning

finger upon her lips. Then she went swiftly to the closet and took down

her best white dress. She laid it tenderly on the back of a chair till

she had found in the lowest bureau drawer her white stockings and

slippers, then she brushed and combed her hair, confined it lightly with

a length of ribbon, washed her hands and face in the little bowl which

stood in one corner near the window and leisurely donned the white

dress.

Maizie sat straight up in bed watching in amazement. At last Suzanna

glanced over at her little wistful sister, then in stately fashion

advanced toward the bed, till close to Maizie she paused. Tall and

slender she stood, with eyes amber-colored, eyes which turned to black

in moments of deep emotion. Her brown hair touched with copper sprang

back from her brow in waving grace; her delicate features called for

small attention, excepting her mouth which was softly curved, eager of

speech, grave, mutinous, the most expressive part of an expressive

face.

Suzanna danced through life, sang her way to the hearts of others, left

her touch wherever she went; yet, beneath the lightness, philosophies of

life formed themselves intuitively, one after another, truer perhaps in

their findings than those which filtered through the pure intellect of

the grown-up.

At length she spoke to Maizie. "You mustn't say anything to me, Maizie,

unless I ask you a question," she commanded, "because I'm a princess who

lives in a crystal palace in a wonderful country with oceans and

mountains."

Maizie did not reply; what could she say? Simply she stared as Suzanna

moved gracefully about the room with the slow movements she considered

fitting a princess.

At last she returned to the bed. She began: "Maizie, I wish you to rise,

dress thyself, then go into thy parents' room and if the baby is awake,

dress him as Suzanna, thy sister, did when she was here and not a

princess."

Maizie rose and obediently dressed herself, ever watchful of Suzanna and

thrilled by the new personality which seemed to have entered with the

princess. When she was quite dressed, even to her little enshrouding

gingham apron, she asked:

"Are you going to school today, Suzanna?"

Suzanna fixed her eyes in the distance.

"I'm here, Princess," corrected Maizie, "right in front of you. You can

touch me with your hand. And besides, I had to ask that question. It was

burning on my tongue."

Suzanna did not stir. At last: "I'm not going to school today," she half

chanted. "A princess does not go to school. She wanders through the

fields and over the mountains and when she returns to her palace she

eats roses smothered in cream."

"Oh," cried Maizie. "Rose petals are bitter and beside we only have

cream on Sundays."

Suzanna turned away. Sometimes she found it a trifle difficult to play

with Maizie. She went slowly, majestically down the stairs and into the

little parlor. She regretted she had no train, since she might switch it

about as she walked. But she could _think_ she had a train, and ever and

anon glance behind to see that it had not curled up.

In the parlor she stood and looked about her. Her physical eyes saw the

worn spots in the carpet, the picture of her father's mother, faded and

dim, her own "crayon," the old horsehair sofa and chair, and the piano

with its yellow keys and its scratched case. But with her inner eyes

she beheld a lovely rose-colored room, heaped with soft rugs and

satin-lined chairs; fine, soft-grained woods, and a harp studded with

rare jewels.

At first she stood alone. Then by a slight wave of her hand she

commanded the appearance of many ladies and gentlemen who came and bowed

low before her. While she was still living in her vision, her father

descended the stairs and entered the parlor. He started at sight of

Suzanna all dressed in her best.

"I'm a princess, father," said Suzanna.

"A princess?" he repeated.

Her father wore his store clothes, shiny and grown tight for him. Above

his winged collar his sensitive face showed pale and thin in the early

morning light. His eyes, brown, soft, were like Suzanna's--they had

vision. He smiled now, half whimsically and wholly lovingly at her.

"An eight-year-old princess," he said. Then the smile faded, and he half

turned to the door. "Well, that's all right, your Majesty," he said.

"Continue with your play. I'm going up into the attic just for ten

minutes."

"You'll be late for the store, won't you, daddy?" she asked, anxiously,

forgetting for the moment her rôle.

He turned upon her quickly. "Late for the store!" he cried, "late to

weigh nails, sell wash boards, and mops. What does that matter, my dear,

when by my invention the world will some day be better." Suddenly the

passion died from his voice. He stood again the tall shabby figure,

somewhat stooped, with long fine hands that moved restlessly. "Ah, well,

Suzanna," he went on, "weighing nails brings us our livelihood."

Suzanna went and stood close to him. She put her small hand out and

touched his arm. "Daddy," she said, earnestly, "this is my tucked-in

day. I'm going to have two of them. Perhaps you can have a tucked-in day

sometime when you can work for hours at your invention."

Again he smiled at her. "Where did you get your tucked-in day, Suzanna,"

he asked.

"Why, it's a great beautiful white space that comes between last week

and this. It's all empty, that big space, and so I have filled it in

with a day of my own. If mother will let me, I'm going to have two

tucked-in days. On the first I'm a princess, and on the second, I shall

be an Only Child."

"Very well, little girl," said Suzanna's father. "And now I hear others

moving about upstairs. Will you stay to breakfast with us, Princess?"

"Oh, yes," said Suzanna, who began to feel the healthy pangs of hunger.

"I suppose perhaps I had better set the table."

A half-hour later the house was in a bustle. The baby was crying, Peter,

the five-year-old, was sliding in his usual exuberant manner down the

banisters, and at the stove in the kitchen, Mrs. Procter, the mother,

was filling pans and opening and closing the oven door with quick,

somewhat noisy movements.

When in time all were gathered about the dining table, they were an

interesting looking family. Mrs. Procter, young, despite her four

children, wore a little worried frown strangely at conflict with her

palpable desire to make the best of things. She darted here and there,

soothing the baby with a practiced hand, pouring her husband's coffee,

helping voracious Peter, her busy mind anticipating all the day's tasks.

Suzanna loved and admired her mother. She loved the way the luxuriant

dark hair was wound round and round the small head. She loved the rare

smile, the soft blue eyes fringed in black lashes. She liked to meet

those eyes when they were filled with understanding, when they seemed to

speak as plainly as the tender lips made just for lullabies--and

encouragements when the inventor-father stumbled, lost his belief in

himself and in his Machine.

Maizie, younger than Suzanna by only a year, looked like her

mother--sweet, very practical, always in a wide-eyed condition of

surprise at Suzanna's wonderful imagination; a dependable little body

who rarely fell from grace by reason of naughtiness.

Peter, a strange composite of his dreamy father and practical mother,

sat near the baby. Peter had had a twin, a little girl, who died when

she was three years old. Sometimes, even now, Peter cried himself to

sleep for Helen.

The baby, now crowing in his armchair beside his mother, was a bright

little chap of not quite a year. Too plump to even try his sturdy legs,

he was oftentimes very much of a burden to his devoted sisters.

Mrs. Procter's eyes had taken in at once Suzanna's finery, but Mrs.

Procter knew Suzanna; besides she did not always ask a direct question.

Suzanna's mind worked clearly, but it worked by its own laws. So now the

mother waited and toward the end of the meal she was rewarded for her

patience. Suzanna put down her fork and began:

"Mother, this is my first tucked-in day to do as I please in. I know

Monday's supposed to be wash day, but you said it wasn't a big wash and

I did all the sorting Saturday night. I am all fixed up for a princess,

and something inside me tells me I must wander about my palace and

perhaps find paths leading to far-off snow countries."

It was Maizie who looked now questioningly at her mother. Could it be

that Suzanna would be given her own way? In truth the entire table

awaited breathlessly Mrs. Procter's answer. It came at last:

"Very well, Princess, you may have your tucked-in day."

There followed a short silence. At last:

"Mother, I must be honest with you," said Suzanna, "there are to be

_two_ tucked-in days. In my next space I want to be an Only Child."

Again her mother agreed. Rarely could she deny Suzanna her jaunts into

the land of dreams.

So after breakfast, quite free, Suzanna left the house. The little town

lay quiet, except for the rhythmic noises coming from the big Massey

Steel Mills. Suzanna looked in their direction and stood a moment

watching the sparks coming from the big round chimneys. Over across

fields were the tumble-down cottages occupied by the employees of the

Massey Steel Mills. Suzanna did not often go in their direction. The

squalor made her unhappy and set in train so many questions she was

quite unable to answer.

The day was early July with a spicy breeze that promised its delight for

many hours. Suzanna walked out into the road, and turned to gaze at the

little home in which she had been born. She loved it with its many

memories. She fancied it held its head high because it sheltered her

father's great Machine. At length she turned south toward the country.

She breathed deeply as she went, feeling how wonderful it was to be a

princess and to wander about as she pleased.

Throbbing with life and the beauty of it, the marvel of it, she began to

dance. Strange thoughts flowed through her, strange understandings,

that, little child as she was, she could find no words for. Only it

seemed color lay within her, rich color for a thought of love; a wistful

rose shade for a passing desire, a brilliant orange for the uplifting

knowledge that just to be alive was great. She stopped to gather a

passion flower because with its deep purple, its hidden heart that she

could very gently discover and gaze into, it fitted into her mood.

Oh, to be big, grown up! All these brightly winged thoughts uplifting

her, some of which puzzled her, some that frightened her, she would

quite understand then! In those far-off years of absolute knowledge

there would be no limitations; no commonplaces, only miracles. You could

make what you wished then of all your days.

She came at last upon a little house lying far back from the road. It

was like a toy house, and had stood open for years. The Procter children

had often played in the rooms of the small house, and once when Peter

was a baby he had fallen down the stairs, and his twin Helen, anguished

because he was hurt, had cried piteously until they were home again.

Now Suzanna opened the gate, mended, she noticed, and hanging straight,

and started down the garden path. Lovely old-fashioned flowers--pansies

and phlox and pinks and balsam were all in their happiest bloom. Suzanna

wondered who watered and tended them. As she lingered beside a pansy

bed, the door of the little house opened and a rather frail little old

lady came out, followed by a maid who carried a chair that was filled

with pillows. She set the chair under a tree midway in the garden

between the house and the road. The old lady sank into it and the maid

deftly covered her with a large woolen shawl; then saying some word, and

placing a small silver bell on the grass within easy reach of the lady

in the chair the maid left.

Suzanna stood, unable to run. Someone then had moved into the tiny

house. And who? Suzanna knew everyone in the village of Anchorville, and

the old lady was a stranger. Suzanna gave up the question and started

back toward the gate when the old lady suddenly turned and saw the

child.

[Illustration: The prettiest old lady she had ever seen]

"Come here," she called, and Suzanna perforce obeyed. When she stood

near the small figure in the chair she waited, while she decided that

this was quite the prettiest old lady she had ever seen. The wavy silver

hair lying under a white lace cap, with two little curls falling on

either side made the blue eyes seems like a very little baby's at the

stage when they're deciding just what color they shall be. Like Suzanna,

the lady was dressed in white, flowing as to skirt, and trimmed with

quantities of fine old lace. On her hand was one ring, a lovely

moonstone. Suzanna at once loved that ring, not because it was a piece

of jewelry, but because it did look like a stray moonbeam that the rain

had fallen on.

"And who may you be?" asked the old lady at once.

Now something about her hostess called out all of Suzanna's colorful

imagination. She felt an instant response to this personality.

"I am a princess, the Princess Cecilia," she answered promptly.

"Ah," the old lady straightened up and a sudden, vivid change became at

once manifest in her manner. "Draw closer to me."

Suzanna obeyed, moving till she touched the old lady's hand that rested

on the wings of the old-fashioned chair.

"You should be a princess," said the old lady, "for I am a queen!"

Suzanna gazed without at first speaking. "A real one?" she whispered at

last.

"A real queen," returned the old lady. "It's not generally known by

those who serve me, nor even suspected by my own son who lives yonder in

the big house on the hill. But I'm the real queen of Spain, deposed from

the hearts of her people, from the hearts of her own nearest."

Suzanna nodded. She looked over toward the hill. "That's Bartlett

Villa," she said; "the people only live there part of the year. I know

Mrs. Bartlett, she's the richest lady in Anchorville, but I didn't know

her mother was a queen."

The old lady didn't appear to be particularly interested. She went on:

"It's not generally known, I believe, that I am a queen." After another

pause: "Over yonder is a camp chair. Bring it hither."

Suzanna found the chair at one end of the garden. Quickly she brought it

and sank herself upon it gracefully as became a princess of the blood,

but she was surprised a moment later to meet reproval in the eyes of the

queen.

"It's not permissible to seat yourself in the presence of royalty," said

the queen, rather sternly.

"But, I, too, am royalty and you told me to get the chair," said

Suzanna. "Of course, I thought it was to sit on."

"You are merely a princess," returned the old lady. "I am your queen,

and you must await my permission to recline."

Suzanna rose.

"Ask permission," said the queen, "and perhaps I shall allow you to seat

yourself."

"May I sit down?" asked Suzanna.

The queen inclined her head graciously. "You may," she returned. So once

more the little visitor resumed her seat. Then for a long time the old

lady sat with folded hands and looking off into the distance. She was

very, very still. Only the lace on her bosom moved gently to show that

she breathed. Suzanna thought perhaps she had better go. But she feared

to rise lest she again meet with reproof.

At last the queen remembered her guest.

"I wish to traverse my garden and in the absence of my lady-in-waiting I

request your arm, Princess Cecilia," she said.

Suzanna rose quickly and bending her small arm, she offered its support

to the old lady, who though now standing very straight and slender,

still was scarce two heads taller than her visitor. She slipped her

blue-veined hand within Suzanna's arm and they began a friendly walk up

and down the path.

"Once," began the queen, "when I lived beyond the snow-capped mountains

within my own palace, I was not so lonely as I now am. There was one who

afterwards became my king, with whom I walked by the sea. We saw

together the sapphire sparkle of the water, the golden yellow of the

sands; but in reality we beheld only one another's face."

By this time they had reached the gate and both stopped and stood

looking down the quiet road. But the little old lady still clung to

Suzanna's arm and her eyes had a far-away look.

"And after a time," went on the queen, "we were wedded and lived

together in my palace and we were happy as the birds; happy and less

care free. And always we found our greatest happiness in walking by the

sea or in climbing the mountains; I sometimes clinging to his ready hand

or skipping before him. And once we ran away from all the pomp and

ceremony that was merely surface and we found a little house right at

the edge of town, and there together for some months we lived. There,

too, our little prince came to us, and from there he went away.

"And one day my king, too, left, and my little prince forgot me, and I

am alone. Queen as I am, I am alone!"

Suzanna was silent. Indeed, she was at a loss just how to offer comfort.

When Helen, Peter's twin, went away her heart had ached, and when a

little baby, soft and cuddly had gone away forever, Suzanna had wept for

days and far into the nights. This queen, she found was very sad, and

very longing, and very lonely, three things she thought queenhood exempt

from, sadness, and longing and loneliness.

Once more they turned, and walked down the garden path till they reached

the chairs under the tree. The queen sank again among her pillows and

Suzanna was about to use her camp chair when the queen spoke in her old

commanding manner:

"I am hungry, serf," she cried. "Go, prepare my food! All the dainties

that you can find. I wish cream beaten to a froth and peaches, halved

and stoned. I wish strawberries still wet with dew and reposing in their

green leaves."

"But," began Suzanna, "I can't get strawberries for you."

The old lady rose to her full height. "Wilt begone, serf?" in stern

accents she cried. "Wilt begone and prepare what I demand?"

Now Suzanna had a very firm idea of her own standing as a princess. Had

she not earlier in the day impressed Maizie? And now, was this stranger,

even though she were a queen, to demand menial service of one of royal

blood? Suzanna thought not. So she said firmly, though gently:

"I am not a serf, if that means a slave! I am a visiting princess, the

Princess Cecilia. I will not go into your kitchen and prepare food." And

then forgetting her rôle, she assumed her ordinary voice. "Why, this

morning I didn't even warm the baby's bottle, because mother said I

needn't seeing that I was a princess and living in my own tucked-in

day."

"'Tucked-in day!'" responded the queen. "What do you mean by that?"

"Why, it's my very own day, a day tucked in between last week and this

week," said Suzanna.

The old lady's eyes wandered away again looking into distant countries,

Suzanna had no doubt, and she hoped the strawberries were forgotten. But

alas, she was wrong, for in a few moments the queen, bringing her eyes

back to Suzanna's face recalled her desire:

"I will have my strawberries," she began peremptorily. And then with a

complete change of voice; one with some satire in its tone she

concluded: "Dost think because thou art a princess thou art exempt from

all service in the world?"

"A princess does not work," said Suzanna wisely.

"I would have you know," said the queen, "that all those of the world

must give service in one way or another. Dost think that when in my

palace I reigned a queen I gave no service? There were those who loved

me and needed me. As their queen did I not owe them something in return

for their love? And could I leave their needs unrelieved?"

"But," faltered Suzanna, "you were a queen!"

The old lady's eyes lit with a sudden fire. "And 'twas because I

reigned a queen," she answered, "that I must do more than those of less

exalted station. In my kingdom there were little children, there were

the old, and there were the feeble, and there were the poor. Could I go

about unconcerned as to their welfare?" Her voice suddenly softened. She

put out her hand, now trembling with her emotion, and drew Suzanna close

to her. "My sweet little princess," she said, "no one in all the world

stands alone. A little silver chain binds each one of us to his fellow.

You may break that chain and you may feel yourself free, but you will be

a greater slave than ever."

"I think I understand," said Suzanna, and indeed she had a fair meaning

of the other's words. "The chain runs from wrist to wrist and is rubber

plated."

With a sudden change of manner the old lady spoke again, going back to

her former imperious manner: "Am I thus to starve because no slave

springs forth to do my bidding?"

At this important moment the maid reappeared. She came swiftly down the

garden to the old lady. She paused when she saw Suzanna. She had a very

gentle face, Suzanna decided, and when she spoke to the old lady it was

tenderly as one would speak to a child. Suzanna decided that she liked

her.

Said Suzanna: "The queen wants her strawberries wet with dew and buried

in their own green leaves."

"The queen," returned the maid, "shall have her luncheon."

"And the Princess Cecilia," said the queen, "shall eat with me, Letty."

Suzanna was very glad to hear this since for a long time past she had

been hungry, and had been thinking rather longingly of the midday dinner

at home.

The maid left, but in a very short time she came into the garden again

and announced that lunch was ready in the dining-room.

"Walk behind me," said the old lady, and Suzanna took her place behind

the queen. In that sequence they went down the path, up the four steps

leading to the little house, through the open door, and paused in a

short, narrow hall, through which Suzanna and her sister and brother had

often walked.

"Place your coat here," said the old lady, indicating a black walnut

hall-tree.

Suzanna did as she was bid and then followed her hostess into the

dining-room, to the left of the small hall, where a table

flower-decked, stood set for two.

Suzanna sat down at the place the queen indicated and waited

interestedly. In time the maid brought on a silver tray with little cups

of cream soup, and then cold chicken buried in pink jelly, a most

delicious concoction. Finally there was cocoa with whipped cream and

marshmallows and melting angel food cake.

The old lady ate daintily, and long before Suzanna's appetite was

satisfied she announced that she was finished and demanded that the

princess rise from the table with her. She did not mention the

strawberries. With a little sigh Suzanna obeyed. And now, instead of

returning to the garden, the old lady led the way into the parlor, which

lay to the right of the hall. She went straight to the picture that hung

above a marble mantel. Below the picture in the center of the mantel

rested a crystal vase containing sprays of lilies of the valley.

"This was my king," murmured the old lady, and Suzanna looked up into

the pictured face. "I like him," she said immediately; "has he gone far

away?"

At these words the old lady suddenly sank down into a chair and covered

her face with her hands. She began to cry softly, but in a way that

hurt Suzanna inexpressibly. She stood for a moment hesitant. The sobs

still continued and then Suzanna, deciding on her course, went to the

little shaking figure and put her hands softly on the drooping

shoulders.

"Can I help you," she asked. "Just tell me what to do for you."

"Nothing," came the muffled tones, "there is no one to do for me; no one

to do for me in love. I am alone, forgotten."

"Haven't you a brother or a sister?" in a moment she asked softly.

"No one," said the little lady.

"Oh, then," said Suzanna pityingly, as a dire thought came to her,

"there's no one to call you by your first name!"

And then the old lady lowered her hands and looked into Suzanna's face.

"No one," she said sadly, "and it's such a pretty name, Drusilla. It's

many long years since I was called that."

"I'd hate to come to a time when no one would call me Suzanna," Suzanna

said, and she leaned forward and touched the blue-veined hands. "May I

call you Drusilla?" she asked.

"That would be sweet of you," said the little old lady. She seemed less

of the queen now than before, just a fluttering, little creature to be

tenderly protected and cared for.

The maid came in at this moment. She went straight to the old lady.

"I think," she said gently, "that you must take your nap now. This is

the day for Mrs. Bartlett's call."

The queen rose quite obediently. Suzanna said at once: "Well, I must be

going. But I'll come again. Good-bye, Drusilla."

"Good-bye, dear," returned "Drusilla" sweetly. "I'd like to have you

kiss me."

Suzanna lifted her young face and kissed Drusilla's withered cheek.

* * * * *

Once out in the road and going swiftly toward home, Suzanna pondered

many things. She thought of what the old lady had said about the little

silver chain binding one to another; that no one really stood alone--no

one with a family, at least, Suzanna decided. It was a big thought; you

could go on and on in your heart and find many places for it to fit--and

then she reached her own gate and felt as always a sense of happiness.

No matter how happily she had spent the day, there was always a little

throb which stirred her heart when she went up the steps leading to the

rather battered front door of the place she called home.

Maizie opened the door. She was as happy in beholding Suzanna returned

as though weeks had parted them, for she knew Suzanna's aptitude for

great adventures. Always they came to her, while another might walk

forever and meet no Heralds of Romance.

"Did something happen, Suzanna?" she began eagerly.

"Yes, I found a queen and we had lunch together," Suzanna responded.

"I'll tell you all about it when we're in bed."

"Are you going to play at something tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow I shall be an Only Child," said Suzanna. "Don't you remember?"

"And not my sister?" asked Maizie.

Suzanna caught the yearning in Maizie's voice.

"Well," she said, "I'll be your closest friend, Maizie."

CHAPTER II

THE ONLY CHILD

Breakfast the next morning was nearly concluded when Suzanna made her

appearance, but she met with no reproof. She had anticipated none, for

surely an Only Child was entitled to many privileges; no rules should be

made to bind her.

Her father was gone. It was a day of stock-taking at the hardware store,

and his early presence had been requested by his employer, Job Doane.

Suzanna's mother and the children still lingered at the table.

"Good morning, Suzanna," said Mrs. Procter, while the other children

gazed with interest at their tardy sister.

"Good morning," Suzanna returned as she took her place; then, "Will you

remind Maizie that I am an Only Child today?"

"You hear, Maizie," said Mrs. Procter smiling.

"Mustn't any of us speak to her?" asked Peter.

"No one but her mother," said Suzanna addressing the ceiling.

She went on with her breakfast, eating daintily with the small finger on

her right hand cocked outward. Maizie stared, fascinated. Countless

words rushed to her lips, but she had been bidden to silence, and she

feared, should she speak to Suzanna, dire results would follow. Suzanna

might even go away by herself in pursuit of some wonderful dream, and

leave Maizie out of her scheme of things entirely.

So Maizie waited patiently.

"Since you sent Bridget away on an errand of mercy, Mother," Suzanna

began later, "I'll help you with the dishes."

In Suzanna's estimation the family boasting an Only Child boasted also

servants.

"I'll be glad of your help," said Mrs. Procter, "and since Bridget is

away, perhaps you will be kind enough to make your own bed and dust your

own room."

Suzanna's face fell. Maizie put out a small hand and touched her sister.

"I'll help you," she said, "if you want me to."

"Very well," said Suzanna, and together the children went upstairs.

In the little room shared by the sisters, Suzanna went to work.

Ardently she shook pillows and carefully she smoothed sheets, while

Maizie, with a reflective eye ever upon Suzanna, dusted the dresser and

hung up the clothes.

"Is your mother well this morning?" asked Suzanna politely.

"Why, you saw her," Maizie cried off guard. "She didn't have a headache

this morning, did she?"

"I'm speaking of _your_ mother," said Suzanna. "You belong to an

entirely different family from me."

"Well," said Maizie after a time, "she's not suffering, thank you."

"Have you any brothers and sisters?" pursued Suzanna in an interested

though rather aloof tone.

"Oh, yes," said Maizie, trying hard to fill her rôle satisfactorily. "We

have a very large family, and once we had twins."

Suzanna looked her pity. "I'm so glad," she said, "that I'm an Only

Child. This morning I was very joyous when I had whipped cream and

oatmeal."

"You just had syrup, Suzanna Procter!" cried Maizie.

Suzanna cast a scathing look at her sister: "I had whipped cream!" she

cried, "because I am an Only Child!" Then falling into her natural tone:

"If you forget again, Maizie, I can't even be a friend of yours." She

continued after a pause, reassuming her Only-Child voice, "That's why I

wear this beautiful satin dress and diamond bracelets and shining

buckles on my shoes."

Now Maizie saw only Suzanna's lawn dress, rather worn Sunday shoes with

patent leather tips; she saw Suzanna's bare arms.

"Maybe you'd like, really, to wear a white satin dress and bracelets and

buckles, but you know you haven't got them, don't you, Suzanna?" she

asked.

Suzanna did not answer, plainly ignoring Maizie's conciliatory tone, and

so finding the silence continuing unbroken, Maizie changed the subject.

"Will you play school with me this afternoon, Suzanna?"

Suzanna thought a moment: "I don't just know. I may go and play with

some of the other girls today, and, remember, if I do that a friend

can't get mad like a sister can."

Maizie began to whimper.

"All right, if you're going to act that way, I am going off to see

Drusilla," with which statement Suzanna turned and went downstairs.

Maizie came running down after her. "Mother, mother," she called loudly,

"I don't like Suzanna when she's the Only Child."

Mrs. Procter, busy with the baby, looked up. She was a little cross now.

"I wish, Suzanna," she said, "that you would learn to be sensible and

not always be acting in plays you make up."

Suzanna, who a moment before had bounded joyfully into her mother's

presence, now paused, the light dying from her eyes. She looked at her

mother and her mother, uncomfortable beneath the steady gaze, spoke

again with an irritation partially assumed.

"I mean just that, Suzanna," she said. "Maizie can't easily follow all

your imaginings; and I have enough to do without always trying to keep

the peace between you."

Suzanna stood perfectly still. The color rose to her temples, while the

dark eyes flashed. Waves of emotion swept through her. Emotions she

could not express. At last in a tense voice she spoke: "I wish I wasn't

your child, Mother."

"Go at once to your room," said Mrs. Procter, "and stay there till I

tell you you may come down again."

With no word Suzanna turned, went slowly up the stairs again, drew a

chair to the window and sat down. She was flaming under a bitter sense

of injustice. With all the intensity of her nature for the moment she

hated the entire world.

Time passed. She heard sounds downstairs, Maizie going out to play in

the yard with Peter; her mother singing the baby to sleep, and still

Suzanna sat near the window, and still her small heart beat resentfully.

Later, she heard her father's voice. Perhaps he cared for her. But even

of this she was not sure. Then she sat up very straight. Someone was

coming up the stairs.

It was Maizie. The little girl slowly opened the bedroom door, peeped

cautiously in, and then on tiptoes approached Suzanna. "Mother says,"

she began, "that you're to come down to lunch."

"I don't want any lunch," said Suzanna. The bright color still stained

her cheek. "You can just go downstairs and eat up everything in the

house, and be sure and tell mother I said so."

Maizie looked her awe at this defiant sister. Downstairs she returned to

deliver verbatim Suzanna's message.

Suzanna sat on. From bitter disillusion felt against everything in her

world her mind chilled to analysis. Her mother loved her, she believed,

and yet--she did not complete her swift thought; indeed, she looked

quickly about in fear of her disloyalty. She had once thought that

mothers were perfect, rare beings removed worlds from other mere

mortals. Hadn't she, when a very small girl of four, been quite unable

to comprehend that mother was a mere human being? "Mother is just

mother," she had said in her baby way, and that sentence spelled all the

devotion and admiration of a pure little heart for one enshrined within

it.

And now mother had fallen short. Mother had disappointed that

desperately loving, intense soul. The tears started to her eyes. It was

as though on this second tucked-in day an epoch had come marking the day

for all time, placing it by itself as containing an experience never to

be forgotten.

After a time she realized she was hungry. So she went quietly to the top

of the stairs, but no sound came up from below.

Some clock struck one, and then Suzanna heard running footsteps mounting

the stairs. She sat straight and gazed out of the window. She knew the

moment her mother entered the room, but she did not turn her head.

Mrs. Procter approached until she stood close to Suzanna. She looked

down into the mutinous little face. She had come intending to scold,

but something electric about the child kept hasty words back.

At length: "Aren't you going to speak to me, Suzanna?" she said.

Suzanna did not answer immediately. That strange, awful thought that her

very own mother had been unjustly irritable held her tongue-tied. At

length words, short, curt, came:

"You weren't _all right_ to me this morning, Mother," she said, raising

her stormy eyes. "Yesterday you were nice to me when I was a princess.

Today you were cross because Maizie couldn't understand, and she never

understands. You never were cross about that before." She gazed straight

back into her mother's face--"I'm mad at the whole world."

What perfection the child expects of the mother! No human deviations!

Mrs. Procter sighed. How could she live out her child's exalted ideal of

her! She looked helplessly at Suzanna. The eyes lifted to hers lacked

the wonted expression of perfect belief, of passionate admiration. That

this first little daughter, so close to her heart fibers, should in any

degree turn from her, pierced the mother. She put her arms about the

unyielding small figure.

"Suzanna, little daughter," she whispered. "Mother is sometimes tired,

but always, always she loves you."

The response was immediate. With a little cry Suzanna pressed her lips

to her mother's. All her reticence was gone. This mother who enfolded

her stood once more the unwavering star that guided Suzanna's life.

"You see, little girl," Mrs. Procter said after a few moments, "mother

sometimes has a great deal to think about--and baby was cross."

"Oh, mother, dear, I'll help you," cried Suzanna. "I'll always be good

to you and when I'm grown up I'll buy you silk dresses and pretty hats

and take you to hear beautiful music."

Later they went downstairs together. In the kitchen Maizie was amusing

the baby as he sat in his high chair. She looked around as Suzanna

entered: "Are you going to see Drusilla now," asked Maizie.

"Who's Drusilla?" asked Mrs. Procter with interest.

Now Suzanna had not told her mother of her new friend. She had wished to

keep in character, and a princess, she felt, was rather secretive and

aloof. But now the renewed closeness she felt to her mother opened her

heart.

"Yesterday when I was a princess, living my very own first tucked-in

day, I walked and walked, and at last came to a little house with a

garden," she said, "and there was an old lady with no one to call her by

her first name--and so I'm going to call her Drusilla."

"Is she a little old lady with white hair, and curls on each side of her

face?" asked Mrs. Procter.

"Yes," said Suzanna.

"Why, she's Mr. Graham Woods Bartlett's mother, and she's a little--"

Mrs. Procter hesitated believing it wiser to leave her sentence

unfinished.

"A little what, mother?" asked Suzanna anxiously.

"Oh, she has fancies," evaded Mrs. Procter. "For instance, there are

times when she thinks herself a queen."

"What was the word you were going to use, mother?" persisted Suzanna.

"Well, then, Suzanna, such a person is called a little strange."

"Then I'm a little strange, too," said Suzanna.

"But you're a child, Suzanna," said Mrs. Procter, "and Mrs. Bartlett is

a very old lady."

"Does that make the difference?" asked Suzanna. "If it does, I can't

understand why. I think that an old lady, especially if she's lonely and

if she grieves for her king who went far away from her, has just as much

right to have fancies as a little girl has."

"Well, I don't know," said Mrs. Procter, turning a soft look upon

Suzanna.

Maizie, who had been standing near listening intently, now spoke: "A

girl I know had a grandfather who thought he was a cat and every once in

awhile he meowed, and he liked to sit in the sun. He thought he was a

nice, gentle, Maltese cat, and when he wasn't busy meowing he was awful

sweet to the children, and played with them and took care of the little

ones; but the big people thought they'd better send him far away,

because it wasn't right that he should think himself a cat."

Suzanna's eyes flamed in anger. "I think they were cruel," she cried,

"not to let him stay at home. I know the girl whose grandfather he was.

Her name's Mary Holmes, and she cried because they sent her grandfather

away. But she didn't tell me why."

"I'm her special friend on Wednesday recess day," said Maizie bashfully,

"that's why she told me."

"I like old people," Suzanna continued. "I like Drusilla, and I like

Mrs. Reynold's mother that once came to see her, and I like old Joe, the

vegetable man, who made whistles for us last summer. They all seem to

understand you when you talk to them, and they can see things just like

you can."

"Well, I've heard it said," said Mrs. Procter musingly, "that old people

are very much like the young in their fancies. Maybe that's why you

enjoy them, Suzanna."

"Well, mother," Suzanna was very much in earnest now, "can't you always

tell everybody who has an old lady or an old gentleman living with them

that if they're not loving to old ladies and gentlemen, their silver

chain will break?"

"Silver chain?" cried Maizie, puzzled. "I don't know what you mean,

Suzanna."

"Why, every one of us," Suzanna explained carefully, "carries a little

silver chain which binds him to everyone else, but especially, I

suppose, to our very own father and mother and brothers and sisters."

"Where is the chain?" asked Maizie.

"It runs from your wrist to mine. It stretches as you move, and it's

given to everybody as soon as he's born. Sometimes it's broken."

"Well, Suzanna," said Maizie solemnly, "then you've broken the silver

chain that ties you to me and to Peter and the baby and to daddy and

mother. You don't belong to us any more--you're an Only Child."

* * * * *

Maizie's literalness drew a new vivid picture for Suzanna. She had cut

herself from those she loved. She looked through a mist into Maizie's

face, the little face with the gray eyes and straight fine hair that

_would_ lie flat to the little head, and a big love flooded her. She

went swiftly to the little sister and lifted her hand. She made a feint

of clasping something at her wrist. "Maizie," she said, "I put the chain

on again. You are once more my little sister."

"Not just your closest friend, but your little sister, with a silver

chain holding us together?" Maizie asked.

"Always," said Suzanna. "I don't think after all that it's any fun to be

an Only Child."

CHAPTER III

WITH FATHER IN THE ATTIC

A special Saturday in the Procter home, since father expected to spend

the afternoon in the attic working at his invention! Once a month he had

this half-day vacation from the hardware store. True, to make up he

returned to work in the evening after supper, and remained sometimes

till midnight, but that was the bargain he had made with Job Doane, the

owner of the shop, and he stuck bravely by it.

The house was in beautiful order when father arrived at noon. He went at

once to the dining-room. Suzanna and Maizie, putting the last touches to

the table, greeted him cordially.

"We have carrots and turnips chopped up for lunch," announced Maizie

immediately.

"And baked apples, with the tiniest drop of cream for each one,"

completed Suzanna.

"And the baby has a clean dress on, too," Maizie added, like an

anticlimax.

Mr. Procter exclaimed in appropriate manner. He seemed younger today,

charged with a high spirit. His step was light, he held his head high;

his eyes, too, were full of fire. The children knew some vital flame

energized him, some great hope vivified him.

"Sold a scythe to old Farmer Hawkes this morning," he began, when they

were all seated around the table, the smoking dishes before them. He

smiled at his wife and the subtle understanding went around the board

that it was ridiculous for father, the great man, to waste his time

selling a scythe to close old Farmer Hawkes; also the perfect belief

that Farmer Hawkes was highly favored in being able to make a purchase

through such a rare agency.

Luncheon concluded, father rose. The children pushed back their chairs

and stood in a little group, all regarding him with longing eyes.

"Well, children," he said at last, "if things go well with me upstairs

and I can spare an hour, I'll call you. But don't let me keep you from

your work, or your play. Ball for you, I suppose, Peter, since it is

Saturday afternoon," he finished facetiously. Well he knew the

fascination of the attic and its wonder Machine.

And Peter didn't answer. Let father have his joke; they both understood.

Father went singing joyfully up the stairs. The children listened till

they heard the attic door close, then all was silent.

Suzanna found a book, and at Maizie's earnest request read a chapter

from it aloud, while Peter descended into the cellar on business of his

own.

"I'd rather you'd tell me a story of your own, Suzanna," said Maizie,

when the chapter was concluded.

"Well, I can't make up stories today," said Suzanna. "Today is father's

day, and I'm thinking every minute of The Machine."

"It's going to be a great thing, isn't it, Suzanna?" said Maizie, in an

awed voice.

"Yes, and nobody in the world could have made it but our father," said

Suzanna solemnly. "Father was made to do that work, and the whole world

will be better because of his invention."

"The whole outside world?" asked Maizie, "or just Anchorville?"

"Oh, the whole world," said Suzanna, and then as Peter once more made

his appearance: "Peter, take your tie out of your mouth. Father may call

us upstairs at any moment, and you must look as nice as nice can be."

Peter obediently removed his tie from between his teeth, and just then

the awaited summons came.

"Children! You may come up and bring mother."

Suzanna ran out into the kitchen. Mother had her hands in a pan of dough

and was kneading vigorously. She looked up at Suzanna's message and

replied: "You children run up to father; I'll come when I can. Go

quietly by the bedroom door, the baby's asleep."

Upstairs then the children flew. At the top they paused and looked in.

Father was standing close to The Machine; he turned as they appeared,

and with a princely gesture (Suzanna's private term), invited them in.

The attic was dimly lit. Shadows seemed to lurk in its corners. It was

an attic in name only, since it held no stored treasures of former days.

It stood consecrated to a great endeavor. The children knew that, and

instinctively paused at the threshold. They got the sense that big

thoughts filled this room, big ambitions for Man.

They approached and paused before The Machine. It stood high,

cabinet-shaped, of brilliantly polished wood whose surface seemed to

catch and hold soft, rosy lights from out the shadows. Above The Machine

rose a nickel-plated flexible arm, at the end of which hung a sort of

helmet. Some distance back of the arm, and extending about a foot above

the cabinet, were two tubes connected by a glass plate; and beneath the

plate, a telescope arrangement into which was set a gleaming lens.

Mr. Procter opened a door at the side of the cabinet. The children,

peering in, beheld interesting looking springs, coils, and batteries. He

shut the door, walked around to the front of the cabinet and opened

another and smaller door. Here the children, following, saw a number of

small black discs. The inventor reached in, touched a lever, and

immediately a rhythmic, clicking sound ensued.

Next he drew down dark shades over the low windows. The filmed glass

plate above the cabinet alone showed clear in the eclipse, as though

waiting.

"Now, Suzanna, come!"

Suzanna, at some new electric quality in her father's voice, sprang

forward. He procured a chair, placed it directly before the cabinet,

drew the flexible arm till the helmet rested perhaps four inches above

the child's head but did not touch it, pulled forward the telescope and

focused its lens upon her expectant face.

"Watch the plate glass," he said in a tense whisper, and Suzanna kept

her eyes as directed.

A moment passed. No sound came but the rhythmic ticking. The inventor's

face was white. His eyes, dark, held a gleam and a prayer. Another

space, and then very slowly a shadowy line of color played upon the

glass set between the two tubes; color so faint, so delicate, that

Suzanna wondered if she saw clearly.

But the color strengthened, and at last all saw plainly a line of rich

deep purple touched with gold. It remained there triumphant upon the

glass, a royal bar.

Silent moments breathed themselves away, for the test had come and it

had not failed. Suzanna, at last moving her gaze from the color

registered, turned to her father. She saw, with a leap of the heart,

that his eyes were wet. He seemed to have turned to an immovable image,

and yet never did life seem to flow out so richly from him.

Peter broke the quiet. "What does it mean, daddy, that color?" he asked.

Suddenly galvanized, Mr. Procter ran to the stairs outside. His voice

rang out like a bell.

"Jane, come, come!"

Mrs. Procter, in the kitchen, caught the exultant note in his voice. She

was stirring batter for a cake, but she flung down the spoon and ran up

the stairs.

"Oh, Richard, what is it," she cried, as she reached him. His eyes,

half frightened, half elated, looked into hers.

"I will show you," he cried. He took her hand and led her to The Machine

before which Suzanna still sat.

The wave of color still persisted on the glass. "See," he said,

"registered color, for which I have worked and worked, died a thousand

deaths of despair, and been resurrected to hope. This afternoon the

color seemed promised, and so in fear and trembling I placed Suzanna

before the machine."

"Oh, my dear, my dear, after all these years!" She lifted her face and

kissed him solemnly.

And then Peter repeated his question, to which before there had been no

answer.

"What does the color mean, daddy?" he asked.

"Two colors recording in that manner means great versatility; purple

means the artist, probably a writer."

Peter looked his bewilderment. His mother, smiling a little, reduced the

explanation to simpler form. Even then Peter was befogged.

The inventor went to a remote corner and brought forth a large book

containing many pages. This he placed upon a small table, and the

children and their mother crowded about him, eager to see and to hear.

Mr. Procter lit a side lamp so the light fell upon the book, then he

turned the pages slowly. Blocks of color lay upon each, some in squares

alone, some merging into others like a disjointed rainbow. Above each

block, or merged block, were writings, interpretations of color meaning,

word above word; many erasures, as though fresh thought thrust out the

integrity of early ones.

Mr. Procter spoke to his wife. "Till the machine showed the

possibilities of ultimate success, I have said nothing even to you of

its inception. Now, however, I may speak.

"It may sound strange, but from the time I was a very young boy, I've

seen others in color. That is, a vivid personality never failed to

translate itself in purple to me; a pale one in blue. It was out of that

spiritual sight that I built my theory of color. It took me years, but

time after time have I proved to my own complete satisfaction that each

individual has a keynote of color; a color explaining his purpose."

A thousand questions of details, of practicalities that his theory did

not seem in the rough to touch, rushed to Mrs. Procter's lips; but she

could not voice one, she could not quench his uplifted expression and,

indeed, so great was her belief in him that she had faith that he would

overcome all obstacles.

He went on: "After I had my system of color worked out, I began to plan

my machine, then to build it, and now--" He covered his face with his

hands. Suddenly he took them down, turned to his children and with eyes

alight, cried:

"For the progress of humanity have I worked, my children. To read men's

meanings, the purposes for which they live, have I created this

machine."

The children, deeply stirred with him, gazed back into his kindled face.

His magnetism lifted them. For humanity he had worked, should always

work, and with him they understood that this was the greatest service.

With him they rose on the wings of creative imagination. Desire ran deep

in each small heart to do something for the benefit of man. Not money,

not position, but love for one's fellows, work for one's fellows! Never

in all their lives were they to forget this moving hour in the attic.

Its influence would be with them for always.

After a moment Maizie spoke: "How does The Machine know your color,

daddy?"

The inventor smiled. "It has an eye, see?" He pointed to the lens in

the telescope. Then he opened the small door. "In this place it has

sensitized plates; this helmet, too, is highly sensitized." He paused

and then laughed at himself as he saw the mystified expressions of his

children. "Well, let us try Maizie. I know her color, but let's see what

the machine says." He turned out the lamp. "Come, Maizie," he said.

So Maizie seated herself before the machine and watched to see what the

glass plate should say of her. The plate remained for a moment clear,

then slowly there grew a feather of color. Smoke color, a sort of dove

gray, it was and so remained, despite its neutrality, quite plainly

visible.

Mr. Procter lifted the helmet, hushed the machine. He went to his book,

took it to the window, raised the shade a trifle and peered down. "As I

knew," he said. Then closing the book and turning to his small daughter,

he went on: "My little Maizie will some day nurse back to health those

who are weary and worn; she will be patient, full of understanding, and

she will be greatly beloved."

Maizie's face grew luminous. "And so I'll do good too, just like you,"

she said, with a beautiful faith.

"You will do good, too, my daughter," he answered, with exquisite

egotism in his inclusion.

Peter, eager-eyed, looked up at his father.

"Do you think I have a color, too, daddy?" he asked.

"Yes, Peter. Take your place."

Peter did so.

For him there grew a tongue of sturdy bronze. In the dim light it waved

across the surface of the glass plate.

And Mr. Procter said: "In time our little boy Peter will build great

bridges."

"That four horses can walk across, daddy?" Peter cried in ecstasy.

"That a hundred horses can walk across, and a big engine pull safely its

train of cars."

Then again into the inventor's eyes leaped a radiance. He placed his

hand lovingly upon the machine as though it were alive, and indeed so it

seemed to be, for into it he had put his finest ideals, his deepest

hopes for the development of man.

"A few months more of work," he cried. "And then it will be ready to

give to the world."

Someone came lightly up the stairs. A head appeared, then a body, then a

hearty voice: "May I come in?" it asked.

Mrs. Procter swung the door wide to Mr. Reynolds, neighbor across the

way. He entered with a little hesitation. He was a large man with a

heavy brick-colored face, yet with eyes that had preserved some spirit

of youth. Mr. Reynolds was as great an idealist as his friend, the

inventor, though his idealism gave out in totally different directions.

He read all sorts of books, but reacted to them with originality. His

imagination only grasped their meanings, not his intellect. He worked in

another town, several miles from Anchorville, in a large chair factory,

and several times a week in the evening he stood upon a soap box on a

street corner, and amused a mixed audience by his picturesque setting

forth of what he thought was wrong with the world; also what methods he

believed would, if employed, straighten out the tangles.

Since he spoke "straight from the shoulder," as he put it, touching

dramatically upon the hand of wealth as causing the tangles, he had

called down upon himself the wrath of the town's richest man, old John

Massey, owner of the Massey Steel Mills. Twice Mr. Massey had threatened

the eloquent and fearless orator with arrest, and twice for some unknown

reason he had refrained from carrying out his threat, and the

authorities of the town complacently allowed Mr. Reynolds to continue

his pastime.

"I knew you were at home today," said Mr. Reynolds, "and I must see the

machine." He looked at the joyous face of the inventor.

"Why, have you been trying it out?" he cried.

"Yes, and with a fair degree of success. Of course, I realize it may not

always work as it did today. Indeed, the colors are not so strong as I

expect eventually to get them."

"A great piece of work," said Mr. Reynolds, advancing to the middle of

the room and falling into the orator's attitude. "I've thought of it

every day since you told me of it. When I see men in the factory working

at jobs they fair hate, because they and theirs need bread--and breaking

under the bondage--Oh, I say, Procter, I wish you could bring the

machine to perfection soon and get others to believe in it."

Mr. Procter's eyes lost their light. "That's it, to make others

believe!"

Mrs. Procter went to her husband. She put her hand on his arm and looked

up into his face with a gaze of perfect faith. "A big purposeful idea

like yours, that's going to make humanity happier, can't fail but some

day to be brought to the world's attention. Never lose faith, my man."

The shadow of discouragement fell swiftly from him.

"And, now," she continued before he could speak, "all wait here a little

while. The baby's still asleep," she flung over her shoulder as she left

the room.

Shortly she returned bearing a large tray which she set down on the

table. Then she lit the side lamp; it cast a soft glow over the room.

"Now all draw close," Mrs. Procter invited.

So they drew chairs near the table. There was milk for the children,

little seed cakes, thin bread and butter, and cups of strong tea for the

inventor and the visitor.

The children, sipping their milk and eating the little sweet cakes,

listening to the talk of their father and Mr. Reynolds, their expressed

hopes for the success of the machine and its effect upon humanity, gazed

at the invention. The sense of a community of interest filled them. They

felt that they, each and all, had put something of everlasting worth

into The Machine, just as it had put some enduring understanding into

them.

"I feel," whispered Suzanna to Maizie, "as though we were in church."

Mr. Reynolds caught the whisper. "And well you may, little lassie," he

returned. "Your father is a fine, good man with no thought at all of

himself, and some day," finished Mr. Reynolds, grandly, "his name will

go rolling down the ages as a benefactor to all mankind."

A tribute and a prophecy! The children were glad that Mr. Reynolds had

such clear vision.

CHAPTER IV

THE NEW DRESS

An influence vaguely felt by all the Procter family lingered for days

after father's Saturday afternoon at home. And then ordinary hours

intruded and filled the small lives with their duties and their

pleasures. Still shadowy, deeply hidden, the influence of the visionary

father lay. Even small Maizie awoke to tiny dreams, her literalness for

moments drowned out.

At school, Maizie and Suzanna were perhaps the least extravagantly

dressed little girls. Exquisitely clean, often quaintly adorned with

ribbons placed according to Suzanna's fancies, it still could be seen

that they came from an humble home.

Still, in their attitude there was toward their companions an

unconscious patronage, felt but hardly resented by the others, since

Suzanna and Maizie gave love and warmth besides.

And this unconscious feeling of superiority sprang from "belonging" to a

father who worked in his free hours that others out in the big world

might some day be glad he had lived! This idealism lent luster even to

his calling of weighing nails and selling washboards to the town of

Anchorville.

Jenny Bryson, in Suzanna's class, bragged of her father's financial

condition, and indeed she was a resplendent advertisement of his

success.

Suzanna listened interestedly. She gazed with admiration at the velvet

dress, the gold ring, and the pearl neck beads. She loved them all--the

smoothness of the velvet, the sparkle of the gold, the soft luster of

the pearls. But she felt no envy. She loved the adornments with her

imagination, not with desire. And though she could not say so to Jenny,

she rather pitied her for not having a father to whom a future

generation would bow in great gratitude.

Then too, as mother said, if you merely bought clothes, you lost the joy

of creating. Witness the ingenious way, following Suzanna's suggestion,

that mother had draped a lace curtain over a worn blue dress, and

behold, a result wonderful.

It was fun then to "make the best of your material," as mother again

said. Mother, who, when not too tired from many tasks, could paint rare

word pictures, build for eager little listeners castles of hope; build,

especially for Suzanna, colorful palaces with flaming jewels, crystal

lamps, scented draperies.

Joys sometimes come close together. Father's day, then Sunday with an

hour spent in the Massey pew with gentle Miss Massey, old John Massey's

only child, setting forth the lesson from the Bible, and then the

thrilling announcement by the Superintendent that a festival was to be

given by the primary teachers some time in August, the exact date to be

told later.

Miss Massey, taking up the subject when the Superintendent had finished,

thought it might add to the brilliance of the affair if Suzanna were to

recite. So she gave Suzanna a sheet of paper printed in blue ink, with a

title in red. "The Little Martyr of Smyrna," Suzanna spelled out.

"You are to learn the poem by heart, of course, Suzanna," said Miss

Massey, "and if you need any help as to emphasis or gesture, you may

come to me on any afternoon."

Suzanna flushed exalted. "I don't believe I'll need any help, thank you,

Miss Massey," she said. She could scarcely wait then till she reached

home to tell her mother the great news.

"You'll have to study hard," said Mrs. Procter after she had read over

the verses, "but Suzanna, you have nothing suitable to wear."

"The lace curtain dress, mother?" asked Suzanna, hopefully.

"Beyond repair," returned Mrs. Procter.

Father, sitting near, looked around at his small daughter. "I have two

dollars that I couldn't possibly use. Take them for a dress, Suzanna."

"But, dear--" began mother, and went on haltingly about a pair of new

shoes she believed father had been saving for.

But father did not hear, and so behold Suzanna and her mother the next

day at four o'clock in the afternoon in Bryson's drygoods store deciding

upon a pink lawn and a soft valenciennes lace. And later, green cambric

for a petticoat. And then on Wednesday the cutting out of the dress with

suggestions and help from Mrs. Reynolds, the very kind neighbor across

the way. On Thursday, baking day, mother put in every waking moment

between the oven in the kitchen and the sewing machine in the

dining-room.

"Mother dear, don't work so hard," Suzanna begged once. She held the

fretful baby in her arms and tried to soothe him. He was always fretful,

it seemed, when mother was very busy.

"The dress must be finished this week," said Mrs. Procter, basting away

furiously.

"But there's two weeks yet to the festival, mother," said Suzanna, as

she hushed the baby against her shoulder.

"Next week, Suzanna, the bedrooms must be thoroughly cleaned, the

carpets taken up. O, please take the baby out into the yard and keep him

amused."

Two red spots burned on Mrs. Procter's cheeks. Suzanna saw them.

Ardently she wished mother would stop and rest. Such driving haste, such

tenacity, meant later a nervous headache with mother put aside in a

darkened room. Suzanna sighed as she took the baby out into the yard.

She put him into his carriage and wheeled him about till he fell asleep.

Then she called Maizie to watch him, while she tiptoed back into the

dining-room. Her mother still sat, dress in hand. Now she was drawing

out the bastings. The red spots still burned.

"The baby's asleep, mother," whispered Suzanna. She longed ardently for

the return of the loved one who could laugh and say something funny

about sleep claiming the baby when he had made up his small mind to

remain exasperatingly wide awake.

But instead--"Take out the stockings, Suzanna, and darn them. I'll call

you when I need your help for supper. Keep your eye on Peter."

That was all. Suzanna lingered, but no further word came.

Suzanna dragged a low rocking chair into the yard, emptied the bag of

freshly washed stockings on the ground beside her, selected a pair of

Peter's, slipped the egg down, threaded her needle and began the task of

filling in the huge holes. Then she called Maizie from beside the still

sleeping baby.

"Maizie," she began, "listen to me say two verses of 'The Little Martyr

of Smyrna.'"

Maizie sank down at her sister's feet. She listened in awe as Suzanna

dramatically repeated the first part of the poem. Her gestures were

remarkable, her voice charged with feeling.

"It's beautiful, Suzanna," said Maizie. "Everybody will listen and look

at you in your new dress."

"O, it isn't a dress, Maizie," cried Suzanna, the while her small

fingers dexterously wove the needle in and out. "It's a rose blossom.

And when I recite in it on the last day of school my heart will be a

butterfly sipping honey from the flower."

"I thought it was only a pale pink lawn at ten cents a yard," said

Maizie. She spoke somewhat timidly now, fearful of Suzanna's scorn.

"You think everything is just what it is," answered Suzanna

reproachfully. "Go see if the baby is still asleep, and look down the

road for Peter."

Maizie went off obediently, but she returned in a moment with the news

that the baby still slept and Peter was playing near Mr. Reynolds' gate.

She seated herself as before. She wanted to hear more of Suzanna's

fancies, but Suzanna remained silent, having been chilled a little by

Maizie's practicality. So Maizie put out her hand and touched her

sister. "Will the petticoat be a petticoat?" she asked, and wondered

excitedly into what beauty Suzanna's imagination would transmute this

ordinary piece of cambric.

Suzanna's spirits rose again. "It'll be a green satin cup for the rose,"

she answered, gazing dreamily before her. She let Peter's stocking fall

to the ground while she clasped her hands ecstatically. "O, Maizie, it's

almost too much joy! To wear a flower dress and to recite something that

makes you so happy and yet you want to cry too."

Maizie nestled a little closer. "Do you think, Suzanna, when the green

petticoat's nearly worn, that it'll come down to me?"

Suzanna pondered this for a moment. "Yes, it'll go down to you, Maizie,

but not for years and years," she answered, finally. "Things do last so

in this family."

Maizie, by a sad little shake of the head, agreed with this statement,

and the sisters were silent. In different manner, however, for Maizie

simply accepted an unpleasant fact, while Suzanna worked mentally to a

solution of any situation. She found the solution at last.

"I'll tell you what I'll do, Maizie," she said. "Once a month, when we

love each other madly, I'll let you wear my petticoat."

"I hope it'll come on Sunday when we love each other that way," said

Maizie, wistfully; "I'm sure mother wouldn't let you lend the petticoat

to me for an every-day."

"We can fix that, too," said ready Suzanna. "Some Friday you can begin

to fuss about washing Peter. I'll have to wash him myself if you're

_too_ mean. And Saturday morning you can peel the potatoes so thick that

mother'll say: 'Maizie, do you think we're made of money! Here, let

Suzanna show you how to peel those potatoes thin.' And then I'll be so

mad I'll give you a push, and I won't speak to you for the rest of the

day."

"Yes, go on," said Maizie, her eyes shining.

"And then on Sunday morning, just before breakfast, you'll come to me

and put your arms around my neck and say: 'Dear, sweet, _lovely_

Suzanna, I'm so sorry I've been so hateful. I'll go down on my knees for

your forgiveness. _And I'll sew on all the buttons this week!_'"

Maizie drew away a little then. Suzanna went on, however. "And I'll say:

'Yes, dear sinner, I forgive you freely. You may wear my green petticoat

today.'"

There fell an hour of a never-to-be-forgotten day when the pink dress

lay on the dining-room table, full length, finished, marvelous to little

eyes with its yards and yards of valenciennes lace that graduated in

width from very narrow to one broad band around the bottom of the skirt.

Suzanna, Maizie, Peter, and even the baby bowed before the miracle of

beauty.

"How many yards of lace are on it, mother?" asked Suzanna, for the sixth

time, and for the sixth time Mrs. Procter looked up from her sewing

machine at which she was busy with the green petticoat and answered: "A

whole bolt, Suzanna."

The children at this information stared rounder-eyed and then turned to

gaze with uncovered awe at Suzanna, the owner.

"Do you think, mother," asked Maizie, "that when I'm older I can have a

pink dress with no trimming of yours on it?"

"We'll see," said Mrs. Procter, who knew how strictly to the letter she

was held to her promises.

Now Suzanna reluctantly left the dress and went to her mother. "Mother,"

she cried, softly, "when I recite 'The Little Martyr of Smyrna' up on

the big platform, I'm afraid I won't be humble in spirit. It's too much

to be humble, isn't it, when you've got a whole bolt of lace on your

dress?"

Mrs. Procter, quite used to Suzanna's intensities, answered, running the

machine deftly as she spoke: "Oh, you'll be all right, Suzanna. The

minister means something else when he preaches of being humble. What

bothers me now is how to manage a pair of shoes for you. Yours are so

shabby."

"Can't I wear my patent leather slippers?"

"You've outgrown them, Suzanna. They're too short even for Maizie, you

remember."

"I could stand them for that one time, mother."

"No," said Mrs. Procter decidedly; "I should be distressed seeing you in

shoes too small for you."

"Mother, you could open the end of my patent leather slipper so my toes

can push through and then put a puff of black, ribbon over the hole!"

The idea was an inspiration, and Suzanna's eyes shone.

Mrs. Procter saw immediately possibilities in the idea. Years of working

and scheming and praying to raise her ever increasing family on the

inadequate and varying income of her inventor husband had ultimated in

keen sensibilities for opportunities. "Why, I think I can do that," she

said. "I'll make a sort of shirred bag into which your toes will fit and

so lengthen the slipper and cover the stitching with a bow. I hope I can

find a needle strong enough to go through the leather." Her face was

bright, her voice clear. She was all at once quite different from the

weary, dragged mother of the past few days, determined against all odds

to finish the dress so the cleaning might be started the following week.

Suzanna gazed delightedly. With the fine intuition of an imaginative

child she understood the reason for the metamorphosis. It was the

quickening of the senses that rallied themselves to meet and solve a

problem that brought a high glow; stimulated, and uplifted. She herself

was no stranger to that glow.

She put her arms about her mother's shoulder.

"Isn't it nice, mother, to have to think out things?"

A little puzzled, Mrs. Procter looked at Suzanna. Then her face cleared.

"O, I understand. It is--can you understand the word,

Suzanna--'exhilarating' sometimes."

"I feel what the word means, mother--like catching in your breath when

you touch cold water."

"Exactly. Now please get the slippers."

Suzanna ran upstairs. Returning, slippers in hand, she found the other

children had left.

"Has Maizie got the baby?" Suzanna asked anxiously.

Her mother smiled. "Yes, I carried him out to the yard. He's kicking

about, happy on his blanket."

Suzanna, relieved, handed the slippers to her mother.

"And I brought my old black hair ribbon. That will do for the shirring,

won't it, mother?"

"Nicely."

Together they evolved, worked, tried on, completed.

"It's more fun doing this than going to Bryson's and buying a new pair,

isn't it, mother?"

"Well, I believe it is, daughter."

"I feel so warm here--" Suzanna touched her heart--"because we're doing

something harder than just going out to the store and buying what we'd

like."

Mrs. Procter gazed at her handiwork reflectively. "Well, it does make

you feel that you've accomplished a great deal when you've created

something out of nothing."

Mrs. Procter rose then, touched the new dress lovingly, and said: "So,

we can put it away now, Suzanna; it's quite finished. The petticoat

needs just a button and buttonhole."

Suzanna stood quite still. At last she looked up into her mother's face

and put her question: "When will you begin to cut the goods out from

under the lace, mother?"

Mrs. Procter, her thoughts now supperward, spoke abstractedly: "Oh,

we'll not do that."

There was a silence, while the room suddenly whirled for Suzanna.

Recovering from the dizziness, with eyes large and black and her face

very pale, Suzanna gazed unbelievingly at her mother. For a moment she

was quite unable to speak. Then in a tiny voice which she endeavored to

keep steady, she asked: "Not even from under the wide row round the

bottom, mother?"

"No, Suzanna," Mrs. Procter answered, quite unconscious of the storm in

the child's breast. She moved towards the door.

"But, mother, listen, please." Suzanna's hands were locked till they

showed white at the knuckles. "If you don't cut the goods away the green

petticoat won't gleam through the lace! You see, it's a rose dress and a

rose has shining green leaves, just showing."

The plea was ardent, but Mrs. Procter was firm. Indeed she did not

glance at Suzanna. The reaction from her days of hard and continuous

work was setting in. She merely said: "Suzanna, we must make that dress

last a long time. I made it so that it can be lengthened five inches. We

can't weaken it by cutting the goods away from under the lace. Now,

dear, go and see that the children aren't in mischief. I must start

supper."

CHAPTER V

SUZANNA COMES TO A DECISION

The children were playing contentedly in the road, Suzanna assured

herself. And finding them so, she wandered disconsolately back to the

front porch, where seated in a little rocking chair she stared straight

before her. She felt as one thrown suddenly from a great height. One

moment she had been thrillingly happy, the next, the bitter fruit of

disappointment touched her lips. So events occur lightningly quick in

this world. The day itself was as beautiful as it had been an hour

before, yet its sun had ceased to shine for little Suzanna, since the

crowning touch of The Dress, the poetic completeness of it, was denied

her.

Years ago it seemed she had wakened in the morning after dreaming of a

rose gown with its glimpses of cool green flickering through rows of

open lace; but no more could she dream, since that lace was now

condemned to blindness, unable even to hint at concealed beauties, and

this because Economy, the stern god of the Procter home, so ordained.

Two tears at last found their slow way down her cheek. Not the least of

her woe was caused by the realization that now the dress was

ingloriously what Maizie had termed it, a pale pink lawn at ten cents a

yard, bearing no appeal to her imagination, fulfilling no place in

Suzanna's great Scheme of Things.

Suzanna's distress, as the days passed, did not abate. She never spoke

of the dress, nor did she go to look at it as it hung shrouded in cheese

cloth in the hall closet upstairs. No longer did she look forward with

delight to the day when feelingly she should recite the troubles and the

heroism of "The Little Martyr of Smyrna."

Instead she went quietly about performing her customary duties, finding

for the time no real zest in life.

Mrs. Procter, innocent of the cause of Suzanna's listlessness, spoke no

word. She wondered why the child had lost interest in the festival,

indeed in all things pertaining to the occasion. It was difficult, she

finally decided, to know how to cope with a child so complex, so

changeable. She determined to treat the new mood with indifference, as

being the most potent method. So she asked of Suzanna the performance of

daily duties just as usual. When she discovered Suzanna gazing at her,

Maizie close beside her with the same degree of reflection in her gray

eyes, Mrs. Procter grew uncomfortable, then a trifle irritable. Both

children seemed to regard her as an alien, one, for the time, quite

outside their pale.

Suzanna, then, had taken Maizie into her confidence.

"One needs be clairvoyant," Mrs. Procter told her husband one evening,

"to know what passes through small minds."

"Clairvoyant and full of patience," he answered, looking up from his

color book. "I can remember even now my own sensations when at times my

mother failed to go with me into my land of dreams."

Mrs. Procter cast her memory back over the events of several days.

"I can't think what has so changed Suzanna," she said at last; "I've

disappointed her, I fear, about something or other. Dear me, what

insight versatile children do demand in a mother. And Suzanna takes

everything so very seriously. And Maizie stares at me too, with a little

bewildered expression. It's strange that Maizie, with all her

literalness, can understand at times Suzanna's disappointments when her

fancies are not given due value. For, of course, it is some fancy of

Suzanna's that I've either not noticed, or perhaps laughed at." She

paused to smile at her husband.

"Such children come of giving them an inventor father, an 'impractical

genius,' as I've heard myself in satire called."

She flushed up angrily at this.

"You've done wonderfully well," she said, and believed the assertion;

just as though at forty to weigh nails correctly and to sell so many

yards of garden hose a week was a fine measure of success. "And your

name will go ringing down the ages." She would never let him lose

confidence in his own powers. Circumstances alone had thrown him into a

mediocre position in a small town, but they should never hold him down.

He grew beneath her look; beneath her belief in him. And so the

conversation ended on the personal note; ended with hands clasped and

fond eyes seeing each the other's charm after many years.

Suzanna, arranging the pantry the next morning, sought her mother

upstairs with a domestic announcement.

"The vinegar bottle is empty," she said.

"And the gherkins all ready," cried Mrs. Procter. "Will you run over to

Mrs. Reynolds and ask her for some vinegar, Suzanna?"

Listlessly, Suzanna returned downstairs, and from the pantry procured a

cup. Slowly she left the house, walked down the front path and across

the road to Mrs. Reynolds' home. Arrived there, she went round to the

back door and knocked with slack knuckles.

Mrs. Reynolds, a white cloth tied about her forehead, opened the door.

She gave out redolently the pungent odor of the commodity Suzanna sought

to borrow.

Mrs. Reynolds was stout and comfortable looking ordinarily. A quaint and

interesting personality, sprung from Welsh parentage, she fitted into

the life of Anchorville only because of a certain natural adaptability.

She seemed to belong to a wilder, more passionate people than those

plain lives which surrounded her.

Suzanna knew her tenderness, her tragic depressions. She loved her deep

voice, her resonant tones, all her quick changes of mood, and her

occasional strange ways of expression, revealing her understanding of

men and women's vagaries.

Mrs. Reynolds adored Suzanna. She had said often there was one thing she

coveted from her neighbor, and that was her neighbor's child.

Mrs. Reynolds had no children and in that deplorable fact lay her

keenest unhappiness.

She greeted Suzanna cordially.

"Come in, Suzanna, come in," she said. "I've been using vinegar and red

pepper all morning," she continued, as she went her way to the pantry

with Suzanna's cup. "I've one of my old headaches."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," said Suzanna, with immediate sympathy. "Have you

been worrying?"

"Not more than usual, Suzanna," said Mrs. Reynolds with a sigh. "Here's

your vinegar. Hold it steady. Vinegar's a bad thing to spill."

"Thank you," said Suzanna, politely, as she received the cup. And then:

"I don't see why you should worry. You have no children. It's mother's

many children that sometimes give her worry."

"Your mother'd have worries even without you all," returned Mrs.

Reynolds. "Won't you sit down a spell, Suzanna?"

"No, I can't, mother's waiting." Suzanna walked toward the door, pausing

on her way to glance about her. "My, but you're very clean here," she

said, appreciatively. "Your cleanness is different from ours. Ours

doesn't show so."

"There's no little hands to clutter things up," said Mrs. Reynolds, but

her voice wasn't glad.

Suzanna, intuitively sensing the real trouble, said: "Reynolds slammed

the door this morning, Mrs. Reynolds. We heard the slam in our

dining-room and my mother jumped." Suzanna quite innocently borrowed

Mrs. Reynolds' way of referring to her husband.

Mrs. Reynolds' face darkened. "Yes, I know he did. That man is getting

more like a bear every day."

"He liked our twin that went away, Mrs. Reynolds. He wasn't like a bear

when he played with her."

At this statement Mrs. Reynolds suddenly threw her apron over her head

and sobbed: "That's just it, Suzanna, that's just it; there aren't any

little cluttering fingers about."

Suzanna set the vinegar cup carefully down on the table, the while her

keenly sensitive mind worked rapidly. Those gifts which by dint of their

frequency in her own home seemed rather overdone were actually missed

here! A strong, deep sympathy for Mrs. Reynolds' disappointment grew

within her, but did not entirely crowd out the thought that through this

very disappointment her own burning desire might be brought to pass. She

now went swiftly and touched the weeping woman.

"Mrs. Reynolds," she began, "will you tell me how you feel about

cutting pink goods away from under lace. Can you afford to do that?"

Mrs. Reynolds' apron came down with a jerk, and for a second she stared

her perplexity at the upturned, earnest little face. Then with quick

understanding which revealed her real mother-spirit, she answered: "Why

land, Honey-Girl, Reynolds makes pretty good money at times. I guess we

can do about as we please in most simple ways."

"Well, then, keep your apron down," advised Suzanna; "and just think

this thought over and over: 'Reynolds is not going to be cross any

more!' Thank you again for the vinegar, I must be going now."

It was not without misgiving that Suzanna started immediately to put her

secret plan into execution. And her judicious side urged the completion

of all details before she said anything to those most nearly concerned

in her new move. Only to Maizie, whose constant attendance she

skillfully managed to elude while she made her simple preparations, did

she at last give any confidence, and it was in this manner she spoke:

"There's going to be a great change, Maizie; and tonight you must manage

to stay awake to do something for me."

Maizie, at once interested, grew wildly expectant. Though she could send

up no airships of her own, she loved to contemplate Suzanna's daring

flights.

"I'll do anything, Suzanna," she promised.

So Suzanna gave Maizie her news. Hearing it, Maizie's lips quivered, but

she kept back the tears by the exercise of great control. They were

upstairs in their own room. It was late afternoon. Peter was out

playing. Mrs. Procter, the baby with her, was downtown ordering

groceries.

"Now, you mustn't cry, Maizie," said Suzanna; "it all had to be, and

what is to be is for the best." Suzanna quoted from Mrs. Reynolds. "Go

downstairs and get father's dictionary."

Maizie obeyed, returning quickly with the desired book.

"And now stand at the window so as to tell me when you see mother

coming."

So Maizie took her stand while Suzanna labored hard with the pen. An

hour passed. Once Suzanna flew downstairs to the kitchen, then returned

to her work. At last, Maizie in excited tones announced that her mother

and the baby had turned the corner. Suzanna laid down her pen.

"Well, it's all finished," she said.

Maizie looked at her sister. Now the tears came, blurring the big gray

eyes.

"You mustn't cry, Maizie," said Suzanna, trying to subdue her own

emotions.

"Couldn't you just wear the dress as it is?" asked Maizie in a small

voice, touching the crux of the whole matter, the cause of the great

change.

"I just couldn't," Suzanna returned. "It wouldn't be a rose blossom, you

see, Maizie, _when it could just as well be one_."

Maizie nodded. Perhaps she understood Suzanna's sense of waste.

Undoubtedly her grief at Suzanna's contemplated step had sharpened her

sensibilities. Vague stirrings told her that the artist in Suzanna had

been desperately hurt; and for the once her imagination thrilled as did

her sister's to the dress as a Rose Blossom. She knew with passion that

it could not remain simply pink lawn cut and slashed into a mere

garment.

So she went softly to Suzanna and touched her gently.

"I'll help you all I can, sister," she said.

So it was that just as the clock was striking nine, little Maizie stole

from her room--shared as long as she remembered with Suzanna--crept down

the stairs and into the parlor where her father sat studying, as always,

a formidable book, the while her mother sat sewing, her chair drawn

close to his. Maizie went straight to the quiet figure.

"Mother," she said, "Suzanna told me to stay awake till the clock struck

nine and then to give you this."

"This" was a note folded into the shape of a cocked hat, which Suzanna

thought very elegant. Mrs. Procter, accustomed to Suzanna's ways,

unfolded the note, smiled at the large printed letters, sighed a little

at the thought of the great effort put into their forming, read once,

twice, then sat up very straight. The note thus told its own story:

My Loving Mother:

I have given myself to the Reynolds for there own.

Mrs. Reynolds is not happy with Reynolds' slams of

doors and crossness be cause they have no child.

They will be pretty sprised to see me to night and

glad with my big shiny bag witch I have borrowed

from my once very loved father. I have my pink

dress witch will soon be a rose in it and my other

things. I wore my hat and coat even if it is warm.

You will not miss me much because the last baby

went away and a baby always makes more work. And

anyway one little girl out of a big family wont

make any difrunce. But if you want any fine

errands ran, you can borrow Mrs. Reynolds new

child. Tell father I am loving my naybor as

myself. It hurt me till something stopped inside

to see Mrs. Reynolds put her apron over her head

at Reynolds slams. Perhaps the mother angel that

stops at our house all the time will pause at Mrs.

Reynolds' next time and leave a bundle, thinking

when I'm there a family don't have to be started

which is always hard, I suppose. Mother, please

don't forget about borrowing. It is not polite to

come 2 often even to borrow me for some thing big.

It took me an hour and twenty minutes to write

this while you were at the butshers and grosers

and Maizie at the window. I had to stop too, to

watch the beans on the stove. I have labored over

some of the big spelling with fathers dicsionary

on my knee, remembering to make all my i's big

I's.

Farewell forever,

Suzanna _Reynolds_.

P. S. Mrs. Reynolds can afford to cut away the

goods from under all lace, which makes my heart

jump! Perhaps tho even tho I'm sorry for her, if

she hadn't promised to cut away the goods from

under the lace in my pink dress, I wouldn't have

adopted myself out to her. So I shall see you when

I recite "The Little Martyr of Smyrna" with the

green showing through the windows of my many yards

of lace. O, Mother, I couldn't bare to ware that

dress which is just a _dress_ when it could be a

_rose_.

"What's the matter?" asked Mr. Procter, attracted by the strange, almost

solemn silence. "What's the trouble, Jane?"

She handed the note to him, waited while he read it through not once,

but many times, as she had.

He passed it back to her. "Shall we go for her?" he asked.

But she shook her head. "Sometimes I don't know just how to act where

Suzanna's concerned," she said. She folded the note. "No, sometimes I

feel just helpless."

CHAPTER VI

SUZANNA MAKES HER ENTRY

Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds were in the kitchen, she belatedly washing the

supper dishes, he smoking his pipe near the window. She lent, through

her vivid personality, color to him. Big, hearty, he was not

picturesque. He seemed to take note of realities more than she did.

Perhaps springing from emotional folk, she stood with a quality of rich

background denied to him by a line of unimaginative ancestors.

He read his big books, she found truths in her own heart. She found a

quick, tender language springing from her understanding. He used his

words like bludgeons.

Still they loved one another, and her deepest hurt was that he wanted

that which she could not give him. So she placed his longing before hers

and grieved most for his lack.

The front door-bell rang. They looked at one another wonderingly, then

Mr. Reynolds slowly withdrew his feet from the window sill and went as

slowly down the hall. He opened the door to Suzanna, who stood waiting,

conventionally attired in hat and cloak, pale, and with eyes wide and

dark.

"Good evening, Reynolds," said Suzanna.

"O! good evening, come in, come in," urged Mr. Reynolds hospitably, but

totally at a loss as he looked at the little figure. "Come right out to

the kitchen."

Suzanna followed him. When once in the kitchen, she stood for a moment

blinking in the light streaming from the hanging lamp under which Mrs.

Reynolds stood; then she said:

"I've come to you, Mrs. Reynolds, to stay. I've adopted myself out to

you."

"Well, I never, dear love!" was all Mrs. Reynolds could say as she wiped

her hands on a convenient roller towel.

Mr. Reynolds laughed. "Oh, you think you'd like a change of homes,

Suzanna?"

Suzanna turned to him then. She spoke quietly, but decisively so he

might perfectly understand. "No, that's not it, Reynolds. I love my

little home; but first I don't want Mrs. Reynolds to throw her apron

over her head at your slams. And second it's for myself I come, because

you can afford to do something for me my own mother thinks she can't on

account of little money."

But Mr. Reynolds caught only the first reason. "What do you mean, young

lady, about slammin'; that's what I want to know." His tone was

belligerent. Mrs. Reynolds threw him a withering look. "Here, Suzanna,"

she said; "give me the bag, and you sit down. Take your hat off, my

brave little lass. 'Twas but you and you alone could think of this sweet

thought."

"I'd rather have things settled before I take my hat off," said Suzanna.

She relinquished the bag, however, and seated herself in the chair Mrs.

Reynolds pulled forward. Then she went on: "You know, Reynolds, you do

slam doors and make Mrs. Reynolds cry. And you know, anyway, you

oughtn't to blame Mrs. Reynolds because you get no visits. It may be

just as much your fault because the mother angel don't like your ways."

She paused a moment before continuing. "And, anyway, my father never

blames mother for anything, only when she's tired and cries he remembers

to love her even if he's on the way upstairs to the attic to his

wonderful Machine, and he puts his arm about her waist, though mother

says it's much larger now than it was years ago. That's what my father

that used to be, does."

"Why bless my soul!" blustered Mr. Reynolds, his face a fine glowing

color; "bless my soul!" he repeated, removing his shoes and slamming

them down, as he always did under stress. "Women, my dear, will make up

all sorts of stories. If I did give the door a bit of a slam, it was

because the bacon didn't set right, perhaps. And a woman's always

fancying things."

"But you don't put your arm about her, you know that, Reynolds. I was

born in this town and I've never seen you put your arm about her."

Mrs. Reynolds' apron was over her head again, but she made no sound. Her

husband knocked the ashes from his pipe, and ran his fingers through his

thick hair. Then he stared helplessly at Suzanna. She rose valiantly to

the occasion.

"If you say, 'There, there, don't cry, you should have married a better

man,' she'll say: 'There couldn't be a better' and take her apron down."

Thus innocently Suzanna exposed a tender home method of salving hurts,

and her listener, as near as his nature could, appropriated the method.

He rose from his chair and went softly to his wife. At her side he

hesitated in sheer embarrassment, but as she began to sob, he hurriedly

repeated Suzanna's formula: "There, there, dear, don't cry. I'm a bad

'un, I am--"

Mrs. Reynolds lowered her shield. "You know better than that,

Reynolds," she denied, almost indignantly. "You're a good provider, with

a bit of a temper."

"Well, out with it then. What _is_ the trouble? I'm willing to do what I

can, even occasionally to doing what the little lass suggests." And with

the words, his big arm went clumsily about his wife, the while he looked

at Suzanna for approval. She nodded vigorously, her eyes shining.

"It's just this, then, Reynolds," the words were now a whisper, and the

big red-faced man had to stoop to hear. "It's that I'm achin' all the

time to hold one in my arms; and always to you I've let on that I didn't

care. An'--an'--I know the hunger in your own fine heart, my lad."

Mr. Reynolds' face grew wonderfully soft; indeed, tender in a new

understanding. "I didn't know, Margie, that you grieved. Come, look up.

You and me are together anyway."

"And you have me, now, too," broke in Suzanna, eager to help. "I'm going

to stay with you forever'n forever, only except when my mother that used

to be wants to borrow me back. Now, I'll go to bed, if you please."

And then one swift, cuddling memory of little Maizie alone in bed across

the street brought the hot tears to Suzanna's eyes, but she winked them

resolutely back as she lifted the black, shiny bag.

"Tomorrow," she said to Mrs. Reynolds, "you can cut the goods away from

under the lace on my pink dress, can't you?" She went on, not waiting

for an answer. "Shall I go right along upstairs?"

Mrs. Reynolds spoke gently: "Yes, Suzanna. Did you tell your mother you

were coming to me to be my own lass?"

"I wrote her a letter."

Suzanna on her way upstairs waited a moment while Mrs. Reynolds

whispered directions to her husband: "You run across to the little home

while I put her to bed." Then looking wistfully up into his face: "Do

you think she'll let me undress her?"

"That young'un will do anything to make you happy, Margie."

From the top of the stairs the words floated down: "Are you

coming--_mother_--"

Suzanna's voice choked on the word, but Mrs. Reynolds heard only the

exquisite title. She lifted her face, glowing like a heaven of stars.

"I'm coming, Suzanna," she called. And she went swiftly up the stairs to

the little girl. "This night you sleep under the silk coverlet--and more

I couldn't do for royalty!"

CHAPTER VII

REGRETS

Suzanna woke the next morning to a realization that she was in a strange

place. She occupied a large bed, too large, it seemed to her, for one

small girl. And even the silken coverlet failed to assuage the sudden

wave of homesickness which threatened to engulf her.

She lay thinking. A clock on the dresser showed her the hour to be

seven. Maizie would be up and downstairs. She would have buttoned Peter

and would be carrying the blue dishes from the pantry to the

dining-room. Father would be in the attic for a glance at his beloved

Machine before obeying mother's cheerful call to breakfast.

Suzanna choked back a lump insistent upon rising to her throat. Across

the way was home and she had adopted herself out of it! Here all was

quiet, and comfortable, very comfortable. The mattress was thick, her

small body quite sank into its depths; the bed she shared with Maizie,

she had realized on occasions, had lumps, and no silken coverlet

spreading itself brilliantly. Still there were rare and beautiful

compensations for the lack of thick mattresses and silken coverlets--and

greatest grief to her of all was that she stood no longer a daughter to

a great man!

The tears came perilously near. Suzanna choked them back as she heard

"Reynolds" close the front gate with what to him was a gentle click. She

felt that in a moment Mrs. Reynolds would summon her downstairs to a

breakfast hot and delicious.

_Why had she left home if she loved it so!_

The sentence formed itself in her mind.

Well, she hadn't realized that home and those in it were so dear till

she left. And her reason was a good one. It had seemed she could

scarcely live possessed of a dress whose sweet possibilities were denied

by a mother's spirit of economy. Never had she so intensely wished for

anything as for the goods to be cut away from under the rows of lace.

Still now, lying there alone in her strange surroundings, that desire

was losing its poignancy. It didn't seem quite to fill her entire

universe.

Mrs. Reynolds put her head inside the door. She wore a crisp blue and

white dress, her black hair was drawn smoothly back from her brow. Her

eyes dwelt lovingly on the little girl.

"Quite awake, Suzanna?" she asked.

Suzanna nodded. She couldn't trust herself to speak.

"Well, then," said Mrs. Reynolds, "I'm going to give thee a treat." She

went away quite unconscious that she had fallen into her original quaint

method of speech.

Presently she returned, carrying a tray covered with a white and red

napkin.

Suzanna sat up, received the tray in her lap and waited unexcitedly

while Mrs. Reynolds removed the enshrouding napkin.

There lay an orange cut up and sugared; a poached egg on a slice of

perfectly browned toast, and a glass of rich milk.

"For my little girl," said Mrs. Reynolds in her contralto voice. "Now

eat thee, my dearie, and take your time. I'll leave now."

Alone once more, Suzanna surveyed the tray. She lifted a spoon with the

tiniest piece of orange on its tip, and found strangely that when she

attempted to swallow the fruit her throat quite closed up.

Suddenly there came a memory of Drusilla. Drusilla had told of the

little silver chain, binding all to one another. Surely the chain

binding Suzanna to her mother was doubly thick, yet she had broken it!

She put the tray to one side and sprang from the bed. Her desire,

recently so keen, so all absorbing, seemed little indeed beside the

yearning now to be back across the way once again her Mother's Child.

Mrs. Reynolds, returning, found her little guest at the window, bare

feet on the cold floor; the white gown held tightly at the neck by a

small, trembling hand. A glance at the tray on the bed revealed a

breakfast practically untasted.

"Why, my lamb," began Mrs. Reynolds, "not a bite gone down!"

Suzanna turned, a desperate little face she showed, eyes wide and

appealing.

"I just couldn't eat, Mrs. Reynolds." No thought now of bestowing the

beloved title.

"And the food brought fine to bed to you."

"Not even then."

"Well, come then, dear heart; you must be dressed. I put your clothes

away neat and tidy."

Mrs. Reynolds opened a closet door and brought forth an armful of

garments. Suzanna surveyed them as though they had no relation to her.

Mrs. Reynolds went suddenly and picked up the little figure, carried her

to a rocking chair and with no word held her close.

"What is it, my little girl?" asked Mrs. Reynolds after a time, softly.

Her little girl! Suzanna winced. But she _was_ Mrs. Reynolds' little

girl now. Hadn't she broken all ties with the loved ones across the way?

She tried to find comfort in Mrs. Reynolds' joy. "I am your little girl,

aren't I?" she asked softly, calling valiantly on her sense of justice.

Mrs. Reynolds looked searchingly into Suzanna's face. With no child of

her own, she was still a mother-at-heart. She was full of understanding.

"As much, my own lassie," she answered, "as any other woman's child can

be. You see," she went on after a pause, "there's a bond 'tween mother

and child that can't ever be broke."

"But I adopted myself out to you," said Suzanna, though her heart was

beating with hope.

"Yes, you did," admitted Mrs. Reynolds; "but you didn't at that break

the tie that binds you to your own mother. You could never do that,

Suzanna, lassie."

As Suzanna looked up into the kind face, new thoughts came surging to

her. She couldn't separate them, couldn't arrange them. They all jumbled

together, like vivid picture impressions, full of color and feeling. One

thought at length cleared itself, stood out.

Love and the chain binding you to those you loved was the biggest thing

in the world.

So she told Mrs. Reynolds about Drusilla's chain. And Mrs. Reynolds,

greatly impressed, said: "Yes, it's a blessed thread that holds us

together. Reynolds calls it the 'sense of brotherhood.'" Her voice

lowered itself: "He's a Socialist, Reynolds is, Suzanna." There was

pride and fear mixed with a little condemnation in her voice.

"A Socialist--it's a nice word, isn't it?" said Suzanna, settling more

comfortably into the hollow of Mrs. Reynolds' arm.

"And I'm going to see Drusilla, as you call her," said Mrs. Reynolds,

"and take her some of my crab jelly. I've seen her many's the time

sitting out in the yard with naught but a trained maid by her. Poor,

poor old soul, with a rich daughter-in-law."

"And a King that's gone to the Far Country," said Suzanna; "and she

longs for him. Oh, she's a lonely old lady."

"She must be that and all," said Mrs. Reynolds, wholly sympathetic.

They sat rocking then in silence. Suzanna was the first to speak.

"Mrs. Reynolds," she began in a low voice. "I think I'll dress now, and

after I've helped with the breakfast dishes I'll go and see my mother."

The heartbreak in the small voice touched Mrs. Reynolds deeply. "Why,

small lass," she cried: "You mustn't think I'll hold you to your giving

yourself away to me. No, not even for a bit of time. Sweet, you gave me

joy last night. I pretended that you were my own. I undressed you and

put you to bed, and heard your prayers. You did something for me, and I

be vastly grateful to you."

Suzanna's eyes brightened. "Oh, thank you for saying all that, Mrs.

Reynolds."

"Yes, you came to me in the night with your shiny bag, and you told in

your little way some truths to Reynolds. You made him see clear and

farther than he has for many a day, the fine man though he is, and I'll

always hold you in my heart as my dream child."

"Your dream child--and I'll dream for you--that you should have your

heart's desire like the fairies say," finished Suzanna.

"Ah, lack-a-me," cried Mrs. Reynolds. "Who e'er gets his deepest heart

desire in this drear world?"

Suzanna sprang to her feet.

"Oh, but heart's desires change."

"Change!"

"Yes. You can have new ones every day. Why, for many days my deepest

heart's desire has been to have the goods cut away from under the lace.

Now, I don't care so much for that--not so much--Now I want most in the

world to see--my--mother--"

Fearful that she had hurt Mrs. Reynolds by her confession, she put out

her hand and stroked the capable hand lying near.

But Mrs. Reynolds wasn't hurt. She was smiling. "Well, it's a hard thing

at times to learn to put one wish in place of another. But I guess life

teaches you that; it hurries you forward so you have to put wish on

wish." She stood up. "And now, the morning's well started, Suzanna.

Dress quickly and come down to a warm breakfast."

She raised the tray and Suzanna knew that now she was hungry.

"Come down when you're ready, my wee bit girl," said Mrs. Reynolds, as

she left, carrying the tray with her.

So Suzanna in a short time descended. How restful the house was; no

insistent voices of children, no clattering of dishes.

"It's so quiet and nice here, Mrs. Reynolds," said Suzanna, as she

entered the kitchen. "At home there's lots of talking and sometimes the

baby cries."

"Do you like quiet, Suzanna?"

"Ye-es," Suzanna stammered. A recurrent attack of homesickness was upon

her; that dreadful pulling of the heartstrings; that sinking feeling

that she had cut herself loose from all to whom she belonged rightfully.

She stood still watching Mrs. Reynolds who was busy at the stove. She

admired the deftness with which an egg was broken and dropped into

boiling water, and in a few seconds brought to the top intact, to be

placed upon the awaiting toast.

"You're awful quick, Mrs. Reynolds," she started to say when a knock

sounded upon the door.

The door slowly opened and, alone, Suzanna's mother entered.

She stood just looking in. She was pale, her eyes wide, languid, shadows

beneath them as though she had not slept. But those same tired eyes

lightened as they fell upon Suzanna.

"Mother-eyes," the phrase grew in Suzanna's heart. She should never in

all her life forget that look of longing, of love.

And somehow another impression, new, almost unbelievable, came to

Suzanna. Her mother was _young_, for wasn't that yearning note in her

voice; that tentative little gesture; her whole questioning attitude,

all her seekings, but expressions of her youngness? She wasn't after all

far removed from her little daughter, not for this minute, anyway. A

delicious sense of comradeship with this mother flooded the child.

And the mother stood and looked at her child, almost as for the first

time, at least with a sense of newness, as though Suzanna had been born

anew to her.

In the night a far reaching understanding had come to her. It came out

of her conclusion to strike a blow at the child's oversensitiveness by a

full dose of ridicule; by accusing her of affectation, a clever playing

to the gallery; this when the night was early, and the mother still

aching with weariness from the day's many tasks. And then as the hours

wore on, and the quiet soothed her weary nerves, the knowledge came,

flashing out of the ether, as often it does for serious mothers, that

the gift of keen sensibility, of intense desire was too valuable to be

quenched.

What if Suzanna began to question her own motives; what if she should

lose belief in her own spiritual integrity; learn in time to look in on

herself with a spirit of morbid analysis instead of living out her

natural qualities beautifully and spontaneously!

All these truths stirred her again as she looked at her child.

While Suzanna didn't move from her place, she wanted to stay at some

distance that she might look her soul's full at her mother--_her

mother_!

At length she spoke: "Mother--I want to be your little girl again. Will

you take me back?"

Would she take her back? Mrs. Procter's arms opened wide. Into them

Suzanna flew.

Mrs. Reynolds regarded the cold poached egg, the second one spoiled that

morning. Furtively she wiped the tears from her eyes. At last she

cleared her voice and spoke:

"I'll go upstairs and pack your bag, Suzanna," she said.

CHAPTER VIII

SUZANNA MEETS A CHARACTER

That summer was a happy one, filled to the brim, as Suzanna often said,

with joyful times. In her pink lawn dress with the petticoat after all

showing through the lace, she recited "The Little Martyr of Smyrna" and

brought much applause to herself.

And then following close upon that happy occasion, Miss Massey invited

her pupils to a "lawn party." Once again the pink dress was to see the

day.

"I'll be very careful with the dress, mother," Suzanna promised on the

day of the lawn party. "Perhaps it'll wear just as long if I take extra

care of it as though the goods weren't cut away."

"Enjoy your dress," said Mrs. Procter. She had learned another truth

which had sprung from the episode of the pink lawn. Economy might,

indeed must dwell in a little home like hers, but sometimes, recklessly,

the stern goddess must be usurped from her place. For the child love of

beauty, the child's capacity for fine imaginings, could not be killed at

the nod of economy.

The children were both ready and waiting anxiously at the front window

long before the hour. Maizie was the first to make her announcement.

"Miss Massey's coming down the path," she cried.

They all crowded to the window. Miss Massey, looking up, waved her hand

gaily, and the children delightedly waved back.

"Oh, Miss Massey, we're all ready for you," Maizie exclaimed at once as

Miss Massey entered.

"Lovely," Miss Massey returned. Glancing casually at her, she appeared

young, yet looking closely it might be seen that her first youth was

over. She was perhaps in her middle thirties. Her hair beneath the

simple blue chip hat, had gray strands. There was a hesitating quality

about her, as though she had never done so daring a thing as reach a

decision; a wavering, indefinite figure, with a wistfulness, a soft

appeal, quite charming. That she had never come in contact with

realities showed in the wide innocence of the childlike eyes; the

sometime trembling of the lips as when a thought as now engendered by

the Procter home and its humbleness, its lack of many real comforts,

forced its way into the untouched depths of her mind.

She was the only child of old John Massey. He was a large figure in the

small town, and one not cordially admired. He was masterful, choleric,

some claimed, unjust. Owner of the steel mill which stood just outside

of the town limits, the employer of hundreds of men, he had failed to

gain the esteem of one human being. Fear, for many depended upon him for

their livelihood, was the emotion he most inspired.

Fairfax Massey, his daughter, inspired a deep sympathy, perhaps because

her leading characteristic was a pitiable holding to her ideals. She

painted her father as a good and loving man hiding his real tenderness

beneath gruff mannerisms. When he denied her friendship with the man she

secretly loved, she put upon that denial a high value. He could not bear

to run the chance of losing her, his one close possession. To that

chivalrous thought of her father, she sacrificed her friend and went her

way, undramatically, uncomplainingly.

She spoke in a low sweet voice. "The children will have a happy time,

I'm sure, Mrs. Procter," she said, as she left, Suzanna and Maizie

clinging to her.

Other little girls were waiting in the phaeton. They greeted Suzanna and

Maizie and moved to make room for them. Miss Massey took her place near

the driver, from which vantage spot she could watch her little guests,

and with a great flourish off they started.

"Are you quite comfortable, Suzanna?" Miss Massey asked once.

Suzanna looked up quickly, a puzzled line between her eyes. After brief

hesitation she answered, merely in good manners, "Yes, thank you."

The phaeton stopped several times till eight little girls filled the

vehicle to overflowing. Then with no more pauses, they were off to the

big house on the hill.

The day was wonderful. A soft little breeze caressed the children and

the sky overhead was like an angel's breast, thought Suzanna. But she

did not say this, even to excited Maizie; she was gathering impressions

and burnishing them with her vivid imagination. Once her gaze fell on

Miss Massey's long, slender, tired-looking hands. Her mother's hands,

Suzanna recalled, were tired-looking, too, but in a different way. Her

mother's, she decided after a time, were just plain tired-looking, while

Miss Massey's were a sorry tired, as though they missed something. They

were never quiet, always doing futile little things. And yet, Miss

Massey lived in a wonderful house and wore pretty dresses and hats with

gorgeous, real-looking flowers. Suzanna pondered unanswerable questions.

The driver, with the air of a brave knight, swept round the last corner.

He commanded his horses to stand still, when even the smallest girl knew

he would have to urge and coax for a full minute before the fat,

complacent animals would start again. But Suzanna liked his play. It was

in keeping with this wondrous event. She even forgave the driver his

wrinkled red neck, from which as she sat behind him, she had earlier

deliberately turned away her eyes.

The children sprang to the ground and stood looking up at the big pile

of stone, this great show house of the town. Miss Massey swung back an

iron gate and led the way first through an arbor, sun-shaded and

fragrant; then out again into a garden glowing with crimson flowers.

"The garden I love best," she said. This from simple, dear Miss Massey

into whose whole life no great color had fallen, or if there was once a

promise that life should blossom for her into a full, joyous thing, the

promise had fallen very short of fulfillment.

And just then the disaster befell Suzanna. There in the wonderful red

garden, a dire sound fell upon her ears and her eyes following the

direction of the sound were just in time to see one white toe burst

through the confines of the black ribbon lengthening her slipper.

She stood a moment, gazing down. Then in an agony lest the others should

discover her plight, she tried to draw the toe back within the slipper,

but with no success. As Miss Massey and the little girls walked on,

Suzanna stopped and pulled the ribbon over the protruding toe, tucking

in the ravelled edges. Mercifully, the ribbon stayed in place since

Suzanna cramped her toe back that it might not force its way through

again. Hastily hopping along, she entered the massive front doors held

wide by a solemn man with brass buttons. He pointed down the wide hall.

"To the right," he said.

Would the ribbon hold! was Suzanna's only thought as she later found

herself in a room called the library, with books and soft-toned

pictures; with a great fireplace banked now with greens, from above

which looked down the lovely face of a lady, Miss Massey's mother whom

the daughter scarce remembered.

If only she had worn black stockings instead of her one beloved pair of

white, went on in thought, unhappy, humiliated Suzanna. If only--but in

conjecture Suzanna was lost. The cramped toe exerting its right, thrust

itself through again. One fleeting, horrified glance told the child that

two toes now peeped out on a world that would be scandalized should it

peep back.

No time now for any furtive maneuver an active little mind might suggest

to remedy the situation, for Miss Massey at the end of the room turned

her head and looked toward Suzanna's place. In a second her eyes might

fall on the white toes! Quickly Suzanna sank into a large velvet

armchair and drew her foot beneath her. Just in time, for Miss Massey

said: "Shall we play the game of 'Answers?' You know the game, Suzanna,

don't you?"

Suzanna moistened her lips: "I know it, Miss Massey, but I don't care to

play games, thank you." How could she move, since doing so would

necessitate putting confidence in Miss Massey? Telling her that once

discarded slippers too small even for Maizie had been made to do duty by

cutting the toes and lengthening with black ribbon, ribbon which in a

miserable moment failed in its work? But how eventually to extricate

herself from the miserable predicament? She could not sit forever on her

foot!

Other games were suggested and played by the children, but Suzanna

still sat in the big armchair, one long thin leg dangling, the other

bent under her. She grew fertile in excuses when asked to join the

others. She like to "watch," then she felt a little tired, until Miss

Massey at last sensing that something was wrong did no more urging.

Once little Maizie sought her sister. Why wouldn't Suzanna play? Was she

mad at something?

Suzanna gulped hard, then with manifest effort she whispered: "You know

where mother put the ribbon bag so my slippers would be long enough?

Well, my toe's stuck through the ribbon, and I mustn't move."

"Oh!" Maizie was sorry. "Can't you tell Miss Massey and let her fix it?"

Suzanna shrank back. "No, no," she cried. "You mustn't say anything, do

you hear, Maizie? Promise me."

Maizie solemnly promised. "Will the other one hold?" she asked then.

Thus the little Job's Comforter gave Suzanna food for unpleasant

questionings. Would, indeed, the other slipper hold?

Then said Miss Massey: "We are going into the garden, Suzanna. Would you

rather stay here till we return?" Her question was very gentle, her

understanding would have been very sure had Suzanna told her trouble.

But Suzanna only answered eagerly:

"Yes, I'd like to stay here." She was almost happy in the moment's

relief.

"If you wish to come later you can find us. Just ring this bell and Mrs.

Russell, the housekeeper, will take you to the South Garden," said Miss

Massey. She leaned down and touched Suzanna's face with her soft lips.

And then Suzanna was left alone.

Now what to do! Suzanna set her fertile little mind to work on the

problem. She settled into the chair and lowered the foot on which she

was sitting. She was intently regarding the torn slipper, when she heard

distinctly an unpleasant sound. A sound which gathered volume, till

Suzanna realized that something or someone was approaching the library.

She resumed her former position, and waited!

The brocade curtains were drawn aside; a little man in a sort of uniform

stood with head bowed, while a large man limped into the room.

"Fix my chair, you simpering idiot," he shouted at the little man, "and

then take yourself off!"

The small man glided to a great easy chair near the fireplace. He heaped

pillows in it, stood aside while the loud-voiced one lowered himself,

groaningly, into the downy nest. Then the valet disappeared. Suzanna

involuntarily glanced at his feet. Did he move on velvet casters?

A moment, then the big man gave a twist of pain. A rheumatic dart had

seized him, had Suzanna known, but she could not know, and a little

exclamation was drawn from her. At the sound, the other occupant of the

room started and glanced around till finally his eyes came to rest upon

the small girl in a large chair thrust well away in a shadowy corner of

the room.

"Well!" at length he ejaculated. And then: "Are you one of the Sunday

School class?"

"Yes, I'm Suzanna Procter. The other little girls have gone out into the

garden."

He grunted and continued to glare fiercely at her. But Suzanna knew no

fear. She felt strangely a sudden high sense of exhilaration, just as

once when she had been caught in a brilliant electric storm. Some

element in her rose and responded to the big flashes; just as she had

responded to Drusilla's play of imagination. Now a force was roused in

her that claimed kinship with the big, thunderous man opposite. She sat

up very straight, and stared right back at him. Then she said very

calmly:

"You look like an eagle!"

"Then you're afraid of me!" He flung the words at her with a certain

triumph.

"I'm not! I don't like the way you shout, but _I'm_ not afraid of you."

He sank back among his pillows, but did not take his eyes from her face.

At last he asked: "What are you sitting bent up that way for? Are you

hiding anything?"

Suzanna flushed. "You're not supposed to ask a visitor if she's hiding

anything; especially when her leg's asleep and she's suffering."

A spasm crossed his face. Perhaps he was trying to smile. He said only:

"Well, put your leg down, then. Seems to me you're old enough and ought

to have sense enough not to sit on it when it's asleep. Put it down, I

say!"

She did not move. "Will you please turn your head away a whole minute?"

she finally asked.

He did so, somewhat to his own surprise. He was unaccustomed to obeying

others. When he turned again, she uttered a cry: "Why didn't you keep

your head turned the other way till I told you to look," she exclaimed,

indignantly. "You don't play fair."

"See here, little girl," he commenced, when his eyes fell to her foot,

which for the moment she had forgotten, a small black-shod foot with two

protruding toes. "Eh, what's that!"

"My toes!" she answered. Her face flamed, then with sudden anger against

him, against circumstances, against everything that had conspired to

spoil this beautiful and long-dreamed-of day: "They're sticking through

my slipper. That's why I had to sit on my foot. That's why my leg went

to sleep. That's why I couldn't go out in the garden with the others."

He began to laugh, silently, mirthlessly, but it was laughter

nevertheless. Suzanna regarded him, her quick temper getting beyond her

control. At last she burst forth: "You're a rude man! And it isn't funny

to miss beautiful things, the flowers and the baby squirrels, and

perhaps lemonade."

He didn't answer for a moment. Then he said:

"Agreed! But it's certainly funny to see your toes sticking through your

shoe. No wonder you sat on your foot." Still, despite his discourteous

words, his tone changed; it was almost apologetic.

Suzanna's face lost its clouds. "Of course, I had to sit on my foot,"

she agreed. "I couldn't let Miss Massey see how mother put a black

ribbon bag on my slippers to make them longer, could I? She wouldn't

understand like you do, would she?"

"Do I understand? I wonder. Well, why did your mother put on the black

ribbon?"

"The shoes were too short!"

"She should have bought you a new pair."

Suzanna sprang from her chair and went to the big man.

"Do you know what rent week means?" she asked, lifting her earnest face

to his and standing so close that her hand touched his knee.

"I think I do," he answered.

"Well, this is rent week and Peter's coat was out at the elbows and two

of us needed shoes and the insurance was due on all of us and mother

can't let that go. It came in very handy when Helen, Peter's twin, went

away."

"What do you mean by 'went away?' Don't lean on that knee, that's where

the rheumatism is--do you mean died?"

Suzanna flinched. "We say 'went away,'" she answered gently; "you think

then that someone you loved has just gone away for a little while, and

is waiting somewhere for you."

The man's gaze wandered up to the lovely, smiling face above the mantel

and stayed there a space before his eyes came back to Suzanna.

"And so," she finished, "because everything came together, rent and

insurance and shoes, and a coat, I had to wear these slippers." Suzanna

was quite cheerful again, only very eager that he should understand the

situation.

At this moment the timid little valet appeared in the doorway. "Anything

you wish, sir?" he began. "Are you quite comfortable?"

"You infernal idiot!" bawled the man in the chair. "Can anyone be

comfortable with rheumatism in his knee?"

The little man precipitately retired. "You're awful cross," Suzanna

commented. "What does the man mean asking if you're 'comfortable?'

That's what Miss Massey asked me in the park carriage. I was sitting

down, and nothing hurt me."

"In other words," he answered, strangely catching her meaning at once,

"one chair is like another to you."

"Well, is there any difference?" she queried. She was very much

interested in this question, for the subtleties of refined comfort held

no place in her life. Knowledge of luxuries was quite outside the ken of

the younger members of the Procter family.

The big man said: "Yes, there is a difference; a decided difference." He

was thinking of his household with its retinue of trained servants, each

helping to make the days revolve smoothly.

"Why aren't you at work?" asked Suzanna then. "My father works every day

in the hardware store and sometimes way into the night on his invention

in the attic. _He_ doesn't have a chair filled with pillows to lean

against. Does God like you better than He does us?"

"Eh, what's that? What do you mean?"

"Because you don't have to work! And you think one chair is better than

another to sit in, and you can shout at the little man and make him

afraid."

"Well, we'll not talk of that," said the big man testily. "And now I'll

ask you a few questions. What does your mother do when rent week comes

round? Cry, and throw up to your father the fact that she can't make

ends meet? That's what women generally do, I've heard and read."

"Oh, no, my mother doesn't do that," said Suzanna, shaking her head.

"She just looks sad at first and sits and thinks and thinks and then

after awhile she says: 'Well, if everybody was thoughtful we'd all have

enough. But when some people waste, then others must pay the

piper'--'pay the piper'--I like the singing way that sounds, don't

you?"

"And who does she mean by other people?"

Suzanna smiled confidently: "Oh, she just says that; so no one really is

blamed, I guess. There really isn't anyone of that kind living; 'cause

nobody in the world could waste if they knew some children needed shoes

and some little boys' elbows stuck through their coats; would anyone?"

The man looked at her suspiciously. "Have you been listening to Reynolds

haranging on his soap box?" But seeing her innocence, he went on: "Well,

we don't know about those things. There's some reason why." He went on

more vigorously: "Of course, some people are privileged because they're

stronger; they've better judgment."

But Suzanna didn't understand that. She put the matter aside to think

over later, and, if she could remember the words, to repeat them to her

father for his explanation at a time when he wasn't hazy and far away

from realities.

"What does your father do?" Suzanna's companion resumed after a moment.

"He weighs nails in Job Doane's hardware store," said Suzanna, "and he

sells washboards to ladies. My father's a great man. He's an inventor!

He has a wonderful machine in the attic and sometimes when he's thinking

of his invention, he doesn't see us at all, and mother tells us not to

talk then to disturb him."

"What's your father's name?"

"Richard Procter," said Suzanna. And then:

"You are like an eagle; that's why I like you. You'd fight, wouldn't

you, if you had to! But I shouldn't mind your shouting. And I'd rather

you'd see my toes sticking through my shoe than any person in the world

outside my family. Now, get me a needle and thread before they all come

back," she finished.

The man stared into her upraised flower-face. His own turned red for the

visible second of hesitation. Then he raised his voice and called. The

timid one appeared. His master said: "Get me some black thread and a

needle; also a thimble. Don't stand there gaping! I'm waiting."

With some difficulty, the amazed valet gained volition over his power of

locomotion. He returned shortly bearing the desired articles reposing on

a silver tray, and retired once more, his eyes still dazed.

"Now hurry up," said the big man to Suzanna, "if you want to get into

the garden at all."

Suzanna threaded the needle, then removed her slipper. "I'll overcast

the ribbon, like mother does seams," she said. "Will you hold the

slipper? There, that's easier. You see I need both hands."

Silence, till the work was finished. "Now," said Suzanna, stopping to

bite the thread, no scissors being at hand, "I guess no toe in the world

could push through that, I've stitched so tight. You think it will hold,

don't you?"

[Illustration: Very carefully he looked at the mended place]

Very carefully he looked at the mended place. "I should say, if my

judgment's worth anything, that it's a very decent job. But see here,

you've taken up such a large seam; the shoe will be too small again."

Suzanna smiled at him. "Oh, that doesn't matter, just so the toes can't

burst through again," she answered. "You don't mind hobbling a little

bit when you have to."

He cleared his throat. "Well, I'll call the housekeeper and she'll take

you to the other children."

"Good-bye," said Suzanna friendlily. And then very politely, "Thank you

for helping me."

"Well, I suppose I might say you're welcome."

But he watched the small figure, that did after all "hobble" a little

all the way down the room as the summoned housekeeper led the way.

And, left alone, he sat quite still for a few moments. Once or twice he

smiled grimly, but several times he frowned.

* * * * *

Suzanna was full of her experience with the Eagle Man, and in spite of

her mishap she had greatly enjoyed her day. Hadn't the fierce one, the

one of the loud voice and cross face, been kind to her and helped her to

mend her slipper? And hadn't he told the housekeeper to give her a great

bunch of the purple grapes especially procured from the city for him,

she was told?

She thought of all this when she and Maizie left the low phaeton in

which they had been driven home. For some indefinable reason she was

elated, and excited--an emotion far above the usual happy fatigue felt

after a day of pleasure. She meant to tell her father and mother all

about her talk with the Eagle Man when the supper dishes were washed and

put away. She would show her father just how her toes had thrust

themselves through her slipper and how she had sat upon her foot till it

went to sleep. Not, however, till the setting was right would she tell

her story. Suzanna's unconscious dramatic sense rarely failed her.

At the supper table that night the baby fell asleep in his high chair.

Peter, after a hard day of play, was nodding in his place. Maizie,

replete after her third dish of rice pudding, was quiet; a little sleepy

too, if truth must be told.

It was then Suzanna told of her visit with the Eagle Man. She left out

no detail, from the time her stocking burst its confines to her

interesting intimacy with the Eagle Man.

"You told old John Massey, you say, Suzanna," said her father at length,

his eyes bright, "about my machine?"

Suzanna nodded. Then a little fear stole upon her. She slipped from her

place and went to her father.

"Did I talk too much, daddy?" she asked, mindful of former such

indictments.

His arm went about her waist. Then he drew her close and kissed her.

"No, Suzanna, little girl," he said; "I guess talk from the heart rarely

hurts." He paused. "Perhaps it was meant you should talk to him."

CHAPTER IX

A LEAF MISSING FROM THE BIBLE

Suzanna thought a great deal about the Eagle Man. She was extremely

puzzled as to the exact place he filled in the world. While she admired

him, indeed was strongly drawn to him, still she considered him in some

ways quite inferior to her father. And so she wondered why he could live

in a big house, could have servants who sprang at a word to do his

bidding, and could eat all the fruit he wanted as evidenced by the great

bunch of purple grapes, one of many bunches, while her father lived in a

very small house, had no servants, and had little fruit to eat. She knew

instinctively that the Eagle Man had no need to worry about rent day,

and the many other similar things she felt harassed her father, and over

and over again she pondered on this seemingly unjust state of affairs.

It would have been so much better, she thought, if the Eagle Man

occupied with his one daughter just a little cottage while the large

Procter family had the bigger house. Though she dearly loved the little

home, there had been times when it seemed very small for the growing

Procter family.

But she concluded at last that for the present there were many

perplexities which must remain perplexities till that wonderful time

when she would be a woman, and everything made clear to her.

Experiences, too, had shown her that a troublesome question of Monday

often had resolved itself by Wednesday. So she went contentedly on her

way.

On a morning following Suzanna's talk with the Eagle Man, Mrs. Procter

and all the children except the baby who was taking his early morning

nap upstairs, were in the kitchen busy at their tasks, Suzanna polishing

the stove, and Maizie peeling the potatoes for supper, a task Mrs.

Procter insisted upon being performed early in the day. Peter, exempted,

because of his sex, from household duties--and very unfair this

exemption Suzanna thought privately--was trying his awkward best to mend

a baseball. Maizie broke a rather long silence.

"Mother!" she cried, and then waited.

Mrs. Procter looked up from her kneading.

"What is it, Maizie?" she asked.

"Didn't Jesus ever laugh?" asked Maizie.

No one spoke. Maizie, engaged in peeling a large potato, went on quite

unconscious of the variant expressions pictured in the faces of her

audience: "He's always so sad in our Sunday School lessons, mother. Even

when He said, 'Suffer little children to come unto me,' He didn't

smile--or they never say so when they read the chapter," she finished.

Mrs. Procter looked helplessly at Suzanna. And Suzanna rose to the

occasion. "Maizie," she said, "you know Jesus was born in a manger so

His mother didn't have much money and it was hard to make both ends

meet. And, besides, there wasn't anything to smile about in those days

when the world was so fresh."

"I guess that's right," Mrs. Procter agreed. "What with going round and

trying to persuade people to be good and understand what He was trying

to tell them, there couldn't have been much excuse for smiling."

Maizie, however, was tenacious. "Mother, you know at times even when

things have all gone wrong you've laughed at something the baby did,"

she said looking up from her work.

"Yes, I know," put in Suzanna, as though Maizie had spoken to her. "But

mother doesn't have to go round turning water into wine and doing lots

of other wonderful things."

"Well, I wish He had smiled," Maizie persisted.

Suzanna looked searchingly at her sister. "Why do you wish that,

Maizie?" she asked.

"Oh, I'd think then He was more like a big brother," said Maizie. "Now,

sometimes I kind of feel afraid of Him."

"If you didn't feel afraid of Him, Maizie," Suzanna asked, turning back

to the cold stove and vigorously polishing away, "do you think you'd be

a better girl?"

Maizie flushed resentfully. "I'm good enough now," she answered.

"But you get mad for nothing, Maizie," said Suzanna; "you always get mad

when you don't see things."

"Anybody would get mad," Maizie exclaimed. "Why just yesterday when we

were playing in the yard you said, 'Behold, the lion marcheth down the

yard. Maizie, quick, quick, out of the way,' and when I said, 'I don't

see any lion, Suzanna,' you said, 'Well, he's there, right beside you.

Don't you hear him roaring?' and there wasn't any lion there at all."

"Well, Maizie, you can't see anything unless it's there," deplored

Suzanna.

"You mean, Suzanna," put in Mrs. Procter as she covered the dough with

a snowy cloth, "that you have more imagination than Maizie."

"Well, anyway, Maizie," said Suzanna after a time, "I'm going to try and

make you a better girl."

"Make her stop saying that, mother," said Maizie, "I'm good enough as it

is."

Suzanna said nothing more then. She finished her stove, and then, when

Maizie had peeled all the potatoes, Suzanna went into the parlor and

dusted all the furniture very carefully. Maizie followed and stood

watching her sister.

"How could you make me better, Suzanna?" she asked, after a time,

curiosity elbowing pride aside.

"I meant to tell you a story," said Suzanna; "about something you've

never heard before." She went on dusting.

"Would the story make me a better girl?"

"Yes, and happier, too."

"Is it a nice story, Suzanna?"

"Awfully sweet."

"When could you tell me, Suzanna?"

"We'll go out into the yard after I've finished dusting and then I'll

tell you the story, Maizie."

"All right."

So when the dusting was accomplished, the children sought the back

yard. Suzanna procured a soap box, placed it beneath the one tree, while

Maizie drew another very close to her sister that she might lose no

word, and settled with keen anticipation to listen to Suzanna's story.

The day was hot, with scarcely a breeze stirring. Still, with the quiet

there was a freshness in the air that made the children draw in deep

breaths.

Suzanna began very softly: "Maizie, do you see that big rose nodding

near the fence over there at Mrs. Reynolds'?"

Yes, Maizie saw the rose.

"Well, yesterday when you were wheeling the baby and I was sitting on

this very box putting buttons on Peter's waist, that rose all at once

walked across the road to me! It stood by my side for a long time, and

then it said softly, 'Suzanna,' and it looked at me and it was all pink

and very sweet, and it said to me, 'Suzanna, how old are you?' and I

said, 'I'm nearly eight, Lady Rose, and Maizie is nearly seven. Mother

had hardly got over my coming to her when Maizie came along.'

"And the rose said, 'Maizie? Is that the little girl that is going to

ask tomorrow whether Jesus ever smiled?' And I said, 'Yes, Maizie will

be peeling a big potato, and I'll be polishing the stove, and mother

will be kneading bread when Maizie will ask that question.'

"'Well,' said the rose, 'you must tell her that once upon a time Jesus

_did_ smile, but they didn't put it in the Bible because it didn't seem

'portant to grown folks, and they didn't think that all the little

children in the world would sometimes wish He had smiled.' And then the

rose went on to tell me the story of the dear smile."

Maizie gazed wide-eyed at her sister. "Did you really see the rose with

your eyes, Suzanna?"

"Yes," Suzanna answered; "truly with my eyes." She suddenly sat up very

straight and pointed a small finger, "and there it's coming again. It's

nodding its head at me. Look, Maizie!"

Maizie jumped.

"There, see, Maizie, it's walking right through Mrs. Reynolds' gate.

Isn't it graceful?"

"How can it walk on one stem?" asked Maizie, the literalist.

"Well, it does, doesn't it? You can see it. Now, it's coming into our

yard." Suzanna waited, then: "Good morning, Lady Rose," she greeted in a

high treble voice. "Come and stand near Maizie." Maizie moved quickly to

make room. "You see it now, don't you, Maizie?" Maizie hesitated. She

stared hard at the spot near her, then up with wistful eyes into

Suzanna's face.

"I can't see it, Suzanna," she said at length. "Do you think mother'd

better take me to the doctor and have my eyes examined like Mrs.

Reynolds had hers?"

Suzanna felt flowing over her a sudden wave of pity. "No, Maizie, dear,"

she said, putting her arms about Maizie and drawing her close. "Maybe I

see the rose with something inside of me. But never mind, lamb

girl--isn't that pretty, Mrs. Reynolds calls me that--the rose has gone

home again. Listen close and I'll tell you the story that was left out

of the Bible, just as the rose told it to me."

Maizie settled herself again, expectantly.

"This will be told, Maizie, in the way the Bible is written. Funny words

that we don't know the meaning of, but can guess; terrible threats."

"Oh, don't," cried Maizie, "don't, I don't want 'terrible threats.' It

sounds awful."

"Well, then," conceded Suzanna, "I'll leave out the terrible threats,

Maizie. Now I'm beginning:

"There came to the city of Jerusalem one day a Little Boy with a halo

on His head. It was on a Monday that he came. The mothers were all

washing and those that were not washing, behold, they were hanging

clothes out in the yard, and as He walked He carried a message, and His

message was this: 'Beware of green tea, handsome to the eye, but

destructive to the human system.'"

Maizie's memory was pricked wide awake. "Why, that's written on mother's

tea canister, and you read it aloud a thousand times one day," she

cried.

"That saying has come down the ages," responded Suzanna quickly. "And

any more breaking-in and I'll not tell the story."

Maizie subsided, and Suzanna continued.

"Now when all the mothers heard this wonderful saying, there came sorrow

and fear into their hearts. 'Yea,' said one, 'have I not used green

tea?' And the Little Boy with the halo said, 'Thou art never to do so

again,' and all the mothers bowed their heads.

"And the Little Boy grew and grew till He came to be a man. A man that

looked very much like our father. He played the harp, the one he

afterwards took to Heaven with Him. And He wore a long, white, flowing

gown, that His mother washed out every morning and ironed carefully

after it was dry. 'Behold,' she said, 'Yea, nay, no other hands but

mine must touch this gown.' There were no laundries in those days.

"The Man with the halo walked by the sea at day, and walked under the

stars at night. Then He came on back to His mother. She said to Him: 'Is

it that Thou art tired that Thou dost not smile?' And He said, drawing

Himself up to a big height, 'There is nothing to smile at.' And His

mother said, 'Behold I have made for Thee something nice to eat, with an

orange in front of Thy plate!' But even then He did not smile. And next

day, He went off into the fields and took care of His lambs. And the day

after that, yea, He went into His father's shop and He said to His

father, 'I must away,' and then the earth trembled and rocked beneath

their feet.

"Then the Man with the halo left, and for a long time His mother didn't

see Him any more. And out in the world, in Galilee, I think it was, He

didn't even there find a chance to smile. Everything was too sad and

people too bad, and then one day, behold, the Man with the halo was busy

making ten fish out of one little tiny minney for Peter who was hungry,

and had a 'normous appetite like our Peter's, when a woman came running

down the road. Everybody looked at her, but she went on. And when she

came near the Man with the halo, she fell on her knees and He stopped

his work. He had just half a fish in His hand when this woman spoke. She

said: 'Pardon me, Master, but I have heard of lots of wonderful things

Thou hast done, and now I must ask a favor of Thee.'

"The Man with the halo put down the fish that wasn't finished and turned

His big eyes upon her, and He said, 'Speak, woman.' And she said: 'Wilt

Thou come with me?' He waited a little, but felt pity in His heart for

her and so He went with her, His halo shining like the sun and making a

wide light path for everyone to walk in, and lots of people walked

behind Him, but no one in front.

"And they came to a little house, like ours set back from the road,

where lots of children lived. And there in the middle of the room, lying

in a white box, fast asleep was the littlest baby that had ever gone to

Heaven. And though the woman had lots of other babies, and maybe lots

more would come to her like they come to us all the time, she wanted

that one tiny little baby to open its eyes and look at her.

"And so she fell on her knees, and she said to the Man with the halo:

'Will you wake that lovely baby of mine for me? Oh, please, Master,

waken it--even though it should cry all night. Perhaps it's happy in

Heaven, but I am lonely. Dost Thou think I can have it back?'

"And just then Peter came into the room. He had followed the Man with

the halo. 'But it's only a little thing,' Peter said. 'And it made so

much noise when it was awake. Its big sister had to warm milk for it,

and take it out in the buggy and to wash its clothes, sometimes when its

mother was busy or had been up the night before. Is it not better for

all that it is in Heaven?'

"And then she said, 'I'm not speaking to you, Peter,' and she looked

again at the Man with the halo. And at last He spoke and His voice was

like music, thrilly and gentle. And He said, 'All mothers want their

babies and we've got plenty in Heaven, and I'll give this one back to

you.'

"And He went to the white box and He looked at the baby, and pretty soon

the baby got pink like my coral beads, and then its eyes opened and it

looked up into His face and it raised its arms up to Him.

"_Then He smiled!_--and He lifted the baby up and held it close, so He

warmed it all through. And then He put it into its mother's arms and

said, 'Well, I must be going.'

"And this is what I'm going to tell you, Maizie, _that you were that

little baby_, and Jesus smiled at _you_ to wake you up."

Maizie did not speak. Her eyes were shining, her lips trembling. Her

small soul was touched to its depths. After a long time in a whisper she

spoke: "Oh, was I really the baby that made Jesus smile? I'm happy,

Suzanna, but--it hurts me, too--"

Suzanna put her arms about her sister. The emotions she had aroused in

that little sister warmed her, thrilled her through and through. They

sat on in silence. Soon a question began to puzzle Maizie. She gave it

voice. "I didn't know I'd been a baby more than once, Suzanna."

"You're a baby every hundred years," said Suzanna promptly.

"Oh, I see." Then: "I do love Him now, Suzanna. I'll always love Him

'cause once He woke me up. Suzanna, do you think the rose will come to

you and tell you another story?"

Suzanna believed the rose might.

CHAPTER X

A PICNIC IN THE WOODS

For days Maizie lived in the sanctity of the thought that the Master of

all had smiled at her. But even so marvelous an occurrence, so sweet a

marking out of her above all the children in the world, failed

completely on one occasion to help her overcome a mood of sullenness.

She awoke late one morning, and found that Suzanna had arisen and gone

down stairs. She heard sounds indicating breakfast, but there was a

little dull feeling at her heart. Her customary joyous anticipation of

living a whole day, ripe with possibilities, was quite absent. She

decided to remain in bed, but at her mother's voice calling her name she

was prompted to put out one small foot, then the other, and soon, as

another call came up peremptorily, she went lazily ahead dressing

herself.

Ready then for the day, she went to the window and looked out. The sky

was hazy, with little dull clouds floating on its breast. From far away

came grumbles of thunder. Over to the east the sky seemed to open in a

long thin path of vivid light and then close again, leaving the heavens

gray, bleak. Maizie wanted to cry; it was with an effort she controlled

her tears.

At last, languidly she moved from the window, went down the stairs,

through the tiny hall and into the dining-room, her little face downcast

still, with no smile lightening it to greet the other children. Suzanna

and Peter sat at the table awaiting the laggard.

"Father had to leave early this morning, Maizie," said Suzanna at once.

"He ate his breakfast all alone."

Maizie did not answer; silently she sank into her chair as her mother

appeared with the baby and took her usual place, after placing him in

his high chair. Maizie gazed for a moment at the oatmeal in her own blue

plate, then with a little petulant gesture, she pushed the plate away.

"I don't like oatmeal with a pool of syrup in the middle," she said

slowly, not addressing anyone directly, but keeping her eyes on her

plate.

"You've always liked it before this morning," her mother answered. "I

think you're just cross, Maizie."

"I don't like syrup in the middle of my oatmeal," repeated Maizie; "I

want milk on it like father has."

"Oh, Maizie," said Suzanna, "father _must_ have milk on his oatmeal."

"Why?" asked Maizie.

"Because he is our father and he must have the nice things."

"Well, we're his children," pursued Maizie, apparently unconvinced. "And

I don't see why we shouldn't have some nice things to eat, too."

"But there's so many of us," said Suzanna.

"Why did father leave orders for so many of us then?" said Maizie

looking up. Belligerence was now in her tone, in her very attitude.

"Now," said Mrs. Procter, firmly. "We must not talk this way. Father

doesn't like syrup. It doesn't agree with him. You're a very naughty

little girl this morning, Maizie."

Maizie was again on the point of tears. Lest they overflow she rose

quickly from the table and left the room.

"Maizie's in a bad humor today," said Mrs. Procter to Suzanna.

"Maybe she feels bad today, mother, because it's Wednesday."

"Well, what in the world has the day to do with it!" Mrs. Procter

exclaimed.

"Well, Wednesday you know is the shape of a big black bear. It's not

like Thursday, that's the shape of a great snowy white ship on a

sparkling sea. I don't like Wednesday myself, mother."

"Well, I'm sorry," returned Mrs. Procter. "But it's not in my power to

shape days to please you children," she spoke crisply.

"Are you tired, mother?" asked Suzanna, after a pause.

"I think I'm always tired these days," Mrs. Procter admitted, "but I'm

particularly tired this morning. The baby was very restless last night."

"If you were like Mrs. Martin on the other side of the town," said

Suzanna as she rose from the table and began to gather up the dishes,

while Peter escaped into the yard, "who has only one little girl, you

wouldn't be kept awake." Suzanna's eyes were widely questioning. Did her

mother regret owning so many children?

Mrs. Procter stood up. She lifted the baby out of his high chair.

"You're every one dear and wonderful to me," she said. "But we're all

human, dear, and apt to grow tired."

Suzanna walked into the kitchen and put the dishes down on the table. On

her way back to the dining-room she glanced out of the window. The

early September day had changed. Miraculously every dull gray cloud had

scurried away, leaving a sky soft, yet brilliant. Birds flew about,

carolling madly, as though some elixir in the air sent their spirits

bounding. Suzanna's every fiber responded. The desire whipped her to

plunge into the beauty of outdoors, to run madly about, to shout, to

sing. But alas, she knew there was no chance to obey her ardent impulse,

since Wednesday was cleaning day, a day rigid, inflexible, when all the

Procter family were pressed into service; that is, all but Peter,

belonging to a sex blessedly free from work during its young, upgrowing

years.

Mrs. Procter spoke: "Bring the high chair into the kitchen, Suzanna,

near the window for the baby; then we'll start cleaning."

Suzanna obeyed reluctantly. She turned from the window. "Mother," she

said, "when I'm grown up I'll have no steady days for anything."

"What do you mean?" asked Mrs. Procter.

"Well, I won't wash on Monday, and iron on Tuesday, and clean on

Wednesday, and bake on Thursday. I'll let every day be a surprise."

"Yes," said Mrs. Procter, "and a nice mix-up there'd be. You must have

set times for every task if you expect to accomplish anything."

"But isn't it 'complishing anything if you're happy?" asked Suzanna,

really puzzled.

Mrs. Procter hesitated. "But you can be happy working, too."

"But I know, mother, that I'd be happier today out in the sun."

"But the truth remains, Suzanna, that if we don't wash on Monday we'd

have to wash on Tuesday, and that ties up everything at the end of the

week," said her mother.

Suzanna sighed. She couldn't by mere words combat her mother's

arguments. They seemed indeed unassailable if you applied plain reason

to them. But something deeper, finer than reason, made Suzanna believe

that to be out in the sun, to be under the trees, to be dreaming in the

perfume of flowers, was more important than cleaning and dusting; anyway

in a glorious, straight-from-Heaven day like this Wednesday. So she

returned unconvinced to the dishes, while her mother after tying the

baby in his high chair cast an appraising eye around, wondering just

where she should begin her upheaval.

Suddenly a loud, heart-rending outcry was heard, and Peter, who a moment

before had been playing peacefully in the yard, came rushing into the

house. Out of the medley of his piteous cries, Suzanna at last made

sense. Not so her mother who asked anxiously:

"What in the world is he crying so for, Suzanna? Is he hurt? Will he let

you look him over?"

"No, he's not hurt," returned Suzanna. "He is crying because _never in

all his life will he be able to see his ears_."

Mrs. Procter stared dumbfounded. But she soon recovered. She was

accustomed to originalities of this sort in her family.

"So! Well, what am I to do about it?" she asked the small boy.

Peter looked at her stolidly. "I want to see my ears," he repeated. "And

I can't only in the mirror."

"Have you lived for five years," asked Mrs. Procter, "without

discovering that your ears are attached to your head, and that I can't

take them off in order that you may see them?"

"And you can't see the back of your neck either, Peter," cried Suzanna

at this juncture. At which disastrous piece of information Peter cried

louder.

"Now, Suzanna," exclaimed Mrs. Procter in some exasperation. "What did

you tell him that for? Isn't it enough for him to learn in one day that

he'll never see his ears without telling him about the back of his neck?

Stop your crying, Peter. It's bad enough to have you cry for things that

can be mended."

Maizie, attracted by the noise, unable to control her curiosity,

appeared at the door. Her face was still sullen, but it also bore a rare

expression of stubbornness. Satisfying her curiosity as to the reason

for the commotion, she then made her announcement.

"Mother," she began, "I'm not going to wash the window sills upstairs

this cleaning morning."

"Now, Maizie," said Suzanna, conciliatingly, "don't you remember Who

smiled at you once?"

"M-hm, I remember," said Maizie, without change of expression, "but I'm

not going to wash the window sills."

A little silence ensued. Then Suzanna offered a suggestion.

"Mother," she said, "none of us feels right, do we? Can't we have a

picnic?"

"A picnic?" exclaimed Mrs. Procter. "A picnic!" She was about vigorously

to refuse the request when she paused. She looked at the three earnest

little faces before her. Suzanna resenting steady days for doing steady

tasks; Maizie hating her porridge, and Peter grieved because he

couldn't see his ears; the baby too, not his usual sunny self. But set

against the strange and varied emotions of her young family, loomed the

house with its stern demands upon her. Should she postpone her tasks

then vengeance in the double form of cleaning and baking day would

descend upon her tomorrow!

Then suddenly the truth pressed in on her--the children had rights upon

her time, her thoughts, her understandings, her sweetnesses! What if for

this week the window sills upstairs did remain unwashed, the rugs

downstairs stay unshaken? She stole a glance out of the window at the

one tree in the yard, green and gently swaying in the soft breeze, and

she spoke with the impulse of youth. "Well," she said, "where could we

go?"

"We could have it in the yard if you say so, mother," cried Suzanna,

mentally forecasting consent in her mother's question. "But I know some

lovely woods not very far away. We could push the baby in his cart."

The baby from his high chair gurgled joyously.

"And take lunch," said Maizie, brightening.

"And my baseball," completed Peter.

"Well," said Mrs. Procter, the brief spark that had lifted her dying,

"if I'm going to have grumbling all the time, something the matter with

each one of you, I might as well let the work go for once, I suppose."

But though the consent fell leaden in its delivery, it _was_ consent and

in a miraculously short time they were all ready to start away; even the

lunch basket was packed and the baby put into his carriage and wheeled

out to the front gate to wait till the entire family was assembled.

Mrs. Procter locked the doors, ran across the street to ask Mrs.

Reynolds to buy certain vegetables from a daily huckster and then away

they all went down the wide white road to the woods.

Soon the joy and beauty of the day stole into Mrs. Procter's heart. She

breathed in the invigorating air deeply. Cares seemed to fall from her.

Materialities were banished into the background. She looked at her

children as they went singing down the road. She had meant to bind them

to sordid tasks within four walls when a jewel of a day beckoned to all!

She visualized her house clean and in perfect order, but the children

cross, she herself irritable and tired out, and wondering a little bit

about the meaning of things. Was it worth while to let inflexible rules

remain victors at such a cost. She knew a sudden thrill of gratitude for

Suzanna, who had suggested the outing, and putting out her hand she

drew the little girl to her.

Suzanna looked up. She caught the deep and tender look in her mother's

face, so she voiced a plea which had been in her heart, but kept from

utterance in fear that she might ask too much.

"Mother, if we're going on a real picnic we ought to take the lame and

the halt with us. And I know a little girl who has cross eyes, and she's

a weeny bit pigeon-toed. She's the lame and the halt, isn't she? Because

when she looks at me I never think she is looking at me. I tried to

teach her one day how to look straight but it wouldn't do. Could I

invite her, do you think?"

"Where does she live?"

"Oh, just the other side of the fork road," Suzanna replied, pointing

out the direction. "If you'll go on I'll run and get Mabel and then

catch up with you. She's that new little girl. Her folks haven't lived

here long."

"Very well."

In a short-time Suzanna returned, holding tight to little Mabel's hand.

"I told her mother we had enough to eat with us and that we'd take good

care of her. So here she is," said Suzanna.

Little Mabel looked up obliquely at Mrs. Procter.

"Her hair doesn't grow thick around her face," said Suzanna a little

apologetically; "and I told her mother to rub Gray's ointment into it,

like you did for the dog that came off in spots. The one Peter found,

you remember."

"It didn't do any good--" began Maizie.

Mrs. Procter plunged in to prevent further discussion about the

unfortunate dog. "Do you think you can walk quite a distance, Mabel?"

she asked.

Mabel put her finger in her mouth.

"Don't talk to her right away, mother," begged Suzanna. "She's a little

bit shy."

So they went on, little Mabel contributing no word to the talk. They

passed fields full of yellow daisies and they walked by one group of

gentle, cud-chewing cows. "But I hope there'll be no cows in your woods,

Suzanna," said Mrs. Procter.

And her wish was granted. Indeed all, sky, flowers, breeze, absence of

dust and curious animals, helped to make this a day of days. When they

reached Suzanna's little patch of woods with many spreading oak trees

that invited rest beneath their sheltering branches Mrs. Procter

exclaimed in delight.

"Isn't it lovely, mother?" cried Suzanna. "See, there's a tiny brook,

too. I've been here often when I wanted to think of poetry."

"And I've never had time," her mother murmured.

"Now you just sit right down here with your back against this tree,"

Suzanna went on with a delicious air of protection, "and I'll take care

of the baby. Close your eyes, dear mother-love, and forget that God sent

you a big family and that you've got to do your best by us all like you

told Mrs. Reynolds last week."

Mrs. Procter's eyes were suddenly overflowing. Children! How rare and

fine a gift they were. How many truths they could teach! She sank down

upon the grass and Suzanna put the baby down beside her, first spreading

out a thick shawl.

Mrs. Procter caught the small loving hand within her own: "I don't know,

Suzanna; sometimes I wonder if I'll be able to do all I'd like to do for

you all," she said in a low voice.

"Why, mother, _you love us_!" Suzanna exclaimed. "Don't you remember

last Sunday when I put on my leghorn hat with the bunch of daisies over

my left eye--"

"I remember," said Mrs. Procter, somewhat at a loss as to the connection

between thought and thought.

"Well, when I said, 'good-bye, mother, I'm going to Sunday School,' you

looked at me and _smiled_ from your soul! And I forgot that there was

Maizie and Peter and the baby, and I didn't even remember father, and I

said to myself: '_That's my very own mother!_' Just as though we just

belonged to one another with nobody else in the whole world."

"Kiss me, Suzanna darling," said Mrs. Procter, after a long moment.

Suzanna stooped and kissed her mother very tenderly.

"Now run away and play," said Mrs. Procter, leaning against the

supporting tree and closing her eyes, blissfully conscious that she

could rest undisturbed for at least twenty minutes.

An hour later she opened her eyes and sat up straight. She had fallen

asleep, though her position was not a particularly comfortable one, and

slept sweetly, soundly. The baby still lay peacefully quiet, his little

blanket covering him. And small bees had been working about her. Spread

before her, reposing on a red table cloth lay a tempting meal. In the

middle of the table cloth, to give an air of festivity, was a bunch of

daisies. But most appealing of all to the mother was the sight of the

four children, her own three and little Mabel, seated quietly near the

table; they had evidently been there some time, waiting patiently till

she should open her eyes.

"Oh," cried Maizie, great relief filling her at sight of her mother

stirring, "Suzanna made us stay so quiet till you woke up, mother, and

we're all awful hungry."

"Yes, I want that fat sandwich," said Peter.

And then they fell to eating with much laughter and gaiety.

"Out in the woods you don't have to pretend you hate to eat, do you,

mother?" said Suzanna.

"Nor anywhere else that I know of," said Mrs. Procter, smiling.

"But I don't like to see anyone eat as though he liked to eat," said

Suzanna. "May I have two or three grapes, mother?"

She received her grapes. And quiet fell, while each did his best to

clear the table. At length when the meal was concluded, and the basket

repacked, and the pewter knives and forks carefully wrapped in a napkin,

the children begged Suzanna for stories.

So she began, and seemed never to fall short of material. Her mother

listened, dreamily contented, till another hour passed and the baby

awoke. He was a smiling, happy baby and crowed with delight when his

mother allowed him a cracker and a cup of milk.

"Shall we play games?" asked Suzanna next, when just at the moment the

sound of wheels was heard and shortly there came into sight a low

carriage drawn by the two prosperous, fat brown horses, and seated in

the carriage was Suzanna's Eagle Man.

Suzanna darted out into the road. As the carriage did not stop she

called out: "Mr. Eagle Man! Oh, Mr. Eagle Man!"

The coachman involuntarily pulled in his horses. He didn't know what

peremptory signal would be given him to move on, or what inquiry as to

his sanity would scorchingly be made, but Suzanna's eager voice impelled

him to stop. Mr. Massey leaned over the side of the carriage.

"I never dreamed you'd ride by our picnic," said Suzanna, all excited.

"We've got my mother here and our baby."

"Well, well," said the Eagle Man. "And how are you, little girl?"

"I'm awfully well," returned Suzanna. "But today was cleaning day at

home and we all started out wrong; the baby kept mother awake last night

and Maizie hated her oatmeal with the syrup in the middle and Peter

cried hard because he couldn't see his ears, and never in all his life

can see his ears."

She paused tragically. "Never in all his life--and neither can you, or

anybody."

"What a terrible loss, for sure," said the Eagle Man, after a look

darted at his coachman's imperturbable back. "And what did _you_ cry

about?"

She stared at him in horror. "I never cry," she said. "I mean I never

let the tears fall down my face. I cry in my heart sometimes, but never

out loud, on top. But I felt funny this morning because I wished we

didn't have to wash on Monday, and iron on Tuesday, and clean on

Wednesday, and bake on Thursday, and mend on Friday, and clean again on

Saturday."

"Well, ask your mother to wash on _Saturday_," the Eagle Man suggested

easily.

"Oh, I don't think mother would," Suzanna cried, in a little horror

herself at that idea. "She's awful set about washing on Monday. Still

I'll ask her if you say so, Eagle Man, because Saturday is kind of a wet

day anyhow. You see Saturday is just the shape of a big, immense, round

ocean. Shall I bring my mother over here to look at you?" suddenly

recalling the conventions.

"I don't think I'm fit to look at this morning," the Eagle Man

muttered.

"Oh, I think you are," said Suzanna, earnestly. "I like your shiny shoes

and your very high collar. I know mother would like you, too."

The Eagle Man looked down at his shiny shoes, hesitated and was lost. He

opened the carriage door, seized his cane and struggled to the ground.

"Now, let's see your wonderful family," he said to Suzanna, as he

hobbled forward toward the little group under the trees.

Suzanna looked up at him. "Oh, you're the lame and the halt, too! We

took Mabel along on our picnic because her eyes don't match, you know.

They don't seem to work together. We _are_ obeying the Bible today,

aren't we?"

Old John Massey did not answer, since he was intent upon covering the

ground with as little wear and tear on his nerves as possible, and so in

silence they walked till they reached Mrs. Procter, still leaning

against the tree, but now holding the baby in her arms.

Maizie, Mabel, and Peter all looked with vivid interest at the newcomer.

"Mother," began Suzanna, "this is the gentleman I told you about. He's

John Massey; you've seen him on Main Street. _He loves to be

comfortable._ And he doesn't work during the day, either, but he sits in

a chair and shouts at a little man, and the little man hops mighty

quick, I can tell you."

Mrs. Procter's face went crimson. "How do you do?" she said. She did not

meet his keen eyes.

"How do you do, madam," the Eagle Man responded. "Out for an airing with

your family?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Procter. "The children were all in a bad humor this

morning and so we thought we'd have a picnic."

"Oh, no, mother," said Maizie earnestly, "we weren't in a bad humor. We

just didn't like things at home."

"Well, we'll put it that way," smiled her mother, "and so Suzanna

suggested a picnic." Mrs. Procter attempted to rise.

"Stay where you are, madam," said the Eagle Man. Mrs. Procter sank back

against the tree.

"You sit down, too, Eagle Man," said Suzanna cordially. "We've got

another shawl. Here it is." She spread it down on the ground and the

Eagle Man quite gladly accepted the invitation, though his face whitened

in the downward process of reaching the shawl.

"Well, madam," he began again, "most people can't afford big families

these days."

Mrs. Procter smiled, but did not answer. Suzanna, sensing a criticism,

spoke quickly.

"Mother can't afford them either, but she's not asked anything about it.

The doctor who has charge of giving out babies stops at our gate often

and looks into mother's eyes. Then he knows she'd be awful sweet to a

little baby and so next time he gets around he brings one to us. Maybe

one that no one else will have."

"I see," said the Eagle Man. He turned to Mrs. Procter. "Your daughter

is very apt with explanations."

Mrs. Procter smiled.

"Her explanations," he continued, "are a trifle more honest than the

ones I often hear."

Another little silence. The Eagle Man appeared to be thinking deeply.

First he cast a glance out into the road to where his capacious vehicle

stood, then he looked over at Mrs. Procter.

"I wonder, madam," he said, "if you and your family would do me the

honor to drive with me."

Suzanna's eyes grew like stars, Maizie wrung her hands in a very

eloquence of prayer as she awaited her mother's answer; Peter just

stared, speech stricken from him; Mabel turned in her toes in her agony.

The baby only was unconcerned. Finally Mrs. Procter answered:

"We'll be very glad to, I'm sure, Mr. Massey." And in less time than it

takes to tell, Mrs. Procter, the baby on her knees, sat beside Mr.

Massey in the carriage, while the three little girls sat on a seat

facing Mrs. Procter, a seat that could at will be let down or pushed

back. Peter, to his everlasting delight, sat beside the coachman.

"Out into the country, Robert," said Mr. Massey to his coachman, and so

away they started at a leisurely pace, since the complacent horses

refused any other. Sometimes vagrant chickens wandered into the road,

exhibiting a daring that enthralled Peter. His opinion of chickens rose

when, the fat horses almost upon their tail feathers, they disdainfully

moved off.

"We couldn't run one down, I suppose," he asked Robert, hopefully. "Just

take a feather off, you know, to learn 'em a lesson."

"I scared a pair of 'em good and proper, once," returned Robert, who had

been, known to coddle an ailing worm, but at the moment he was just a

little boy with Peter, in very proper high spirits. And while braggingly

he went on talking to his delighted listener, the rest of the party were

silently, but with keen enjoyment, watching the passing country side. It

was a ride to be long remembered; the smooth roads wound alluringly

away, Suzanna wondered, to what beautiful hidden country. The breezes

fanned their cheeks with delicate, fragrant breath; the birds sang

overhead, or flew gaily about, adding harmony and color to the

atmosphere. And yet, to Suzanna's horror the baby, apparently quite

insensible to all the beauty and totally oblivious of the gratitude due

the Eagle Man, soon fell fast asleep, engagingly sucking his fat thumb.

"He's not very old," whispered Suzanna to her host; "and he doesn't know

he must be truly thankful to you."

"Well, let him rest comfortably," said the Eagle Man, and he moved in

such a way that the baby's head rested against his knee.

"There, that's better," he said to Mrs. Procter. "I didn't suppose you

wanted its neck to be broken," he ended gruffly.

"You can't talk that way to mother," said Suzanna, very gently. "She's

not used to it, you see, and she might think you meant it, though I know

you better. Father, when he isn't thinking of his invention, speaks very

kindly and sometimes he says, 'Are you tired, Little Woman?'"

Mrs. Procter attempted to speak, but again the Eagle Man stopped

her--very gently, for him.

"It's all right," he said. "It's rather interesting to find someone, if

only a child, who's not afraid to be absolutely sincere."

They came to a small hill where Robert stopped his horses. The breezes

had gone whispering away and stillness was upon all. Soon the birds

ceased their calls; over in the west the clouds were soft delicate folds

of bronze; and even as one looked they broke into bars of distinct

color, orange, purple, coral. An opal sunset.

"Oh, how beautiful!" cried Mrs. Procter.

"A daily incident," returned the Eagle Man, but he, too, gazed at the

glowing sky.

"And now, I suppose we must return," he said at length, and so Robert

turned his horses upon the homeward journey.

It was nearly dusk when, after leaving Mabel with her mother, the little

cottage came into sight, and then Mrs. Procter said to the Eagle Man:

"This has been one of the happiest days of my life. I thank you for

helping to make it so."

"That's very kind of you to say so," the Eagle Man answered in his usual

gruff voice.

They reached the gate and leaning upon it was Mr. Procter. He stared his

amazement at sight of his family returning in such state.

"Father, we had a picnic," called Maizie, springing from the carriage.

"And once I drove," cried Peter, almost falling from his seat, "and

scared a chicken."

"We've had the grandest day, father," finished Suzanna, running to him.

"We went on a picnic and we took the lame and halt along, Mabel and the

Eagle Man, and they had a good time, too."

"And twice today, father," said Maizie, taking her father's hand, "I

remembered Who smiled at me."

"Who smiled at you?" asked the Eagle Man, who heard everything, it

seemed.

"The Man with the halo, Jesus, you know," Maizie answered reverently.

"When first I was a baby on this earth He came to smile at me and to

wake me up. Suzanna told me so."

Silence. Then the Eagle Man turned to Mr. Procter. "Glad to have met

your family, sir."

"Glad you've had the opportunity," said Mr. Procter.

"You sold a quantity of nails to me a few weeks ago, good nails, too;

not underweight either, I noticed," said the Eagle Man at last. "Your

little girl tells me you are an inventor."

"Yes, I'm working on a machine," Mr. Procter flushed. "It is nearly

finished. That is, sometimes I think so; other times completion seems

far away."

The Eagle Man paused. "I'd be interested in seeing your invention," he

said, and stopped. Yet there was promise, too, in his voice, in his

eyes.

Again the color rushed to Mr. Procter's face. He stared unbelievingly at

the other, and then said: "I'll be glad any time to show my machine; to

tell you all about it--" He hesitated. "There'd be a great chance for

you, should you become interested in it."

"Well, if that's the case, expect me any time. Good-bye."

Suzanna spoke cordially: "You must come and see us very often," she said

warmly, "only not on Tuesday nights, if you're coming to supper, because

we have stew then made from the last of Sunday's roast."

"I'll remember," said the Eagle Man gravely, as he gave the signal to

Robert to drive away.

The little family went down through the yard and on to the house.

"I must hurry with your supper," said Mrs. Procter. "I'm sorry you were

kept waiting." She felt rested enough not to dread preparing the meal.

"Don't hurry, I found some crackers," said Mr. Procter, and added, "Why,

I've not seen you look so happy in many a long day."

"Well, I really must thank Suzanna," said Mrs. Procter. "She insisted

upon a picnic because the day started wrong. The house is all upset

though," she finished, as they went into the kitchen.

"The house?" he returned, gazing vaguely about. "It looks all right to

me. Suppose, Jane, he should really be won over to believe in the

machine. Oh, I never hoped I could interest him!"

"It may be the beginning of a great day," she answered. He put his arm

about her.

"What should I do without you to encourage, to help," he said.

"That's my privilege," she said softly.

Bending, he kissed her.

BOOK II