A little uneasy despite himself, Mr. Massey seated himself before the machine.

The inventor touched levers, opened and shut doors, lowered the helmet, adjusted the lens.

As the clicking sound commenced Mr. Massey stirred. "Keep very quiet," said the inventor, "and watch the glass plate."

Mr. Massey obeyed. Now a satiric smile touched his lips. He was almost enjoying this child's play.

But soon the smile faded, for in a moment there grew upon the glass plate standing between the two tubes a pillar of color, vivid yellow, tipped with primrose.

"What—what does that mean?" asked old John Massey.

The inventor lifted the helmet, and shut off his power before speaking. "According to my belief, my understanding of color significance, the reason for your being in this world, with, of course, interesting variations brought about by environment and education, is identical with that of Reynolds."

Mr. Massey started forward angrily, but he thought better of whatever he had in his heart to say. "Go on," he commanded gruffly.

"As a young man you had dreams of being a practical humanitarian," said Mr. Procter softly, "and undoubtedly with your opportunity you might have been a valuable figure in the world. You were endowed with vision. You saw the wrongs man labors under; as a youth you smarted because of those wrongs. And you saw the super-being man might become given equal chances."

"Like Reynolds—" repeated Mr. Massey after a time, on impulse—one immediately regretted.

"Like Reynolds, our great rough, fine-hearted Reynolds," said Mr. Procter, "the one whom you've had threatened with arrest because he harangued too freely on the street corner." He paused to finish impressively: "I see now that the man who throws away his spiritual birthright for a mess of pottage hates the one who keeps his in the face of all—poverty—misunderstanding—ridicule."

A silence dark as a cavern ensued. Mr. Massey at last got to his feet. He stood a long moment looking at the machine, then he glanced at the inventor, but when someone knocked softly at the door he started, revealing how far away from his immediate surroundings his thoughts had flown.

Suzanna entered. "Here's David, daddy," she said. "He wants to talk with you."

David entered. "I had some time," he said, "and I wanted to see the machine again."

"Glad to see you," said the inventor heartily. "Mr. Massey, this is my friend, David Ridgewood, Graham Woods Bartlett's gardener."

"How do you do, Mr. Massey," said David. "I've seen you before, of course. Heard of you often."

John Massey did not answer at once, since he was somewhat at a loss. He had not been in the habit of meeting socially his friends' gardeners. At last he blurted forth.

"How d' do. I've had a look at Procter's invention."

"Ah, yes, I supposed so," said David. Then: "Isn't the thought back of that machine wonderful?" Which ridiculous question quickened again all the Eagle Man's combativeness. He spoke with a fine candor.

"The thought may be wonderful, young man. I'll not pass on that. But plainly I can't see where the commercial value of the machine comes in."

David and Suzanna fell back from the cloud which gathered on the inventor's face.

"The commercial value!" he cried. "Have I spent my life working merely that the capitalist may make more money? I tell you, sir, that I have worked only for the betterment of the race. And to you, John Massey, I am giving the great opportunity."

"Well, out with it. Where's the great opportunity?" asked Mr. Massey testily. "To my mind you haven't an article with a wide enough appeal."

"Wide enough appeal!" cried the inventor. "My dear sir, it has an appeal world-wide, and you are to make it of such appeal." He paused to continue impressively: "John Massey, I offer you the opportunity of endowing an institution which shall be built to use my machine. To that institution young men of impecunious parents may come to discover their leading talent."

"If there is a leading talent, will it take your machine to discover it?" asked John Massey.

"In most cases, yes. How many young men fail to discover until too late what life work they are best fitted for, unless they possess a talent so strong that it amounts to genius. How many of necessity are sent out into the world at an unformed age to slavery in order that they and their dependents may live. What chance or time have they, grinding away at any work which brings a dollar, to know for what work they are most suited. They know only when it is too late that they are bound by chains, crucifying themselves daily at tasks they hate, and for which they have no natural adaptation."

He paused, only to continue with fire: "Or, if they have ambitions, know what they would best like to do, how helpless they are. No money, no opportunity."

"I'll warrant, Mr. Massey," put in David, "that there are many men employed in your steel mills who by natural inclination are totally unfitted for their jobs. Now, wouldn't scientific investigation in their early manhood have helped to find for them the right place and so added to their happiness?"

"Well, I'm not interested in that part of the question; their happiness has nothing to do with me," returned John Massey. "I pay 'em their wages and that's enough. And I don't believe that every man is born with a special talent. They all look alike to me mostly."

"Every man is born with the capacity to do something in a way impossible to another," said the inventor with conviction. "There are no two persons alike in the world."

John Massey smiled. He really now felt that he was being entertained. Such another rare specimen as this inventor with his ridiculous contentions would be hard to find. So he said pleasantly: "And after the machine has recorded its findings, what then?"

"Then you, and other men like you who have accumulated fortunes—"

"Stop!" cried the capitalist. "Let me finish for you. After the machine has done its work, I'm to have the privilege of paying for the professional education or trade of these same impecunious young men."

"Exactly, sir. The institution you endow might be called the Temple of Natural Ability Appraisement. There the poor in money, but the rich in ambition may come; there the fumblers, the indecisive, may come to be put to a test. Ah, yours can be a great work."

"A great opportunity for you, Mr. Massey," emphasized David, the gardener. "I envy you."

"You'd help out, wouldn't you, Eagle Man?" Suzanna now cried with perfect faith in his good will. "You see, you'd have to when you remembered that there's a little silver chain stretching from your wrist to everybody else's in the world. It must be rubber-plated, I guess."

"What do you mean?" asked the Eagle Man, involuntarily casting his glance down to his wrist, his flow of satire dammed.

"That's what Drusilla told me; we all belong. And you can't do something mean without breaking the chain that binds you to somebody else."

"Ah, my dear," said the Eagle Man, letting his hand fall upon her bright hair, "you belong to a family of impossible visionaries." He looked over at Suzanna's father, and his face suddenly grew crimson. "Were you in earnest, Procter," he cried, "when you told me in Doane's hardware store that your machine meant a big opportunity to me—were you jesting?"

"Jesting! Why, I've pointed out your opportunity, plainly."

"Shown me how I can throw a fortune away!"

After a moment Mr. Procter replied: "We speak in different languages. By opportunity you can see only a chance to make more money."

"Any other sane person makes the same guess," Mr. Massey replied.

The inventor's face grew sad. He had dreamed of John Massey's response, a dream built on sand, as perhaps he should have known. But hope eternal sprang in his heart, and the belief that every man wished the best for his brother.

The silence continued. To break it Mr. Massey turned to David.

"Your friend seems to think he has but to put before me the need for charity and I shall thank him effusively."

David spoke slowly: "My friend should have known better. He forgot, I suppose, your slums where you house your mill hands."

"What do you mean by that?" Mr. Massey began, when an exclamation from Suzanna, who was standing at the window, turned his attention there.

"See, there's a big fire over behind the big field," she cried excitedly. "Oh, look at the flames! The poor, poor people!"

David sprang to the window. "It's over in the huddled district," he cried. A fierce light sprang to his eyes. "Where most of your men live with their families, John Massey. I wonder how many will escape."



CHAPTER XIX

SUZANNA PUTS A REQUEST

In that devastating fire which swept out of existence the entire tenement district of Anchorville two were lost, never to be heard of again, parents of a twain of children, a boy of four and a girl of three.

Mrs. Procter, finding the mites wandering away from the smoking ruins, had at once taken them home with her, fed them, found clothes for them, and rocked the tired little girl to sleep.

"Are we going to keep them forever, mother?" Maizie asked one afternoon about two weeks after the fire. No one had put in a claim for the children; they were homeless, friendless. What was to be done with them? Mrs. Procter had turned with loathing from the thought of the orphanage.

She stood at Maizie's question in deep perplexity. She could not turn the children away or put them in an institution—and yet, how could she care for them? There was the very definite problem of extra clothes and food to be found out of an income already stretched to its utmost.

"They haven't a home any more, have they, mother?" Suzanna asked, the while her earnest eyes searched her mother's face. "So we should do unto others as we'd be done by, shouldn't we?"

A vague memory returned to Mrs. Procter. What was it Suzanna had once said? "Mrs. Procter cuddles all children in her heart." And Suzanna and Maizie stood watching her, asking a literal translation of a principle laid down for man's guidance.

"We'll see what can be done," Mrs. Procter answered finally. And then she continued very carefully: "You see, it isn't only a question of giving these little ones a home, but they must be clothed and fed and educated, and we haven't a great deal of money."

"So many of those poor people haven't any homes any more, have they?" asked Suzanna. Her eyes suddenly filled with tears of pity. She looked out of the window. The sun was shining brightly. And to be in keeping with the suffering about them, Suzanna wished it would hide behind a cloud. It seemed the day itself, to be in sympathy, should be dark, depressed, altogether gloomy.

Her mother answered: "It's providential in a manner that those unsightly cottages were swept away; but they meant homes for many poor souls; and all that they possessed was contained in those homes."

Suzanna's ingenious mind settled itself to work on the problem of the bereft ones. She was no longer thinking of the two little orphans, but of the many troubled people. If only her home were large enough to accommodate them all! Her thoughts in natural sequence ran to the Eagle Man and his beautiful place, but she immediately rejected the idea. She feared he might not listen kindly to the plan of lending his home even as a temporary abode for the stricken. Had he not been a little unkind about her father's wonderful Machine?

Suddenly she remembered Bartlett Villa, and with the memory came a thousand thoughts. Impulsively she donned hat and coat, spoke a word to her mother and was off.

In a very short time, for she ran nearly all the way, she reached Bartlett Villa. She pushed open the big iron gate leading into the grounds, and stopped short, for there to the left, near a closed fountain, stood Graham. He was talking to a tall man whose back was toward Suzanna. About the two, in seeming happiness, played Jerry.

Graham cried out when he saw Suzanna. She went quickly to him. Then the man looked down at her and smiled. Suzanna decided that she liked him, but she wished his smile was more of a real one, one that should light his face. She did not know the word, but he looked, despite his smile, cynical, rather weary. Yes, she knew she should like him, for in some indefinite way he reminded her of her father. Was it the brown, rather nearsighted eyes? Surely they were keen, yet behind their keenness dwelt a softness; perhaps he, too, once had cherished a vision.

Graham greeted her demonstratively. "And this is my father, Suzanna," he said. "I've told him a lot about you."

"Yes, I know a great deal about you, Suzanna," said Mr. Bartlett; "and David has told me of your father's invention and what he expects to do some day with it."

Suzanna's face kindled. "Yes, my father's a great man," she said, simply.

Then she turned to Graham: "I came to talk to you about something very important. I was going to ask you afterwards to speak to your father about my plan."

"I may hear, then?" said Mr. Bartlett. "Shall we go on into the house? There's a little chill in the air."

So they walked toward the great house, leaving Jerry rather disconsolate. Suzanna, looking up at Mr. Bartlett, said: "I've been here twice and I've never seen you."

"My business takes me often to different cities," he replied.

They entered the house and went into a small room at the left of the wide hall. It was lovely, Suzanna decided, done all in soft gray, except the curtains at the window, which were of amber silk, hanging in heavy folds. Yes, very charming, Suzanna emphasized to herself. She liked particularly the one picture on the wall, showing a group of horses, heads high in the air, full of fire. Suzanna could see them move, she believed.

"Sit down there, Suzanna, in that high-backed chair and tell us what you have to say that's so important," suggested Mr. Bartlett.

"I'm crazy to hear all about it, Suzanna," supplemented Graham. He settled himself in anticipation, for Suzanna was always intensely interesting.

Suzanna seated herself. A quaint little figure she was, her fine head thrown in relief against the gray satin of the chair. "You know," she began, "there's been a fire."

"A bully big one," said Graham.

Suzanna turned her dark eyes upon the boy. "It was a big one, and maybe fun to watch," she said, "but it burned all the people's homes. We've got two little children, at our house. We could never find their father and mother."

Mr. Bartlett, occupying the corner of a lounge, shifted uneasily. Evidently to put forth truths so baldly was inartistic.

"My mother says it was—I can't think of the word—but she meant it was lucky those cottages were burned down; they were so dirty." Suzanna went on: "And babies played in the yards in ashes and old papers. I always hurried past when I went that way because something stopped inside of me, I felt so sorry for those babies." Suzanna paused. "I just thought as we walked up your front path how different everything is here; your front yard is so clean, and there's so much room!"

She stopped again. She wished Mr. Bartlett would speak. He must guess now all that she meant to convey to him; all she would ask of him.

But still he didn't answer. "The Eagle Man owned those houses," she said at last.

"The Eagle Man?" Mr. Bartlett roused himself at last. "Who is the Eagle Man?"

"Mr. Massey other people call him. The Eagle Man's my own private name for him."

Graham knew his father was heavily interested in the Massey Steel Mills. But he did not speak.

"You know, it's an awful fine feeling you get when you're doing something for strangers," Suzanna pressed on. "Some way you don't feel so excited when you're doing something for your very own family."

But she was doomed to disappointment. A continued silence still greeted her words. "When people work for you isn't it as though you were their father or their big brother and had to help them when they needed it?" she asked, at length.

"Well, it's a new thought that you owe anything to the men who work for you except their wages," said Mr. Bartlett at last.

"Why, Drusilla told me that everyone in the world has a little silver chain running from his wrist to his next friend's wrist; it stretches when you run—a fellowship link my father named it when I told him. And the chain runs from my wrist to your wrist and from yours to every other wrist in the world." She leaned closer, finishing earnestly. "And Drusilla says if you break your chain you're really a slave."

"Very interesting," commented Mr. Bartlett.

"Yes, isn't it?" agreed Suzanna. She returned tenaciously to her subject. "There are many homeless families who weren't welcome where they had to go after the fire. Mary Holmes says her mother took in four people and she says as long as they stay there'll have to be stews, for in that way a pound of meat goes further, and Mary just hates stews."

"Well, what is your suggestion of a remedy, Suzanna?" asked Mr. Bartlett. At which question, though put in words beyond her, Suzanna's eyes brightened. She caught the sense unerringly and answered promptly.

"Why, I thought you could do something. You have so much room." And then the solution came, out of the sky as often answers came when you didn't expect them. "Why, you could put tents up in your big yards for the homeless people, till their own homes are built again."

Mr. Bartlett was greatly amused. "You ask such a little thing, Suzanna."

"Yes, isn't it, seeing it'll help out so much?" Suzanna returned innocently.

Graham rose and went close to his father. "Father," he said, "who's going to build the new homes for the poor people?"

His father answered: "I don't know, I'm sure; but I should think it old John Massey's duty to do so."

"Father," asked Graham, after a pause given over to thought and drawing on his memory for what vague facts he knew of his father's business, "if you take less money for your interests in the mill and if you speak to him, do you suppose Mr. Massey would begin at once to build those homes?" His young face was quite white with earnestness and other new emotions struggling up to the surface.

Mr. Bartlett looked from one small face to the other. He smiled grimly. They could see nothing but the humanness of a situation, the need existing. Going against all precedent meant nothing to them; they simply followed ridiculous altruistic impulses. Only in their minds was the knowledge that other people were suffering; and the immediate necessity for relief.

He let his hand fall upon his son's shoulder. "How about the trip abroad, Graham?" There was an under meaning in his question which Graham got at once. His face lit.

"I'd rather help out here, father, and give up the trip. I really would."

Mr. Bartlett remained quiet for a long time again. In some mysterious manner he was now for almost the first time looking upon his son as an individual, one with opinions and the power of criticism. And there grew in his heart the very fervent desire to stand well in that son's estimation. He looked at Suzanna and envied her father. How proudly, how simply she had said, "He is a great man!"

But when he spoke, he reverted to a name used a moment before by Suzanna, a name he knew well.

"Who's your very philosophic friend, Suzanna—Drusilla, you called her."

Suzanna's eyes shone. "Drusilla? She's my special friend. She lives in a little house on the forked road. She's pretty and sweet and she has fancies, like children. She plays sometimes she's a queen. But she's lonely. She gave Miss Massey to Robert in the little church. And she has no one in all the world left to call her by her first name. So I call her Drusilla and she loves it."

Graham did not stir. Neither did he look at his father till Suzanna, suddenly remembering, cried out:

"Why, Drusilla's Graham's grandmother!"

Mr. Bartlett's face suddenly went very white. He didn't speak for a long time. Then he rose and went to the window, drew back the silken curtain and stared out.

Suzanna wondered if he would ever move again! At the moment he was far away. He was a boy again at his mother's knee, listening to that fanciful conception of the little silver chain that stretched so far. There rushed in on him, too, other memories, blinding ones that hurt. True, every day at the little house a spray of lilies of the valley were delivered; but with that impersonal gift which cost him nothing but the drawing of a check he had dismissed his mother from his busy mind, letting her stay in loneliness, live in old dreams.

A soft little swish was heard at the door and Mrs. Bartlett entered the room. She stopped in some consternation at sight of the silent trio within.

"Why, what is the matter?" she asked, impulsively.

Mr. Bartlett turned from the window. He looked at his wife, steadily regarded her beautiful face and bronze-colored hair piled high upon her small and regal head. His gaze sought the soft, white hands, the tapered fingers with pink and shining nails.

At last he spoke, very quietly, but each word seemed weighed: "'And in the morning there shall tents suddenly arise.' A quotation from somewhere, my dear, but it shall come true here."

She turned a cold gaze upon him. "Will you explain what you mean?" she asked.

"There are a few homeless people in Anchorville; their homes laid waste by a fire," he said, pleasantly. "This small messenger has suggested that we make use of our ample grounds for a time by putting up tents, for a time, I say, till more substantial abiding places may be built."

She clenched her hands. "You can't do that, Graham," she began, a note of entreaty in her voice; "you can't possibly be so absurdly quixotic."

"And why not?"

"I can't understand!" she repeated. "Such philanthropic ideas have not occurred to you before."

He went to her, standing so he could look into her eyes. "It's late in the day, but I'll try to do some little thing my mother would like me to do."

Mrs. Bartlett was about to speak again in burning protest when her glance fell upon the children, Suzanna and her own boy. And the eloquent expressions upon those small faces kept her silent. At last she turned as though to leave the room. Over her shoulder she spoke.

"At least you will not insist upon my presence here while you fulfill your preposterous plans?"

He replied gently: "As always, I ask nothing that you cannot give in perfect freedom."

She hesitated, was about to say something, stopped and took another subject: "As for your mother—"

He interrupted her, but to repeat "As for my mother—" but he left his thought unfinished.

Then he, too, went toward the door, and as he passed Suzanna he let his fine, nervous hand touch her bright hair. Once he turned. "Suzanna, as I told you," he said, "David, my fine gardener, has interested me somewhat in your father's machine; perhaps I'll make a journey to your home some day to see it."



CHAPTER XX

DRUSILLA SETS OUT ON A JOURNEY

When Suzanna, returning home on wings, opened the front door, she heard voices in the kitchen. And there, as she entered, she saw Mrs. Reynolds engaged in reading aloud the directions on a paper pattern. Suzanna, full of her story, waited almost impatiently until Mrs. Reynolds had finished.

Then she burst forth: "Oh, mother, Graham Bartlett's father's going to make tent homes in his yard for the poor people."

Mrs. Procter, leaning over the kitchen table, selected a pin from an ornate pin cushion and inserted it carefully in the pattern under her hand before turning an incredulous eye upon her daughter.

"It's for his mother's sake," continued Suzanna, who had grasped the spiritual meaning of Mr. Bartlett's offer.

Mrs. Reynolds was the first to voice her surprise. "Why, that man, to my knowledge, has never taken any real interest in anything. Reynolds says he just draws big dividends out of the mill, runs about from one interest to another, and cares really naught for anyone."

"Oh, but he's very kind, Mrs. Reynolds," Suzanna objected. "As soon as he knew his yards were too big to waste and that his mother would love to have him do good, he told his wife he meant to put up tents till new homes were built."

Mrs. Procter cast a knowing look above Suzanna's head. Mrs. Reynolds caught it and sent back a tender smile. "Out of the mouths of babes," she began, when Maizie entered. In her tow were the two shy little orphans.

Maizie spoke at once to Mrs. Reynolds. "I knew you were still here, Mrs. Reynolds," she said; "I can always tell your funny laugh."

Mrs. Reynolds laughed again. "Well, little girl," she said, "did you want something from me?"

Maizie nodded vigorously. Her face was very stern. "Yes, please," she answered. "I want you to take these bad orphans home with you. They're cross and hateful and I don't want them to stay here any more."

The two orphans stood downcast, the small boy holding tight to his sister's hand, listening in silence to their arraignment. Mrs. Procter, shocked, interposed: "Why, Maizie, Maizie girl!"

But Maizie went on. "You can't be kind to them; they won't let you. And I had to slap the girl orphan."

The one alluded to thrust her small fist in her eye. Her slight body shook with sobs. Suzanna's heart was moved. She addressed her sister vigorously. "That isn't the way to treat people who are weary and homeless, Maizie Procter," she began. "You ought to be kindest in the whole world to sorry ones!"

Maizie paused. She understood perfectly her sister's reference. "When the Man with the halo picked you out of everybody and smiled on you, you ought to be good to all little children that He loves," pursued Suzanna.

"Not to little children who won't play and who won't be kind," said Maizie. But her voice was low. She turned half reluctantly to the orphans and looked steadily at them, as though trying to produce in herself a warmer glow for them.

They did not stir under the look. "But naughty children have to be made good even if you have to slap them, Suzanna," said Maizie pleadingly.

"But not by you, Maizie," said Suzanna; "you never can slap or be cross. I have a bad temper and sometimes get mad. But because of what you are You always have to be loving and kind."

Awe crept into Maizie's eyes. It was a great moment for her, little child that she was. She was to remember all her days that she was as one set apart to be loving and kind. She gazed solemnly back at Suzanna, as she dwelt upon the miraculous truth of her heritage.

At last Maizie turned. "Mrs. Reynolds," she said, "our Suzanna once adopted herself out to you, didn't she?"

Mrs. Reynolds bestowed a soft look upon Suzanna. "She did that, the lamb, and often enough I've thought of that day."

"You liked her for your little girl because you haven't any of your own?" pursued Maizie.

Mrs. Reynolds nodded, and Maizie sighed her relief.

"Well, then, we'll adopt these orphans out to you, Mrs. Reynolds. I'm sorry for them now, and I know I ought to be kind to them, but it will be easier for me if you have them. I think you'd be awfully happy with two real children of your very own."

No one spoke. The little boy, laggard usually in movement, looked up quickly at Mrs. Reynolds. He knew that Maizie found it difficult to be patient with him, and that therefore she was offering him and his sister to the kind-looking lady.

"We like them pretty well, but we'd rather you'd have them," Maizie went on generously but with unswerving purpose. "And till you get used to children I'll come over every day and wash and dress them."

Mrs. Reynolds' face was growing pinker and pinker. She continued gazing at the boy and the girl, and from them back to Suzanna, her favorite. But whatever emotions surged through her she found for the moment no words to express them. At last she spoke in a whimsical way.

"It's not much you're asking, little girl, to take and raise and educate two growing children on Reynolds' wages." And then she blushed furiously and glanced half apologetically at Mrs. Procter. For what, indeed, was Mrs. Procter's work? With superb defiance toward mathematical rules, she was daily engaged in proving that though those rules contended that two and two make four, if you have backbone and ingenuity two and two make five, and could by stretching be compelled to make six.

"I must be going," said Mrs. Reynolds. She gathered up carefully the paper pattern, folded its long length into several pieces, opened her hand bag and thrust the small package within. "Thank you for your help, Mrs. Procter. I think I can manage nicely now," she said, as she snapped the bag together.

Mrs. Procter repeated the conversation to her husband that evening, as, the children in bed, they sat together in the little parlor. "And it might be the most wonderful happening in the world, both for the poor children and for Mrs. Reynolds," said Mrs. Procter.

Mr. Procter did not answer. His wife, watching him keenly, realized that he was troubled. She put down her sewing. "Tell me, Richard, what's gone wrong," she said.

He hesitated, caught her hand, held it tight. "I might as well tell you, dear. John Massey has bought out Job Doane's hardware shop."

"Bought him out?"

"Yes. No one seems to know why. He paid a good price and he'll probably sell again. I don't know, I'm sure."

He pressed his hand wearily to his head. "What's to be done, dear? What's to be done? There's no other opening for me in Anchorville."

She rallied to help him as always. "At least we'll not meet trouble till it's full upon us. There's always some way found."

And, as always, he brightened beneath her touch, let hope spring again within his heart. "Shall you work upstairs tonight?" she asked, knowing that companionship with his beloved machine closed his mind to other matters.

"If you will come upstairs with me," he said. "Can you leave your mending? I want you close by."

She felt strongly and joyously his need of her. "I will come," she said.

They were on the way upstairs, treading carefully that the lightest sleeper, Suzanna, might not be awakened, when the hurried peal came at the front door. They stopped. "Go on to the attic," said Mrs. Procter; "it's perhaps Mrs. Reynolds come to borrow something," so Mr. Procter went on. Mrs. Procter ran lightly down.

She opened the front door to David. Near him stood Graham and behind, his tail wagging furiously, Peter's dog, Jerry. David began at once.

"Mr. Bartlett's mother was taken ill suddenly. Mr. Bartlett is with her. She is begging to see the little Suzanna."

"Come in," said Mrs. Procter, flinging the door wide. And as they entered and stood all three in the hall, the dog feeling himself now in his new character as welcome as his human companions, she finished: "Suzanna's asleep."

"My father wished greatly you would allow Suzanna to go to my grandmother, though it is late," put in Graham.

"Could she be awakened?" asked David. And by the expression in his eyes Mrs. Procter understood that this wish of Drusilla's should not be denied.

The dog, feeling entreaty in the air, sat down and raised his voice. It was a penetrative voice, too, filling the house with its echoes, echoes that scarcely died away before a soft call came:

"Mother—mother—"

Mrs. Procter smiled at David. "There, Suzanna is awake. Jerry accomplished what he wished. I'll go upstairs and dress her quickly."

So it was that the little girl flushed, starry-eyed, appeared with her mother a little later. Her dramatic senses were alert. "Isn't it lovely and important," she began at once to David, "that Drusilla wants to see me when it's away into the night?"

"Very important," said David, but he did not smile. "Are you quite ready now?"

"Yes," said Suzanna and slipped her hand within Graham's. "Are you going too, Graham?"

"Yes. David's driving the light cart."

The night was cool, but there were big rugs in the cart. David bundled Suzanna up till only her vivid face looked out. As they went swiftly she gazed up at the stars and the soft dark sky. She loved the night fragrances, and the rustle of the dead leaves as lazy little winds stirred them.

They came very soon to Drusilla's home. David alighted, unwound Suzanna, lifted her down to the ground very carefully, Graham following slowly. David tied his horse, gave the animal a comradely pat, bade the dog remain in the cart, and then the three went on to the house. The door opened immediately for them, a light streaming out from within. The sweet-faced maid, Letty, who had been crying, ushered them in.

"I'll wait downstairs," said David.

Letty nodded, and with the children went upstairs.

They stopped when they reached the open doorway of Drusilla's bedroom. And seated in a big velvet chair, as usual drawn near the window, though the shade was pulled straight down, pillows heaped all about her, sat Drusilla. Her face seemed small, oh, pitiably small, with bright eyes quite too large for their place. But someway Suzanna, looking in, knew that Drusilla was happy.

Perhaps because, kneeling beside her, his head buried in her lap, was her son.

Her thin fingers strayed through his hair, and her tremulous voice murmured to him just as it had when as a very small, very penitent boy he had knelt in the same way, sure of her understanding, very, very sure of her love.

The picture remained for the moment, then the man kneeling, stirred and rose to his feet. He stood looking down at his mother, till impelled by a sound in the doorway he turned and saw the children.

They came forward then into the softly lighted room.

"Drusilla!" Suzanna cried, going straight to the frail figure seated in the velvet chair. "You wanted to see me, didn't you?"

"I did that, little girl," Drusilla answered. "I wanted to tell you that the land of sunshine and love is close at hand where I shall meet my king and be parted no more."

"And where you'll reign queen?" cried Suzanna, delighted.

The old head flung itself up; the faded eyes blazed; the frail figure straightened itself. "Ay, queen!" She turned to Graham, who had approached and stood regarding her, his boyish face agleam with love and a little longing, and a little sadness, for he knew better than Suzanna the great change at hand. "Who stands there?" she asked.

He answered at once: "A courtier, my Queen."

She smiled. "Approach closer then," she said with a wave of her hand. But her eyes were on Suzanna. "My favorite princess," she said softly, letting her hand fall upon the small head. "She came first one day when the flowers were all in color. She listened to me, and believed my stories of the land where I once dwelt—with my king and my young prince, who afterwards forgot me."

A sob came from the throat of the man standing near. He buried his face in his hands. A white-clad nurse came tiptoeing in, looked at her patient, nodded reassuringly and went out again.

"I knew you were a queen, Drusilla," said Suzanna, "because you were so beautiful, and so haughty." She leaned forward till her young face was very close to the old fading one. "And you told me something that day about the chain that binds everybody in the world to everyone else. I've never forgotten that. I've told lots of people about it."

"Yes, yes, I remember."

"And I told that story to the Eagle Man, and to Graham's father, and he's going to have tents put up in his yard for some poor people who have no homes, for your sake, Drusilla."

The frail figure suddenly fell back. "Drusilla! Who calls me that?" The pale lips trembled. "Many, many years have gone since I heard that name."

The man cried out: "Mother dear—Mother dear!"

She turned her eyes upon him. The light of recognition slowly returned to them. "My boy," she said gently. "Come, sit beside me. All three. The little girl who loves me, and you and your child, my grandson."

So they settled themselves, all at her knee. "Mother, dear, did you hear what Suzanna said? Your story of the chain awakened me."

"Awakened you, my boy? But that story and others I told you many years ago, and you forgot."

The tears, hard-wrung, started to his eyes. "But, mother," he said in a low voice, "is it too late? Those truths I learned many years ago from you—is it too late to use them now?" He let his head fall suddenly upon her knee: "Oh, mother, mother, how blind are men; what false gods they worship!"

She did not answer. Graham, a great pity sprung in his heart for his father, spoke: "Father's good, grandmother! He does lots of kind things for people. And he's going to take care of many families whose homes were burned."

"In your name, mother, as Suzanna says," said the man, lifting his head. "And many, many other righteous things in your name, my mother."

Her face grew luminous, with a light lent from some far place. "My boy—my little son—" she whispered.

The white-clad nurse came in again, looked sharply at her patient. "I think," she said softly, "you must all leave now."

So they rose. But Suzanna, after saying farewell, turned again. The nurse was arranging the bed. Drusilla sat, her eyes looking off into the distance. Suzanna went swiftly back.

"Is the land you're going to very beautiful, Drusilla?" she whispered.

"Fairer than you may dream, little girl," Drusilla returned. And then: "Kiss me, Suzanna, and call me Drusilla once more."

Suzanna kissed the soft, wrinkled cheek. "Good-bye, Drusilla," she breathed. "I love you with all my heart, and I'm coming to see you again very soon."



CHAPTER XXI

MR. BARTLETT SEES THE MACHINE

But Suzanna did not go to see her friend Drusilla again. For within a few days after the hurried night visit, Drusilla set off on her journey. There was but one with her when she left, all aquiver to be gone, her eyes set in the distance on visions hid from earthly eyes.

Her boy was close beside her, his arms about her, his heart filled with woe for all the years he had forgotten. And when he kissed her and begged her forgiveness, she was all love and understanding for him, even as when a small boy he had sought her forgiveness and her understanding.

The tents were up now in the big Bartlett grounds. Tents with floors and movable stoves. Children played about the grounds on the rare sunny day that Drusilla went away.

Mr. Bartlett, returning from his mother's bedside, went hurriedly through his grounds, and on upstairs to his own room. There, waiting for him, was Graham. The boy knew at once the truth.

"Father," he cried, and put his arms about the tall figure.

They stood so, the man finding comfort in the contact of his boy. And so Mrs. Bartlett, returned temporarily from a journey, found them.

She started back at sight of them thus together. They seemed in their new intimacy to have shut her out, quite out of their lives. "I've been looking for you, Graham," she began, and then caught her breath sharply at the look the boy gave her; not a premeditated cold look, only one that he might bestow upon a stranger.

"Father has just come home," he said; "grandmother—"

But he did not finish. He saw that his mother understood that Drusilla had gone away. Mr. Bartlett spoke to his wife. "I heard this morning that you had returned to stay for a day. I'm afraid the tents and the children will still disfigure our grounds for some time."

His bitterness made her wince. But she answered calmly. "Yes, I returned while you were absent."

"For a day, as I was told?"

"My plans must change now of necessity—my trip to Italy—"

"Why?" he asked. "Nothing that has happened need interfere with any of your plans, your mode of living. My mother would not wish that."

She broke forth then, the color surging up into her face. "Why are you so unjust to me? Did I suggest that you neglect your mother? You could not expect me to take your place."

"No—" he spoke sadly. "No, I could not expect that. Believe me, please, when I say that I put blame on no one but myself. Money—that has been the main thing in life. Money, and more money. There was always need for all I could make." His eyes swept her lovely gown; the costly cape across her arm. Thought, much money, much time had gone into building her perfect completeness. "No. A man cannot expect another, even a wife, to fulfill his sacred obligations."

Perhaps the thought came to her that a wife need not ask so much, ask so demandingly that a man must yield his finest dreams, his every hour to fulfill her wishes. The color deepened and deepened in her cheek. Perhaps she remembered their first months together when in the grayest days he saw color, because they belonged one to the other.

They had both forgotten Graham. She looked at the boy now. He stood regarding her with that strange aloofness in his eyes, that sharp question. She felt all at once very lonely.

For Graham, she knew, was estranged from her! And now she knew that she desired most of all his love in all its purity. Her social strivings, her desire for leadership balanced against Graham's former worshipful, chivalrous love for her, dwindled to a pitiful insignificance.

And with the value of her child's love, she suddenly realized the older mother's longings—the one who had just gone on. An old mother—in her full years mourning for the child she had borne, nursed, and succored. Grieving, that in his manhood he had gone from her; that he had seemingly forgotten in his feverish striving after wealth the lessons she had sought to teach him.

Was the wife to blame for this? But some stern sense of justice derided her efforts to exculpate herself. She remembered how she had held the power to influence him in the early days of their marriage; he had believed so wonderfully in the whiteness of her ideals. He was malleable material in her fingers.

But above and beyond his love she had put wealth and fine position. He had given her both, but now before her stood her husband and son estranged from her.

She moved away at last. With new awakening power of perception, she felt she was stripped of everything of worth. When she was half-way down the wide hall she heard a step behind her. She paused, waited, and in a moment Graham was beside her.

He put his hand in hers. "Mother," he said, quietly.

Her eyes filled with the near tears. She clung to his hand as though he would protect her against her own bitter thoughts.

"Does your head ache?" he asked. There was solicitude in his voice, but still that strange, dreadful aloofness, more dreadful because he was not conscious of it.

"No," she answered. She looked down at him and out of an impulse she cried: "Do you still love me, Graham?"

"I love you, mother," he answered gravely. But she knew then that there would be work on her part before once again she stood to him his ideal.

She had dwelt in the core of his heart; perhaps in time she could once more move near to that sanctified place. The intimate human relation, husband and wife, parent and child—she knew with pain and yearning that all else—position, great wealth, worldly power—were vain beside the joy of those relations in their purest.

* * * * *

Perhaps a week later Suzanna was washing the supper dishes, and Maizie wiping them. Their mother was upstairs with Peter and the baby, Mr. Procter in the attic. As Maizie finished the last dish, the door bell rang.

Suzanna ran to the foot of the stairs.

"Oh, mother, shall I answer?" she cried.

"I wish you would," Mrs. Procter called down. "Peter has a stone bruise and I'm using liniment."

So Suzanna went to the front door. She opened it to Mr. Bartlett.

"Good evening, Suzanna," he said in a friendly voice. "Is your father at home?"

"He's upstairs in the attic. Shall I take you to him?" asked Suzanna very politely.

"Perhaps you'd better consult him first as to that, Suzanna. He may not wish to be disturbed."

"Well, I will. Won't you sit down in the parlor?"

Mr. Bartlett, half smiling, followed the small figure into the room designated. He looked about interestedly after Suzanna had gone. A kerosene lamp set upon a center table sent an apologetic light over the shabby furniture. Above the mantel with its velvet cover and statuette of a crying baby, was a picture of Suzanna, a "crayon," Mr. Bartlett amusingly surmised. The small face looked out with a distorted artificial smile quite unknown to the face it sought to represent. Yet Suzanna's aura was visible, Mr. Bartlett thought. That little girl who so simply and lovingly had called his mother Drusilla because no one in the world was left to do so! A fragrance straight from his heart made the ugly crayon suddenly a thing of beauty, showing forth a child's soul.

Suzanna returned, panting a little. She had run upstairs and down again. "Father wants you to go right up," she said. "And maybe when I've finished the dishes I'll come back, too."

So he followed her up the narrow stairs. Suzanna gravely told him that every other step creaked, except if you put your foot carefully in the middle. At the attic door she left him.

Mr. Procter looked up as his visitor entered. "I'm glad to see you, Mr. Bartlett," he said cordially. "It's not very light in here, but we can see to talk. Sit down."

Mr. Bartlett took the proffered chair. He looked about the dim room and could see in outline the machine.

"David has told you something of my invention, I remember and its object," said Mr. Procter.

"Yes, David has told me," Mr. Bartlett replied. "You're attempting a tremendously big thing, Mr. Procter. David told me about the colors and your theory of their meaning."

"Yes. Did David tell you, too, that my daughter Suzanna produced on the plate of the machine purple and gold? In my book I had written down . . . 'Purple: high talent for writing.'"

Mr. Bartlett hesitated a moment before replying.

"But it hasn't been proven that Suzanna can write. You will have to wait a few years for evidence."

"True, still she is talented. I may dare say that even though I happen to be her father. She possesses an insatiable curiosity concerning life, the divine birthright of the artist, the creator."

"Still I'm not convinced that such a machine as David drew for me is possible," said Mr. Bartlett. "I can understand that if you place a person in contact with an instrument and proceed to change his circulation by arousing his emotions that chemical change might be registered upon a sensitive plate. But how can a mere machine be so miraculous as to show forth by color or any other method one's 'meaning'? It's too big for my imagination, that's all. There are so many parts that go to make up a human being, so many points in his favor for a certain line of work, so many against it."

Still the inventor did not speak. And so Mr. Bartlett continued: "There's a man's state of health, his sympathies, his hereditary tendencies; all to be considered."

"Well, you see," Mr. Procter answered at last, "the elements you enumerate are but results of evolution, of environment, of education, and do not alter the purpose for which the man was born. And that purpose, even though given no chance to work itself out, is so vital a part of the man that it remains an undying flame going on into eternity."

Mr. Bartlett did not answer.

"Will you let me make a color test of you, Mr. Bartlett?" the inventor asked at length.

"Yes, though I am very skeptical."

He seated himself before the machine. Mr. Procter let the helmet down till it was just above the subject's head. "You see no part of the instrument touches you," he said. "There's no opportunity to say that chemical changes in the circulation are the cause of the color produced. Now please watch the glass plate." Mr. Bartlett did as directed. For some moments the plate remained clear, then rays of color played upon it.

"Green, a rare, soft green," said Mr. Procter. He went on slowly but without hesitation. "The color of poetry. That color belongs in one who lies on the grass and gazes at the sky—and dreams; dreams to waken men's souls with the beauty of his music—a poet, a maker of songs, to uplift, to keep man's eyes from the ground."

The light faded, the little clicking sound ceased, and yet Mr. Bartlett did not speak. If in his mind there dwelt the memory of an overstuffed drawer with reams of paper covered with verses, he said nothing. His face gave no evidence to the inventor of his thoughts.

At last he roused himself, shrugged his shoulders. "My dear man," he said, "did you ever hear of a poet at heart making a fortune as I have done?"

"It could be done," returned Mr. Procter sadly, "even by a poet."

Mr. Bartlett rose. "I did not aver," continued Mr. Procter, "that you could only be a poet. I said that your real meaning was to give to the world the rare visions which grew in your heart."

Mr. Bartlett gazed with some astonishment at the machine.

"The day when Suzanna was born, as I stood looking down at her, the thought came winging to me that she had come charged with a purpose which she alone could fulfill. And so was planted the first seed in my mind for the making of my machine."

Mr. Bartlett spoke again after a silence given to some pondering.

"Still, Procter, have you thought how impractical the machine must prove to be? The world is after all as it is. Suppose a man, a poor young man, has a rare gift. He must eat to live; he may have to support others. How is he going to develop that gift?"

The inventor's face was suddenly filled with a fine light. He laid his hand on Mr. Bartlett's arm. "There, sir, as I told John Massey, is where the capitalist seeking to invest his money in the highest way finds his great chance. He helps that young man to live in comfort while he is developing his talent."

"Well," said Mr. Bartlett, "it's all very interesting, and if you will let me, I'll do all I can to help you. We can talk of that at some other time." He paused, and then said: "I hear John Massey has bought out the hardware store here. I can't understand his object, but you may lose your position. Have you thought of what you could do in that event?"

"No, I haven't."

"I came primarily to see your machine," Mr. Bartlett continued, "but I had another object too. You know I have had tents put up in my yard for those who were made homeless by the fire. And now I find it necessary to go away in order to attend to some large interests. Can I make you my steward over these people—at a salary, while I am away?

"There will be enough for you to do," continued Mr. Bartlett. "My wife is away; my boy Graham will soon be in the city with his tutor. I shall be back here before the severe weather sets in and see that these people in some way are comfortably housed and provided for; but in the meantime I want you."

"I'll be glad to do all I can," said Mr. Procter at last; then fervently, "and thank you."

Someone knocked softly, and Suzanna entered. "This special letter came for you, daddy," she said. "Mother said I might bring it up to you."

Mr. Procter took the letter, looked curiously at it before tearing it open. He glanced through its contents, held it a second while he looked away then he went through it again. It ran:

Dear Procter:

You've known for some time that Job Doane is running the hardware shop in my interest. I bought the place for a future purpose, never mind that purpose, it isn't of interest to you or anyone in Anchorville. I am confined to my room with an attack of rheumatism, so I can't see you to talk over a scheme which I have in mind. I will say that I have concluded all arrangements to rebuild homes for the men and their families who were burned out some time ago, and I want you to act as my agent. No sentiment in building these up-to-date houses, let me assure you. Only perhaps I've given some thought to Suzanna's little wrist chain. Come to me within a day or two and we'll talk over salary, and other things of interest to you.

Yours, John Massey.

Suzanna plunged into the ensuing quiet. "Is there any answer, daddy?" she asked.

Mr. Procter looked at his small daughter through a mist, then at Mr. Bartlett still standing regarding him somewhat curiously. "No, no answer," he said at last, "but I want to see your mother—right away."



BOOK III



CHAPTER XXII

HAPPY DAYS

Summer once again, with the flowers abloom and all the richness of the season scattered lavishly about. The Procter house seemed more colorful too, perhaps because it had acquired within some late months a new coat of paint.

Once inside if you were familiar enough to go upstairs, you could not find the steps which had been wont to creak. And peeping into the parlor you could see that some pretty new furniture had taken the place of the shaky old lounge and chairs; one good marine picture hung between the windows and a new rug lay upon the hardwood floor.

Two years had gone since the fire, two years bringing some changes. Suzanna had shot up. She was a tall, slim girl now, though with the same dark, questioning eyes. She stood one Saturday morning in the kitchen making a cake, yes, actually stirring the mixture all by herself in the brown earthen vessel.

Her mother, hovering near, was offering comment and a few directions. Between times she attended to the "baby," a baby no longer since he was nearly four years old. Maizie, coming in from the yard with Peter behind her, stopped short at sight of Suzanna's work.

"When can I make a cake, mother?" she asked. Her small face was as plump, as childlike as ever. The same sweetness of expression was hers, the same admiration in her eyes for her "big" sister.

"When you're as old as Suzanna, I guess, Maizie," Mrs. Procter answered. "What did Mrs. Reynolds say?"

Peter answered before Maizie could speak, thereby gaining a reproving look from her. "She's coming over to see you, mother. She says she wants to ask you something, anyway." Peter went to the door, gave a sharp whistle, a sharper direction and returned. "Jerry's out there. Graham Bartlett's opened up his house, and David's brought my dog back."

Still Peter's dog, you see. "Oh, I want to see Jerry, may he come in, mother?" Suzanna asked.

Mrs. Procter nodded. She was now engaged in giving the four-year-old his ten o'clock luncheon of bread and milk. "But don't let him get into anything, Peter," she admonished.

Peter promised, with a sigh in his heart for the tenacious prejudices of woman. Jerry at a word entered the kitchen door. He came in slowly, paused and regarded Mrs. Procter searchingly. He was a handsome animal now. His coat was well brushed, his hair long and glossy.

"Well," said Mrs. Procter, "you've been taught good manners, Jerry."

He wagged his tail vigorously; then further to show himself off, he sat down and held out a beguiling paw to Mrs. Procter. Maizie cried out in delight.

"Oh, can't we keep him now, mother? Isn't he cunning?"

Peter turned quickly upon his sister. "Would that be fair?" he sternly asked. His voice deepened suddenly. "You wouldn't, any one of you, even look at him when he was poor and dirty and afraid. And now after David has loved him and washed him and taught him how to behave, you want to keep him. Come along, Jerry."

Having thus delivered himself, Peter, with dignity, stalked from out the kitchen. He left an eloquent silence behind him. "Should we have kept the dog when he was dirty and lonely, mother?" asked Maizie, interestedly.

"Why, I don't think so, Maizie," Mrs. Procter answered slowly. "Really, you remember I'd had so much trouble that summer with stray dogs of Peter's that my patience was at an end."

Maizie was forming another question when she was interrupted by a hearty knock at the door.

"Come in," Suzanna cried. She was testing the oven as her mother had taught her and she turned a very important, if badly flushed, face to the visitor.

"I'm baking a chocolate cake, Mrs. Reynolds," she announced.

"Fine, Suzanna," cried Mrs. Reynolds heartily. She advanced to the middle of the kitchen. Two beautiful children both with large dark eyes and dark curls, exquisitely clean, followed her.

Mrs. Reynolds was a little plumper, and with a softness in her eyes which seemed of recent growth. She lifted the smaller child, the girl, upon a kitchen chair, watched the boy in his pilgrimage after the darting cat, and began:

"I'm glad to help with the christening robe for the Massey grandson, Mrs. Procter," she said; "and I think 'tis a fine idea—sort of community dress made by those who liked Miss Massey."

"I thought you'd like the idea, Mrs. Reynolds," said Mrs. Procter. "Here, take this chair."

Mrs. Reynolds sat down. "The fine boy you have there," she said, indicating the "baby," "he's a bit like Suzanna."

"We all think he's very much like his eldest sister," said Mrs. Procter. She raised the small boy and held him close for a moment. When she put him down, he wandered off toward the popular cat.

"I wanted to ask you, Mrs. Procter," said Mrs. Reynolds, "what material you think will make up best for a Sunday dress for Margaret here." She paused, smiled, and flashing a mischievous glance at Suzanna, finished, "It'll have to have lace, says Margaret, and I suppose she'll want the goods cut away from underneath."

Suzanna, perched near the oven door watching the precious cake, turned to look at Mrs. Reynolds. A flame lit within her eyes; she had never forgotten the anguish engendered by her mother's refusal to cut away the goods from under the pink dress; then the expression softened. Was it not on that occasion, too, she had learned the dearness of that same mother?

"There, now," said Mrs. Reynolds, "I shouldn't have teased you, Suzanna." Her eyes grew tender. "I'd never have thought seriously of adopting my little children here, dear lamb, if you hadn't first adopted yourself out to me."

Suzanna's face grew luminous. "Oh, do you mean that, Mrs. Reynolds?" she cried.

"I do just that, every word, Dear Heart. Why, the night I put you to bed and you called me 'mother' I shall never forget, never. And then the truths you spoke to Reynolds!"

"He's happy now, isn't he?" asked Mrs. Procter.

Mrs. Reynolds paused impressively before answering: "Do you know," she said at length, "he forgets often to remember that the children are not his very own. The little Margaret there creeps into his lap nights, calls him daddy, and melts the heart of him. And the boy with his quaintness, follows him about the house on Saturdays, and Reynolds says often enough: 'He'll be a great man, this chap, Peggy. He says some of the things I thought when I was his age.' He's taken to calling me Peggy since the children came to make a distinction, the little girl bearing my name, you see."

Mrs. Procter nodded. Margaret stirred uneasily on her chair. "Mother," she asked, "I want to hold the Pussy, too. I'll keep my apron clean."

"And that you shall, my Sweet," said Mrs. Reynolds, her face flushing at the title as though it would never grow old to her; "come then, go to the cat, my pretty lass."

Suzanna removed her cake from the oven. It was a beautiful object, and Suzanna regarded it with pride. She took off her apron, looked around the kitchen and then turning to her mother, put her request.

"Mother," she said, "I'd like to go to the big house and see the Eagle Man and Miss Massey."

"Saturday morning?" asked Mrs. Procter, dubiously. "Well, I suppose that it won't really matter."

"I'm going to see Daphne," Maizie announced.

"Remember to be at home by noon," said Mrs. Procter. "Father may be here for luncheon."

"I'll remember, mother," said Suzanna. She kissed her mother, said good-bye to Mrs. Reynolds and started happily away. She reached the house at the top of the hill in a short time. The same uniformed man as of old gave her immediate admittance.

"Mr. Massey is in the library," he said, evincing no surprise at Suzanna's unconventional appearance.

In the doorway of the library Suzanna hesitated a moment, for the sound of voices came to her. Then she went forward, and there, standing near the white marble mantelpiece was the Eagle Man, near him Suzanna's father.

"Daddy," Suzanna cried, and ran to him.

Mr. Procter turned. His face, slightly older than when he was an employee of Job Doane of the hardware shop, was still that of the idealist, the lover of men. Yet there was a something added. Perhaps his well-fitting clothes gave him the new air of efficiency, of directness.

"I didn't know you'd be here with the Eagle Man, daddy," Suzanna cried.

Her father smiled at her. The Eagle Man spoke. "Your father is my right-hand man, remember, little girl," he answered. He brought out the sentence clearly with no strain of embarrassment.

"Right-hand man," Suzanna repeated thoughtfully. "I don't quite know what that means."

"Well, it means that your father looks after my interests in a very capable way," old John Massey returned. "Don't you remember how the new homes went up under his direction for my employees?"

"Yes, I remember," said Suzanna, "those beautiful new, brick houses, and the clean yards for the babies to play in."

"And now your father is in my mill as my superintendent, looking after the men." He paused. "How would you describe your way with them, Mr. Procter?"

"Looking after them humanly, perhaps," put in Mr. Procter simply.

"All right, we'll let it go just that way. In any event if you're making them happier by shifting them about a bit, trying to fit them by natural adaptability to their jobs and so increasing efficiency, I am satisfied with any way you put it."

Mr. Procter stood a little ill at ease. It was so very rare for old John Massey to so graciously express himself, almost unheard of.

"You see," said the Eagle Man, softly, "I'm using Suzanna as a mask; I'm telling her what I couldn't say to your face, Richard Procter." He stretched out his hand and Richard Procter let his own fall into it. The two men stood thus bound in a spirit of perfect friendship.

Suzanna went on upstairs. She found "Miss Massey" in a large room with pink curtains at the windows, pink rugs on the floor and even pink chairs and sofas. Like a sea shell, Suzanna thought. The baby lay in a beautiful rose-tinted crib drawn near the window, and above the crib the new mother bent.

She turned when Suzanna knocked softly.

"Oh, Suzanna," she cried at once, a glad note in her voice. She ran across the room and enfolded the little visitor close within her arms.

"And you've come back with a baby," Suzanna cried, after a time.

"Yes, come and see him. He's named after my father."

Suzanna went to the cradle and looked down. "He's a nice fat baby," she admitted. She really didn't think that he was pretty, but that she did not say.

"And don't you love Saturday nights when it rains and you're safe indoors with Robert and the baby?" asked Suzanna, interestedly.

"Oh, dear girl, I do, I do. What a picture you painted, and how I've tried to make it true."

"And have you a cross man with buttons to jump at your bidding?" Suzanna pursued.

"No, dear; we have a little home with a garden, where in the summer all the old-fashioned flowers bloom. I do most of my own work, and care altogether for my baby. And I'm happier than ever before in my life. And my father is no longer angry with me. He wrote asking me to pay him a visit after he knew he had a grandson named for him."

She bent above her baby for a moment, then turned her shining face to Suzanna. "And now, tell me about yourself, Suzanna, and your loved ones."

Suzanna paused to think. "Well, you know father doesn't weigh out nails any more; he's the Eagle Man's right-hand man." She remembered the phrase and brought it out roundly. "And father helped build all those nice new homes for the people who work in the Massey Steel Mills.

"My father's a great man," finished Suzanna, simply as always when stating this incontrovertible fact. "And his Machine's nearly ready now for the world to know about it."

"Oh, oh, Suzanna! And then?"

"And then many, many people are going to be happy ever after because my father thought of that machine and worked on it for years and years."

After a moment Suzanna continued: "And my dear, dear Drusilla set off on a far journey and didn't come back. And Graham cried, and went away for a long time, and Bartlett Villa was closed. But they've come back now and it's open again. And David and Daphne are quite well, thank you. And Mrs. Reynolds has two little children of her own."

"I'm so glad," said Robert's wife. "You're a very happy little girl, then, aren't you, dear?"

"Oh, very happy," said Suzanna. "I love so many people, you see. And I have a sister, Maizie, who was once smiled upon by a very great Man." Her listener was puzzled, but she asked no questions. It didn't seem to her the right moment to ask an explanation. Some day she would. But Suzanna told the story of Maizie's rare selection, dwelling upon it with a degree of wondrous awe, for she believed the story now. It stood so clear to her, so real, that it had a fine influence upon her inner life. Often when swift anger surged through her, anger directed against the little sister, she brought to bear a strong control, as she remembered Maizie's great awakening.

She returned to her surroundings in a moment. "I must be going, Miss Massey. I wish you'd come to see us. We've got a lovely new rug in the front room and mother has two new dresses for herself. She is awfully pretty in them."

"I certainly shall come to visit you," Miss Massey promised, kissing the little girl.

Suzanna ran downstairs. She did not stop at the library, fearing she would reach home late for luncheon.

But she was just in time to set the table. Her father had not yet arrived. Mother, of course, was there and with an eager face full of news, delightful news, Suzanna guessed.

"Suzanna, dear, what do you think? Mrs. Graham Woods Bartlett was here during your absence."

"To visit us, mother? Oh, tell me all about it," Suzanna cried.

"She wants to take you and Maizie and Peter to the seashore for a whole month. There, Suzanna! What do you think of that?"

Suzanna stood absolutely still. Then exclaimed: "To the seashore, mother! Why—I don't think I can stand the joy of it. Oh, mother, I'm too happy!"



CHAPTER XXIII

TO THE SEASHORE

Mrs. Graham Woods Bartlett sat in her own perfectly appointed room one morning in late June. She sat quietly, hands folded. She could hear Graham, her son, downstairs beneath her window talking to David and Daphne. She caught disconnected words. They floated to her broken like meaningless flakes of snow.

She had just returned from her call on Mrs. Procter, that impulsive call made on the wings of an impulsive, quixotic thought. There still remained sharp in her memory the picture of the little home; the busy mother, washing out small woolen garments. She had gone unconsciously prepared to patronize and had returned completely shorn of her feeling of superiority. In truth, a little envy for that sweet-faced mother was in her heart.

From the time when her husband's mother died, she had not been happy. Pursuits that hitherto had satisfied her altogether lost their power. New values were slowly born in her. Still possessing a degree of sensibility not killed by her false life, she had been by the attitude of her husband and her son, able to see herself clearly. Both had been dependent upon her in a measure for their happiness, and she had failed them. Their reaction had hurt her bitterly.

She had tried in the past two years to make amends, but some hurts heal slowly. Perhaps it was hard for her husband and son to realize that she was trying to make amends. In any event, each went his separate way, a household divided. Early in the morning had come the thought of the seashore and she had wasted no time in seeking the little home. And now its atmosphere filled her mind.

She heard Daphne's young voice, and a sudden rare pity filled her for the motherless child, her gardener's daughter. She would ask Daphne, too.

She went to seek David, and as she came upon him spading a flower bed, the two children with him, a station carriage stopped before the big iron gates and her husband alighted. He had been away on one of his long trips and was now returning home, unheralded, unexpected.

He came quickly down the path and stopped short at sight of his wife. "I did not think to find you here," he said.

She did not answer at once. He looked closer at her. "You look a bit fagged," he said, uncertainly. Perhaps he felt a softer appeal about her which took him back to their young days together.

"I am a little tired," she said.

"I thought you intended to spend the summer in the East," he went on.

"Strangely, Bartlett Villa held more fascination for me than any other place. I returned here a week ago," she hesitated before continuing. "I obeyed a whim this morning and invited the Procter children to accompany Graham and me to the seashore to spend a month."

He looked at her incredulously. "I—I don't understand," he said.

She returned his gaze, then suddenly she turned from him and hastened back to the house. Many emotions bit at her, among them anger with her husband for his difficulty in believing she had done something which would mean, some trouble to her; which in the days just behind she would have designated as impossible, or "boring."

After a moment he followed her and overtook her as she reached the small side room where Suzanna had once sat telling of the poor people who had been burned out of their homes. She knew he was near her, but she gave no heed. Instead she flung herself down in a near chair and buried her face in her hands.

He stood, looking down at her in silence. At last he let his hand fall gently on her shoulder.

"Ina," he said, softly.

She looked up at him.

"Dear," he went on, "have you and I just been playing at life?"

"Oh, it seems so," she cried. "I know I am unhappy, groping." She stood up and put out her hands to him. He took them, drew her close to him. "Ina," he said, "let me go with you and the children to the seashore. Let's try to know one another better."

A radiance came upon her, filling her eyes. She did not speak, only she held very fast to his hand, as though in the clasp she found an anchor.

There came the glorious summer day marked for the journey to the seashore. Suzanna, Maizie, and Peter waited for the Bartlett carriage which was to convey them to the depot. At last they heard it coming. At last it stood before the gate, and Daphne put her small head out of the carriage window. Then Graham opened the door and sprang to the ground. He said a word to David who was driving, and ran up the path.

Maizie began to dance, Peter to whistle. But Suzanna stood quite still, the glow of anticipation falling from her face.

"Are you quite ready, Suzanna?" asked Mrs. Procter.

At the words Suzanna's control broke. With a little cry she ran into her mother's arms. "Oh, mother, mother," she sobbed, "I can't go away, so far away and leave you—a whole month!"

Mrs. Procter held the small figure close. Her own eyes were wet, but she spoke calmly:

"Why, little girl, mother will be here waiting for your return, and longing to hear all about your good time. Come, dry your eyes and think how happy you're going to be."

"But I know you'll be lonesome, mother, and so shall I be for you."

"But when you grow lonesome," Mrs. Procter whispered, "just think how lovely it will be to return home; and remember that father's machine will be given its great test before you come back. Mr. Bartlett and Mr. Massey have made all arrangements."

Suzanna's face brightened; the clouds dispelled themselves, so she was able to greet Graham with much of her old smile.

"All ready?" he cried as he ran up the steps. "Father and mother and a maid are following in another carriage. Nancy is with us."

He was quite plainly excited by some thought deeper than the mere fact of going to the seashore. Suzanna's companionship was promised for long days to come; he knew her eye for beauty hidden from others; her quaint speech. And then, too, a new relationship had come to pass between himself and his mother. Between them an understanding that made him glow.

It seemed but a moment before they were all together in the train. Suzanna settled herself to look out of the window at the passing landscape, so exhilaratingly new to her. Maizie sat beside her, Peter across the aisle with Graham. Little Daphne was cuddled close to Mrs. Bartlett. Mr. Bartlett was in the dining-car.

Maizie whispered to her sister: "We've come to the future now, haven't we, Suzanna?"

"Why, you can't ever come to the future," returned Suzanna.

Maizie puzzled a moment. "But don't you remember, mother said we might travel on a train some time in the future? So now we're doing it, why haven't we come to the future?"

"Because you never can come to the future," Suzanna repeated. She leaned forward and spoke to Mrs. Bartlett. "When you're living a day it's the present, isn't it, Mrs. Bartlett?"

Mrs. Bartlett looked long at the two children. "Maizie thinks the future an occasion, I think," she said, and then, because lucid explanation was beyond her, she continued: "You know we have a big cottage at the seashore, and the cottage is close to the water."

Maizie it was who at last broke the thrilling silence: "Where there's an ocean? And where you can go wading and swimming?" she cried.

"And will there be sand?" asked Suzanna, hanging upon the answer breathlessly.

"Yes, there's a wide yellow beach running into the ocean where you can dig and build castles all day," said Mrs. Bartlett.

"Oh, my cup is full and runneth over," said Suzanna solemnly.

The train swept on through small towns and the children's delight and amazement increased. And when at noon the climax came, and they all went forward into the dining-car, they were one and all silent. No words great enough were in their vocabulary to express this moment.

Said Mr. Bartlett when they were all seated: "Now, children, you may order just exactly what you'd like. You first, Suzanna."

"Well," she said, without hesitation, "I should like some golden brown toast that isn't burned, with lots of butter on it, and a cup of cocoa with a marshmallow floating on top, and at the very last, a dish of striped ice cream with a cherry right in the middle."

Mr. Bartlett wrote the order rapidly on a card. Each of the children spoke out his deepest, perhaps his long-cherished desire. Some of the dishes were secretly and mercifully modified by Mrs. Bartlett, who sat in enjoyment of the scene.

"It's like a dream, Mrs. Bartlett," said Suzanna when, dinner finished, they were all back once more in the parlor car. "You don't think we'll wake up, do you?"

"No, I think not; you'll simply get wider and wider awake."

But, as the hours crept on and as she watched the flying landscape, the reaction to all her excitement came and a haze fell over everything, and she slept, to awaken some time later, full of contrition.

She spoke anxiously to Mrs. Bartlett: "Oh, I appreciated it all, Mrs. Bartlett, but my eyes just closed down of themselves," she said.

Mrs. Bartlett smiled. "It's a long journey," she said, "but we'll soon see the end of it."

At nine o'clock the train stopped for the first time since dark had fallen. "Here we are," cried Mr. Bartlett. And in a few moments they were all standing on the platform of a little railroad station waiting while carriages were being secured to take them for the night to a hotel nestling on the top of a tall hill.



CHAPTER XXIV

THE SEASHORE

Morning came—a rather misty morning that promised better as the day advanced. Suzanna, sleeping with Maizie in a small room on the second floor of the hotel, woke, gazed about her unfamiliar surroundings, sprang out of bed, and in her bare feet ran to the window. There before her was a magnificent group of mountains, wooded with majestic trees whose tops seemed to touch the sky. Beneath the mountains, just at their feet, a river ran, the sun dancing on its breast. Suzanna held her breath in sheer awe; she could not move even to call Maizie. She felt as though something great out there in the mountains called to her spirit and though she wished to answer she could not do so.

The tapestry spread below the mountains of water and green slopes and velvet meadows sun-kissed too, called to her; the artist in her was keenly, deeply responsive to the call, still she could not answer, only stand and gaze and gaze, and drink in the beauty that stretched before her.

Then old Nancy came with hurrying words, waking Maizie. "We can stay in this town but two hours before our train is due," she said. "So you must dress at once, Suzanna."

So Suzanna dressed in silence, answering none of Maizie's chatter, as though she had been in a far, unexplored country and had returned steeped in the mysteries of that distant land.

Her silence still lay upon her when after breakfast they all set out for a walk around the historic old town. There were babies, happy, dirty babies, playing about doorsteps of one-storied plaster houses, or toddling about the cobble-stoned roads.

The streets were narrow and steep, the roads wide with moss edged in between the wide cracks. Suzanna kept her eyes down; she would not look up at the mountains, and finally Mr. Bartlett, noticing her silence, asked: "Do you like it here, Suzanna?"

"Yes," she said. "But I can't look at the mountains. They take my breath away and make me stand still inside. Maybe some day I'll be able to look straight at them, but not now, and some day when I'm a woman I'm going to come back here and make a poem and set it to a wonderful painting."

He smiled at the way she put it.

"And I," said Maizie, "am going to come back and take care of some of those poor little babies that play alone out on the cobble-stones."

"We'll see," said Mr. Bartlett. "Time alone can tell what you two little girls will do."

Returning to the hotel they found vehicles awaiting them. And shortly they were again on a train, speeding away.

Three hours, and they were at their destination. A short ride in an electric car, a shorter walk down a tree-lined street, and they were at the "cottage."

"A cottage," cried Suzanna, "why it's a big house!"

"Everything is called a cottage down here," said Mrs. Bartlett.

Mr. Bartlett used the brass knocker and its echo reverberated down the street. An elderly Scotch woman, Bessie, who had been long with Mrs. Bartlett's family, met them in the hall, her pleasant face alight with smiles. She said now:

"Everything is ready, and the trunks, I suppose, will be here within a short time."

"What's that sound?" Suzanna asked.

"That's the ocean booming," said Mrs. Bartlett. "Now let's go upstairs and prepare ourselves for luncheon. Nancy will show you children your different rooms."

So upstairs they went, Nancy in the lead. She threw open the door of the bedrooms. Suzanna and Maizie were given one from whose windows the ocean could be seen. Peter had a room all to himself, a small one with a cot which was much to his liking. "It's like camping out," he made himself believe. Graham occupied one next door. Little Daphne was with Mrs. Bartlett.

"There's two closets," cried Maizie, as she went on a tour of investigation. "One for your clothes and one for mine. Sometimes, Suzanna," she said, "I can hardly believe it all yet."

"That's the way I feel," said Suzanna. Nancy appeared at the door bearing snowy towels which she gave to the children. "Here, children," she said, "the bath room is at the end of the hall, and you must hurry."

So Suzanna and Maizie hurried and they were the first downstairs. The house was much more simply furnished, of course, than the big one in Anchorville, but as the children went about they found many interesting things. In one long, narrow room, the length of the first floor, was a fireplace taking up one entire end, and built of irregular stones, giving a charming effect. There were big easy chairs and sofas; tables heaped with magazines and books. On the walls were color pictures suspended by long, dim-worn chains—ocean scenes, a ship at sea, and over the piano, fifty years old as they discovered later, hung several faded miniatures of ladies of a long past age. Most interesting of all to Suzanna was an album she found in an old cabinet, an album that as you looked through it at ladies with voluminous skirts, at men with wing collars, and little girls with white pantalettes, a hidden music box tinkled forth dainty airs from a long-forgotten operetta.

In another room on the opposite side, which was entered by mounting three steps, was a large table covered with green felt and with nets stretched across it, and little balls and paddles in corner pockets, and Mr. Bartlett, entering at the moment, the children learned that many happy games were played on this big table.

Later, out of this room, the children stepped upon a wide porch, and here there burst upon them a view of the ocean.

"You see," said Mr. Bartlett, "that those of us who go into the water may dress in bathing suits here, then put on long cloaks and run down to the beach. Then when we return, we step under a shower arrangement over there near that little house. . . ."

"Please, Mr. Bartlett," begged Suzanna, "don't tell us any more now. I don't think I can stand any more joy for today."

"Well, then," Mr. Bartlett smiled, "let's start away for our luncheon. We simply live in this house and take our meals at the hotel."

And at this moment the rest of the family appearing, they all started away. A short walk brought them to the hotel where all was life and light and excitement. Children played on the wide piazzas, young girls walked about chatting merrily, and mothers and fathers sat in easy chairs reading or pleasantly regarding the children.

In the dining-room a large table had been previously ordered reserved for the Bartlett family.

"We'll have," said Mr. Bartlett, when they were all seated, speaking to the interested waiter, "just exactly what you think we'd like, John."

John, who knew Mr. Bartlett well, smiled in fatherly fashion and disappeared. He returned shortly bearing a tray filled with just those things that children most love. There was cream soup, and salted crackers, big pitchers of milk, little hot biscuits, fresh honey, and broiled ham—pink and very delicious as was soon discovered. Then there was sweet fruit pudding with whipped cream and, of course, ice cream.

"Will John always know what we like?" asked Suzanna as the meal progressed.

"Well, we'll change about," said Mrs. Bartlett, who looked as though she were enjoying every moment. "Sometimes when we know particularly what we'd like, we'll give our order, other times when we want to be surprised we'll let John serve us what he thinks we'd enjoy. Don't you think that way will be nice?"

"Oh, that will be very interesting," said Suzanna; then added, "Does the water make that sound all the time?"

"Yes, it's always restless."

"Well, it seems as though it were asking for something," said Suzanna, "a kind of sad asking."

"Now," said Mr. Bartlett, leaning across and speaking softly to her, "suppose, Suzanna, you think for a moment that it's a happy sound and see how almost at once it becomes a happy sound."

Suzanna listened intently. Then her face brightened. "Why, it is a happy murmuring," she cried. "Just as though it had to sing and sing all day long."

"Exactly," said Mr. Bartlett.

"Well, then," said Suzanna, quickly drawing the deduction, "it's really just in me to make it say happy things or sad things."

"Exactly," said Mr. Bartlett again, and then they all rose and went back to the cottage.

Since the trunks which contained the beach outfits did not arrive till late that afternoon, the children did not go down to the sands till the next morning. Then with joyous hearts and eager feet, they set off, Suzanna, Maizie, Peter, Graham, and Daphne; Mr. and Mrs. Bartlett following more slowly.

A bath house reserved for their use stood, door wide open. They entered, discarded their coats and immediately appeared again clad in their pretty bathing suits for the water.

But when they reached the sands, already alive with gay children who were building houses or running gaily about, and with happy shrieks wading into the water, the Procter children stood awed, unable to speak, so many emotions beat within them.

Maizie was the first to recover her power of speech. "There's a girl down there with a shovel and pail like mine," she said.

And that broke the spell. Peter and Graham walked bravely out into the water, finally reaching their necks as they went farther and farther into the ocean. But the little girls contented themselves by simply wetting their feet and with every wave dashing up to them, leaping back with glad little cries. As the morning advanced, they returned to the older group and sat on the sand.

On the sixth day of their stay all the children were trying bravely to swim, clinging it must be confessed rather desperately to Mr. Bartlett and the beach man, secured to help them; but when he procured for them large water wings, they soon struck out for themselves. Peter really learned to swim before either of his sisters, and one morning he went out as far as the end of a quarter-mile pier.

They all grew rosy and strong, out in the fine air nearly every moment as they were. Some afternoons they went fishing, and, with a strange reversal of type, Suzanna was the patient one, Maizie the impatient. Suzanna would sit in the boat next to Mr. Bartlett, holding her line, and breathlessly wait for hours if need be, statue-like, till she felt the thrilling nibble. Maizie would grow tired immediately, and to Peter's disgust, she would wriggle her feet or move restlessly about, quite spoiling for him the day's outing. Maizie at last begged to be let off from the fishing expeditions.

"I'd rather just lie in the sand and paddle in the water, or watch the big white ships," she said.

"You're to do exactly as you please," said Mr. Bartlett, and so they did, each and every one.

Many hours they all spent on one of the large piers running out a great distance into the ocean, where always there were gaiety and music, and here one afternoon Suzanna, Peter, Graham, and Mr. Bartlett, all seated at the end of the pier saw a huge shark darting about the water. The few daring swimmers in his vicinity quickly moved away.

"A real shark," cried Suzanna. "When I go to bed tonight I'll just think I dreamed it."

Said Mr. Bartlett: "Suppose, Suzanna, I buy you a book filled with blank pages, and having a little padlock with a small key, for your very own, so that every night you may write the happenings of the day and the impressions made upon you."

"Oh, I'd like to do that," cried Suzanna, her eyes shining, "and then surely I won't forget any single little thing to tell daddy and mother."

"I'll write for the book," Mr. Bartlett promised, "when we return to the cottage."

After a time they left the pier and walked down the street, running along with the sands. The street was lined with little stores of all kinds; one where fresh fish were sold, another where French fried potatoes and vinegar were offered to a hungry multitude; a place in which handmade laces were made and sold. A florist booth kept by a dark-faced Greek was neighbor to a shop built with turrets like a castle. Here a happy-faced Italian women exhibited trays of uncut stones, semi-precious ones, explained Mr. Bartlett, and strings of beads, coral, pearl, flat turquoise, topaz, and amethysts. There were bits of old porcelain, crystal cups, and oriental embroideries, and little carved gods on ebony pedestals. The place reminded Suzanna of Drusilla's historic old pawn shop and she stood entranced.

Soon they were at the place of Graham and Peter's delight, a shooting gallery, where if one were very skillful he might, with a massive looking gun, hit a small moving black ball and hear a bell ring. Mr. Bartlett hit the ball today three times out of four, Graham once out of five, but Peter, manfully lifting the large gun and scanning its barrel, left a scar on the target four inches to the left of the little swinging ball. This occurred after eight trials.

"Well, there's another day, Peter," said Mr. Bartlett, as they moved away.

"And Mr. Bartlett practiced a long time, you must remember, Peter," said Suzanna, seeing the little fellow's downcast expression.

"Do you think before we go back to the city," asked the small boy, "that I'll be able to make the bell ring so I can tell daddy?"

"Oh, yes," said Mr. Bartlett, encouragingly. "We'll come over here and practice every day."

They found the others in the cottage in the big room, resting awhile before preparing for dinner.

"Oh, Suzanna," began Maizie at once, "we're going to have a beach party on the sands tonight. And Mrs. Bartlett says we'll have a fire built so we can toast marshmallows."

Suzanna did not say anything. Then quickly she crossed the room and stood before Mr. and Mrs. Bartlett. "I wish," she said solemnly, "that all the children in the world had such dear friends as we have."



CHAPTER XXV

LAST DAYS

They held many a beach party during that wonderful month. And always they ended the evening by drawing close together and singing happy little songs. Till, when a little coolness crept into the air, they would leave the ocean and go happily homeward, to sleep deep and dreamlessly till another morning awakened them to the thought of fresh delights.

On one morning after a beach party, the children, coming downstairs to join their elders for breakfast at the hotel, found standing on the road in front of the cottage, a little brown donkey attached to a basket cart.

"Could it be, could it possibly be for them?" each child's heart asked.

And Mr. Bartlett answered the unspoken question by: "It's for you all. Peter is to drive first because he assured me the other day he knew all about horses; then Graham. And in a few days Suzanna, and Maizie, and even little Daphne, can take their turns."

He went to the small donkey and stroked its nose, and the little fellow whinnied with pleasure. The children crowded about the cart. Couldn't they have a drive now? their eager eyes asked. But Mr. Bartlett thought breakfast the logical beginning of the day, so reluctantly they left their new possession.

When breakfast was finished, Mr. Bartlett said: "I'll go for the first ride or two with you just to see how this little fellow acts, though I've been assured that he's as gentle as any lamb ever born."

And whoever it was that had given Mr. Bartlett this assurance had not exaggerated the amiable qualities of the donkey. "Little Brownie," as the children had unanimously and immediately named him, was of equable and even nature. True, as the days went by it was discovered that he was somewhat lazy, also self-willed. If he wanted to stop he would not move again until he wished to, in face of all pleading, urging, or inducements. He refused even to be led, and stood very pleasantly viewing the surrounding landscape till with a sudden jerk he would resume his usual trot. The children finally accepted Brownie's one vagary, and when they were driving home among other vehicles, and Brownie suddenly stopped and raised his right ear, a sign which meant, "I shall not move till I wish to," they only laughed, and others about them knowing the ways of little donkeys, laughed good-naturedly too, and drove around the little cart.

It is an unvarying law that the days roll on and bring to an end even periods of thrilling delight; and so there came the last evening to be spent in the cottage at the seashore. The night was early in August, but it had elected to borrow from its cooler sister September a rather chill wind which, to the children's delight, necessitated the building of a fire in the grate in the long room.

"And we'll pop corn," said Mr. Bartlett when they were all gathered together watching the roaring flames, the only light in the room.

And Nancy, who could on a moment's notice, produce anything asked of her, brought the popper and a big bag of dried corn.

After a time, when several bowls of corn were popped and buttered, salted and eaten, Nancy put on the hearth a dish of fine, rosy apples. These the children peeled and then cast the skins into the grate. A hardy fragrance came from them, but hardly pungent enough to overpower the salt-water odor that swept in from the ocean.

The flames lit all the faces, young and old. They fell on Mrs. Bartlett, touching her lovely hair to molten gold, touching her thoughtful face till it seemed a smile beyond itself rested upon it. She was thinking—"Tomorrow we start back, and in my hands lie the happiness of many. In my hands lies the keeping of the ideals of two—" She closed her eyes and asked for clear vision, for strength to keep true to life's highest values.

Graham, at her knee, looked up at her. Feeling that his eyes were upon her, she opened hers and gazed at him. She did not speak, nor did he, but she felt his heart's nearness.

And then his gaze wandered to Suzanna, Suzanna gazing into the flames, her dark eyes like glowing jewels, her soft lips parted. And into Mrs. Bartlett's heart crept a little fear and a little yearning and a little great knowledge—that composite emotion all mothers are born to know.



CHAPTER XXVI

SUZANNA AND HER FATHER

At home again after the glorious month spent at the seashore! Habits, dear customs, taken up once more. The splendor of the trip had not faded for the Procter children. But home was home after all, with father and mother and sisters and brothers all sharing the common life; with short wanderings away and joyous returns; with small resentments, quick flashes, and happy reconciliations.

"It was lovely at the seashore," said Suzanna to her mother one Saturday afternoon, "but I'm awfully glad to be at home again. Were you lonely without us?"

"Very," said Mrs. Procter, "but then I knew you were all having such interesting experiences."

"Is father coming home early, mother?" Maizie asked, looking up from her work. She was sewing buttons on Peter's blouse with the strongest linen thread obtainable in Anchorville.

Mrs. Procter's face shadowed. She looked at Suzanna and Maizie as though pondering the wisdom of giving them some piece of news. Evidently she decided against doing so, for she answered: