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Updated: June 24, 2025
Procter, "and since Bridget is away, perhaps you will be kind enough to make your own bed and dust your own room." Suzanna's face fell. Maizie put out a small hand and touched her sister. "I'll help you," she said, "if you want me to." "Very well," said Suzanna, and together the children went upstairs. In the little room shared by the sisters, Suzanna went to work.
She admired the deftness with which an egg was broken and dropped into boiling water, and in a few seconds brought to the top intact, to be placed upon the awaiting toast. "You're awful quick, Mrs. Reynolds," she started to say when a knock sounded upon the door. The door slowly opened and, alone, Suzanna's mother entered. She stood just looking in.
Maizie, younger than Suzanna by only a year, looked like her mother sweet, very practical, always in a wide-eyed condition of surprise at Suzanna's wonderful imagination; a dependable little body who rarely fell from grace by reason of naughtiness. Peter, a strange composite of his dreamy father and practical mother, sat near the baby.
"Why, small lass," she cried: "You mustn't think I'll hold you to your giving yourself away to me. No, not even for a bit of time. Sweet, you gave me joy last night. I pretended that you were my own. I undressed you and put you to bed, and heard your prayers. You did something for me, and I be vastly grateful to you." Suzanna's eyes brightened. "Oh, thank you for saying all that, Mrs. Reynolds."
So Maizie put out her hand and touched her sister. "Will the petticoat be a petticoat?" she asked, and wondered excitedly into what beauty Suzanna's imagination would transmute this ordinary piece of cambric. Suzanna's spirits rose again. "It'll be a green satin cup for the rose," she answered, gazing dreamily before her.
When they reached Suzanna's little patch of woods with many spreading oak trees that invited rest beneath their sheltering branches Mrs. Procter exclaimed in delight. "Isn't it lovely, mother?" cried Suzanna. "See, there's a tiny brook, too. I've been here often when I wanted to think of poetry." "And I've never had time," her mother murmured.
"I am your little girl, aren't I?" she asked softly, calling valiantly on her sense of justice. Mrs. Reynolds looked searchingly into Suzanna's face. With no child of her own, she was still a mother-at-heart. She was full of understanding. "As much, my own lassie," she answered, "as any other woman's child can be.
He thought he was a nice, gentle, Maltese cat, and when he wasn't busy meowing he was awful sweet to the children, and played with them and took care of the little ones; but the big people thought they'd better send him far away, because it wasn't right that he should think himself a cat." Suzanna's eyes flamed in anger. "I think they were cruel," she cried, "not to let him stay at home.
"Sometimes I don't know just how to act where Suzanna's concerned," she said. She folded the note. "No, sometimes I feel just helpless." Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds were in the kitchen, she belatedly washing the supper dishes, he smoking his pipe near the window. She lent, through her vivid personality, color to him. Big, hearty, he was not picturesque.
But it's certainly funny to see your toes sticking through your shoe. No wonder you sat on your foot." Still, despite his discourteous words, his tone changed; it was almost apologetic. Suzanna's face lost its clouds. "Of course, I had to sit on my foot," she agreed.
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