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Updated: June 28, 2025
"You mustn't cry, Maizie," said Suzanna, trying to subdue her own emotions. "Couldn't you just wear the dress as it is?" asked Maizie in a small voice, touching the crux of the whole matter, the cause of the great change. "I just couldn't," Suzanna returned. "It wouldn't be a rose blossom, you see, Maizie, when it could just as well be one." Maizie nodded.
"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.
Suzanna found the chair at one end of the garden. Quickly she brought it and sank herself upon it gracefully as became a princess of the blood, but she was surprised a moment later to meet reproval in the eyes of the queen. "It's not permissible to seat yourself in the presence of royalty," said the queen, rather sternly. "But, I, too, am royalty and you told me to get the chair," said Suzanna.
Massey is growing more dependent on father every day," she ended, with a little burst of pride. Father did not come home in the afternoon. The children lost hope after a time, and followed their separate whims. But at six he arrived. Suzanna had noticed at once upon her return, that he was quieter, less exuberant than he had been since entering old John Massey's employ.
The minister spoke: "Robert, take your bride upon your arm!" Thus adjured, Robert proffered his arm and Miss Massey put her small hand upon it. Then slowly they walked behind the minister to the altar. Suzanna, Maizie, and Peter followed. Graham offered his support to his grandmother.
Reynolds, returning, found her little guest at the window, bare feet on the cold floor; the white gown held tightly at the neck by a small, trembling hand. A glance at the tray on the bed revealed a breakfast practically untasted. "Why, my lamb," began Mrs. Reynolds, "not a bite gone down!" Suzanna turned, a desperate little face she showed, eyes wide and appealing. "I just couldn't eat, Mrs.
And Mrs. Reynolds, greatly impressed, said: "Yes, it's a blessed thread that holds us together. Reynolds calls it the 'sense of brotherhood." Her voice lowered itself: "He's a Socialist, Reynolds is, Suzanna." There was pride and fear mixed with a little condemnation in her voice. "A Socialist it's a nice word, isn't it?" said Suzanna, settling more comfortably into the hollow of Mrs.
I hope I can find a needle strong enough to go through the leather." Her face was bright, her voice clear. She was all at once quite different from the weary, dragged mother of the past few days, determined against all odds to finish the dress so the cleaning might be started the following week. Suzanna gazed delightedly.
"Well, then, Suzanna, such a person is called a little strange." "Then I'm a little strange, too," said Suzanna. "But you're a child, Suzanna," said Mrs. Procter, "and Mrs. Bartlett is a very old lady." "Does that make the difference?" asked Suzanna. "If it does, I can't understand why.
Graham wheeled his grandmother close to the door so she too could gaze within. There were pews, empty, with worn cushions. A man moved about the altar, changing from place to place a vase of white roses. "Is that the minister?" whispered Maizie. Suzanna nodded. "Yes. He's going to offer up prayer, I think." The minister turned and smiled at the children.
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