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Updated: June 28, 2025
Mother can fix the dining-room table for me." Miss Massey released herself from Robert's clasp and went to Suzanna. She stooped and kissed her tenderly. "Thank you, dear little girl," she said. "I'll remember that invitation." The Eagle Man pulled a cord hanging from the ceiling. Immediately it seemed, one of the men with brass buttons appeared.
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.
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.
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.
And then ordinary hours intruded and filled the small lives with their duties and their pleasures. Still shadowy, deeply hidden, the influence of the visionary father lay. Even small Maizie awoke to tiny dreams, her literalness for moments drowned out. At school, Maizie and Suzanna were perhaps the least extravagantly dressed little girls.
"He is right over there," pointed Maizie. Then the gardener's glance fell upon the little girl, with her head bent as she still wept. "She's crying awfully hard," said Suzanna to the gardener. "Do you know whose little girl she is?" "She's mine," said the man with a big world of tenderness in his voice. "She's my little Daphne."
Mother, who, when not too tired from many tasks, could paint rare word pictures, build for eager little listeners castles of hope; build, especially for Suzanna, colorful palaces with flaming jewels, crystal lamps, scented draperies. Joys sometimes come close together.
Suzanna did as she was bid and then followed her hostess into the dining-room, to the left of the small hall, where a table flower-decked, stood set for two. Suzanna sat down at the place the queen indicated and waited interestedly. In time the maid brought on a silver tray with little cups of cream soup, and then cold chicken buried in pink jelly, a most delicious concoction.
While Suzanna didn't move from her place, she wanted to stay at some distance that she might look her soul's full at her mother her mother! At length she spoke: "Mother I want to be your little girl again. Will you take me back?" Would she take her back? Mrs. Procter's arms opened wide. Into them Suzanna flew. Mrs. Reynolds regarded the cold poached egg, the second one spoiled that morning.
"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.
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