'll go upstairs and pack your bag, Suzanna," she said.

CHAPTER VIII

SUZANNA MEETS A CHARACTER

That summer was a happy one, filled to the brim, as Suzanna often said,
with joyful times. In her pink lawn dress with the petticoat after all
showing through the lace, she recited "The Little Martyr of Smyrna" and
brought much applause to herself.

And then following close upon that happy occasion, Miss Massey invited
her pupils to a "lawn party." Once again the pink dress was to see the
day.

"I'll be very careful with the dress, mother," Suzanna promised on the
day of the lawn party. "Perhaps it'll wear just as long if I take extra
care of it as though the goods weren't cut away."

"Enjoy your dress," said Mrs. Procter. She had learned another truth
which had sprung from the episode of the pink lawn. Economy might,
indeed must dwell in a little home like hers, but sometimes, recklessly,
the stern goddess must be usurped from her place. For the child love of
beauty, the child's capacity for fine imaginings, could not be killed at
the nod of economy.

The children were both ready and waiting anxiously at the front window
long before the hour. Maizie was the first to make her announcement.

"Miss Massey's coming down the path," she cried.

They all crowded to the window. Miss Massey, looking up, waved her hand
gaily, and the children delightedly waved back.

"Oh, Miss Massey, we're all ready for you," Maizie exclaimed at once as
Miss Massey entered.

"Lovely," Miss Massey returned. Glancing casually at her, she appeared
young, yet looking closely it might be seen that her first youth was
over. She was perhaps in her middle thirties. Her hair beneath the
simple blue chip hat, had gray strands. There was a hesitating quality
about her, as though she had never done so daring a thing as reach a
decision; a wavering, indefinite figure, with a wistfulness, a soft
appeal, quite charming. That she had never come in contact with
realities showed in the wide innocence of the childlike eyes; the
sometime trembling of the lips as when a thought as now engendered by
the Procter home and its humbleness, its lack of many real comforts,
forced its way into the untouched depths of her mind.

She was the only child of old John Massey. He was a large figure in the
small town, and one not cordially admired. He was masterful, choleric,
some claimed, unjust. Owner of the steel mill which stood just outside
of the town limit