lifted the baby out of his high chair.
"You're every one dear and wonderful to me," she said. "But we're all
human, dear, and apt to grow tired."

Suzanna walked into the kitchen and put the dishes down on the table. On
her way back to the dining-room she glanced out of the window. The
early September day had changed. Miraculously every dull gray cloud had
scurried away, leaving a sky soft, yet brilliant. Birds flew about,
carolling madly, as though some elixir in the air sent their spirits
bounding. Suzanna's every fiber responded. The desire whipped her to
plunge into the beauty of outdoors, to run madly about, to shout, to
sing. But alas, she knew there was no chance to obey her ardent impulse,
since Wednesday was cleaning day, a day rigid, inflexible, when all the
Procter family were pressed into service; that is, all but Peter,
belonging to a sex blessedly free from work during its young, upgrowing
years.

Mrs. Procter spoke: "Bring the high chair into the kitchen, Suzanna,
near the window for the baby; then we'll start cleaning."

Suzanna obeyed reluctantly. She turned from the window. "Mother," she
said, "when I'm grown up I'll have no steady days for anything."

"What do you mean?" asked Mrs. Procter.

"Well, I won't wash on Monday, and iron on Tuesday, and clean on
Wednesday, and bake on Thursday. I'll let every day be a surprise."

"Yes," said Mrs. Procter, "and a nice mix-up there'd be. You must have
set times for every task if you expect to accomplish anything."

"But isn't it 'complishing anything if you're happy?" asked Suzanna,
really puzzled.

Mrs. Procter hesitated. "But you can be happy working, too."

"But I know, mother, that I'd be happier today out in the sun."

"But the truth remains, Suzanna, that if we don't wash on Monday we'd
have to wash on Tuesday, and that ties up everything at the end of the
week," said her mother.

Suzanna sighed. She couldn't by mere words combat her mother's
arguments. They seemed indeed unassailable if you applied plain reason
to them. But something deeper, finer than reason, made Suzanna believe
that to be out in the sun, to be under the trees, to be dreaming in the
perfume of flowers, was more important than cleaning and dusting; anyway
in a glorious, straight-from-Heaven day like this Wednesday. So she
returned unconvinced to the dishes, while her mother after tying the
baby in his high chair cast an appraising eye around, wondering just
where she shoul