d begin her upheaval.

Suddenly a loud, heart-rending outcry was heard, and Peter, who a moment
before had been playing peacefully in the yard, came rushing into the
house. Out of the medley of his piteous cries, Suzanna at last made
sense. Not so her mother who asked anxiously:

"What in the world is he crying so for, Suzanna? Is he hurt? Will he let
you look him over?"

"No, he's not hurt," returned Suzanna. "He is crying because _never in
all his life will he be able to see his ears_."

Mrs. Procter stared dumbfounded. But she soon recovered. She was
accustomed to originalities of this sort in her family.

"So! Well, what am I to do about it?" she asked the small boy.

Peter looked at her stolidly. "I want to see my ears," he repeated. "And
I can't only in the mirror."

"Have you lived for five years," asked Mrs. Procter, "without
discovering that your ears are attached to your head, and that I can't
take them off in order that you may see them?"

"And you can't see the back of your neck either, Peter," cried Suzanna
at this juncture. At which disastrous piece of information Peter cried
louder.

"Now, Suzanna," exclaimed Mrs. Procter in some exasperation. "What did
you tell him that for? Isn't it enough for him to learn in one day that
he'll never see his ears without telling him about the back of his neck?
Stop your crying, Peter. It's bad enough to have you cry for things that
can be mended."

Maizie, attracted by the noise, unable to control her curiosity,
appeared at the door. Her face was still sullen, but it also bore a rare
expression of stubbornness. Satisfying her curiosity as to the reason
for the commotion, she then made her announcement.

"Mother," she began, "I'm not going to wash the window sills upstairs
this cleaning morning."

"Now, Maizie," said Suzanna, conciliatingly, "don't you remember Who
smiled at you once?"

"M-hm, I remember," said Maizie, without change of expression, "but I'm
not going to wash the window sills."

A little silence ensued. Then Suzanna offered a suggestion.

"Mother," she said, "none of us feels right, do we? Can't we have a
picnic?"

"A picnic?" exclaimed Mrs. Procter. "A picnic!" She was about vigorously
to refuse the request when she paused. She looked at the three earnest
little faces before her. Suzanna resenting steady days for doing steady
tasks; Maizie hating her porridge, and Peter grieved because he
couldn't see his ears; the baby too, not his