any. In my hands lies the keeping of the ideals of two--" She closed
her eyes and asked for clear vision, for strength to keep true to life's
highest values.

Graham, at her knee, looked up at her. Feeling that his eyes were upon
her, she opened hers and gazed at him. She did not speak, nor did he,
but she felt his heart's nearness.

And then his gaze wandered to Suzanna, Suzanna gazing into the flames,
her dark eyes like glowing jewels, her soft lips parted. And into Mrs.
Bartlett's heart crept a little fear and a little yearning and a little
great knowledge--that composite emotion all mothers are born to know.

CHAPTER XXVI

SUZANNA AND HER FATHER

At home again after the glorious month spent at the seashore! Habits,
dear customs, taken up once more. The splendor of the trip had not faded
for the Procter children. But home was home after all, with father and
mother and sisters and brothers all sharing the common life; with short
wanderings away and joyous returns; with small resentments, quick
flashes, and happy reconciliations.

"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. She was sewing buttons on Peter's blouse with the strongest linen
thread obtainable in Anchorville.

Mrs. Procter's face shadowed. She looked at Suzanna and Maizie as though
pondering the wisdom of giving them some piece of news. Evidently she
decided against doing so, for she answered:

"I can't tell, Maizie, he may be kept at the mills. Mr. 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. Some light seemed to have gone from his face. Suzanna
wanted always to comfort him, and he, though saying nothing, was quite
conscious of his little daughter's yearning over him.

During supper his absorption continued, and immediately afterward he
went into the parlor, selected a big book from a shelf, and drawing a
chair near the lamp