began to read. Mother put the "baby" and Peter to
bed. Suzanna and Maizie, after the dishes were finished, followed
father, and drawing their chairs close, looked over some pictures
together.

"Saturday night"--how Suzanna loved it! It seemed the hush time of the
week, the hush before waking to the next beautiful day, Sunday, when all
the family were together--father in his nice dark suit, mother in her
soft wisteria gown, all the children in pretty clothes; church, with its
resonant organ, and the minister's deep voice reading from the old book.
Then, weather propitious, the walk with father and mother in the
afternoon down the country road, and at night the lamps again lit--all
the homely significances of the place where love and peace and courage
dwelt.

Mrs. Procter returned from putting the children to bed. "I think I'll go
upstairs for a little while," said Mr. Procter looking up at her.

"Oh, do, Richard," she urged.

Suzanna went close to him, her hand sought his. "Could--could you invite
us for a little while, daddy," she asked, beseechingly.

"Why, yes, if you wish," he answered. "You and mother and Maizie."

It was rather a heavy consent, but they all accompanied him up to the
attic. He lit the shaded lamp standing on the corner table, regulated it
till it gave out a subdued glow, and then walked and stood before his
machine.

He stood a long time looking at it. Once he put out his hand and
touched it softly, as a mother might a sleeping child.

Suzanna and Maizie, awed and troubled, they knew not why, watched their
father. Only their mother, with a little tender smile that held in it a
great deal of wistfulness, went close to him.

"Richard," she said softly.

He turned from the machine. His face was strangely colorless, strangely
drained of all light. She did not speak, but the loyalty and faith
deepened in her eyes. Perhaps he gained some comfort from their steady
gaze, his tenseness seemed to relax, his arms fell to his sides.

Suzanna unable to stand the strain longer, flew to him and put her small
arms tight about him. "Oh, are you sick, daddy?" she cried, tears in her
voice.

He hesitated, looked down at her, and said simply, very quietly:

"Suzanna, you might as well know the truth now as later. My machine is a
failure--I am a failure!"

Her heart leaped sickeningly, her arms fell from about him. In all her
life she had never lived through so intense an emotion. Her father, the
Grea