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 limits, the employer of hundreds of men, he had failed to gain the esteem of one human being. Fear, for many depended upon him for their livelihood, was the emotion he most inspired.

Fairfax Massey, his daughter, inspired a deep sympathy, perhaps because her leading characteristic was a pitiable holding to her ideals. She painted her father as a good and loving man hiding his real tenderness beneath gruff mannerisms. When he denied her friendship with the man she secretly loved, she put upon that denial a high value. He could not bear to run the chance of losing her, his one close possession. To that chivalrous thought of her father, she sacrificed her friend and went her way, undramatically, uncomplainingly.

She spoke in a low sweet voice. "The children will have a happy time, I'm sure, Mrs. Procter," she said, as she left, Suzanna and Maizie clinging to her.

Other little girls were waiting in the phaeton. They greeted Suzanna and Maizie and moved to make room for them. Miss Massey took her place near the driver, from which vantage spot she could watch her little guests, and with a great flourish off they started.

"Are you quite comfortable, Suzanna?" Miss Massey asked once.

Suzanna looked up quickly, a puzzled line between her eyes. After brief hesitation she answered, merely in good manners, "Yes, thank you."

The phaeton stopped several times till eight little girls filled the vehicle to overflowing. Then with no more pauses, they were off to the big house on the hill.

The day was wonderful. A soft little breeze caressed the children and the sky overhead was like an angel's breast, thought Suzanna. But she did not say this, even to excited Maizie; she was gathering impressions and burnishing them with her vivid imagination. Once her gaze fell on Miss Massey's long, slender, tired-looking hands. Her mother's hands, Suzanna recalled, were tired-looking, too, but in a different way. Her mother's, she decided after a time, were just plain tired-looking, while Miss Massey's were a sorry tired, as though they missed something. They were never quiet, always doing futile little things. And yet, Miss Massey lived in a wonderful house and wore pretty dresses and hats with gorgeous, real-looking flowers. Suzanna pondered unanswerable questions.

The driver, with the air of a brave knight, swept round the last corner. He commanded his horses to stand still, when even the smallest girl knew he would have to urge and coax for a full minute before the fat, complacent animals would start again. But Suzanna liked his play. It was in keeping with this wondrous event. She even forgave the driver his wrinkled red neck, from which as she sat behind him, she had earlier deliberately turned away her eyes.

The children sprang to the ground and stood looking up at the big pile of stone, this great show house of the town. Miss Massey swung back an iron gate and led the way first through an arbor, sun-shaded and fragrant; then out again into a garden glowing with crimson flowers. "The garden I love best," she said. This from simple, dear Miss Massey into whose whole life no great color had fallen, or if there was once a promise that life should blossom for her into a full, joyous thing, the promise had fallen very short of fulfillment.

And just then the disaster befell Suzanna. There in the wonderful red garden, a dire sound fell upon her ears and her eyes following the direction of the sound were just in time to see one white toe burst through the confines of the black ribbon lengthening her slipper.

She stood a moment, gazing down. Then in an agony lest the others should discover her plight, she tried to draw the toe back within the slipper, but with no success. As Miss Massey and the little girls walked on, Suzanna stopped and pulled the ribbon over the protruding toe, tucking in the ravelled edges. Mercifully, the ribbon stayed in place since Suzanna cramped her toe back that it might not force its way through again. Hastily hopping along, she entered the massive front doors held wide by a solemn man with brass buttons. He pointed down the wide hall. "To the right," he said.

Would the ribbon hold! was Suzanna's only thought as she later found herself in a room called the library, with books and soft-toned pictures; with a great fireplace banked now with greens, from above which looked down the lovely face of a lady, Miss Massey's mother whom the daughter scarce remembered.

If only she had worn black stockings instead of her one beloved pair of white, went on in thought, unhappy, humiliated Suzanna. If only—but in conjecture Suzanna was lost. The cramped toe exerting its right, thrust itself through again. One fleeting, horrified glance told the child that two toes now peeped out on a world that would be scandalized should it peep back.

No time now for any furtive maneuver an active little mind might suggest to remedy the situation, for Miss Massey at the end of the room turned her head and looked toward Suzanna's place. In a second her eyes might fall on the white toes! Quickly Suzanna sank into a large velvet armchair and drew her foot beneath her. Just in time, for Miss Massey said: "Shall we play the game of 'Answers?' You know the game, Suzanna, don't you?"

Suzanna moistened her lips: "I know it, Miss Massey, but I don't care to play games, thank you." How could she move, since doing so would necessitate putting confidence in Miss Massey? Telling her that once discarded slippers too small even for Maizie had been made to do duty by cutting the toes and lengthening with black ribbon, ribbon which in a miserable moment failed in its work? But how eventually to extricate herself from the miserable predicament? She could not sit forever on her foot!

Other games were suggested and played by the children, but Suzanna still sat in the big armchair, one long thin leg dangling, the other bent under her. She grew fertile in excuses when asked to join the others. She like to "watch," then she felt a little tired, until Miss Massey at last sensing that something was wrong did no more urging.

Once little Maizie sought her sister. Why wouldn't Suzanna play? Was she mad at something?

Suzanna gulped hard, then with manifest effort she whispered: "You know where mother put the ribbon bag so my slippers would be long enough? Well, my toe's stuck through the ribbon, and I mustn't move."

"Oh!" Maizie was sorry. "Can't you tell Miss Massey and let her fix it?"

Suzanna shrank back. "No, no," she cried. "You mustn't say anything, do you hear, Maizie? Promise me."

Maizie solemnly promised. "Will the other one hold?" she asked then.

Thus the little Job's Comforter gave Suzanna food for unpleasant questionings. Would, indeed, the other slipper hold?

Then said Miss Massey: "We are going into the garden, Suzanna. Would you rather stay here till we return?" Her question was very gentle, her understanding would have been very sure had Suzanna told her trouble. But Suzanna only answered eagerly:

"Yes, I'd like to stay here." She was almost happy in the moment's relief.

"If you wish to come later you can find us. Just ring this bell and Mrs. Russell, the housekeeper, will take you to the South Garden," said Miss Massey. She leaned down and touched Suzanna's face with her soft lips. And then Suzanna was left alone.

Now what to do! Suzanna set her fertile little mind to work on the problem. She settled into the chair and lowered the foot on which she was sitting. She was intently regarding the torn slipper, when she heard distinctly an unpleasant sound. A sound which gathered volume, till Suzanna realized that something or someone was approaching the library. She resumed her former position, and waited!

The brocade curtains were drawn aside; a little man in a sort of uniform stood with head bowed, while a large man limped into the room.

"Fix my chair, you simpering idiot," he shouted at the little man, "and then take yourself off!"

The small man glided to a great easy chair near the fireplace. He heaped pillows in it, stood aside while the loud-voiced one lowered himself, groaningly, into the downy nest. Then the valet disappeared. Suzanna involuntarily glanced at his feet. Did he move on velvet casters?

A moment, then the big man gave a twist of pain. A rheumatic dart had seized him, had Suzanna known, but she could not know, and a little exclamation was drawn from her. At the sound, the other occupant of the room started and glanced around till finally his eyes came to rest upon the small girl in a large chair thrust well away in a shadowy corner of the room.

"Well!" at length he ejaculated. And then: "Are you one of the Sunday School class?"

"Yes, I'm Suzanna Procter. The other little girls have gone out into the garden."

He grunted and continued to glare fiercely at her. But Suzanna knew no fear. She felt strangely a sudden high sense of exhilaration, just as once when she had been caught in a brilliant electric storm. Some element in her rose and responded to the big flashes; just as she had responded to Drusilla's play of imagination. Now a force was roused in her that claimed kinship with the big, thunderous man opposite. She sat up very straight, and stared right back at him. Then she said very calmly:

"You look like an eagle!"

"Then you're afraid of me!" He flung the words at her with a certain triumph.

"I'm not! I don't like the way you shout, but I'm not afraid of you."

He sank back among his pillows, but did not take his eyes from her face. At last he asked: "What are you sitting bent up that way for? Are you hiding anything?"

Suzanna flushed. "You're not supposed to ask a visitor if she's hiding anything; especially when her leg's asleep and she's suffering."

A spasm crossed his face. Perhaps he was trying to smile. He said only: "Well, put your leg down, then. Seems to me you're old enough and ought to have sense enough not to sit on it when it's asleep. Put it down, I say!"

She did not move. "Will you please turn your head away a whole minute?" she finally asked.

He did so, somewhat to his own surprise. He was unaccustomed to obeying others. When he turned again, she uttered a cry: "Why didn't you keep your head turned the other way till I told you to look," she exclaimed, indignantly. "You don't play fair."

"See here, little girl," he commenced, when his eyes fell to her foot, which for the moment she had forgotten, a small black-shod foot with two protruding toes. "Eh, what's that!"

"My toes!" she answered. Her face flamed, then with sudden anger against him, against circumstances, against everything that had conspired to spoil this beautiful and long-dreamed-of day: "They're sticking through my slipper. That's why I had to sit on my foot. That's why my leg went to sleep. That's why I couldn't go out in the garden with the others."

He began to laugh, silently, mirthlessly, but it was laughter nevertheless. Suzanna regarded him, her quick temper getting beyond her control. At last she burst forth: "You're a rude man! And it isn't funny to miss beautiful things, the flowers and the baby squirrels, and perhaps lemonade."

He didn't answer for a moment. Then he said:

"Agreed! But it's certainly funny to see your toes sticking through your shoe. No wonder you sat on your foot." Still, despite his discourteous words, his tone changed; it was almost apologetic.

Suzanna's face lost its clouds. "Of course, I had to sit on my foot," she agreed. "I couldn't let Miss Massey see how mother put a black ribbon bag on my slippers to make them longer, could I? She wouldn't understand like you do, would she?"

"Do I understand? I wonder. Well, why did your mother put on the black ribbon?"

"The shoes were too short!"

"She should have bought you a new pair."

Suzanna sprang from her chair and went to the big man.

"Do you know what rent week means?" she asked, lifting her earnest face to his and standing so close that her hand touched his knee.

"I think I do," he answered.

"Well, this is rent week and Peter's coat was out at the elbows and two of us needed shoes and the insurance was due on all of us and mother can't let that go. It came in very handy when Helen, Peter's twin, went away."

"What do you mean by 'went away?' Don't lean on that knee, that's where the rheumatism is—do you mean died?"

Suzanna flinched. "We say 'went away,'" she answered gently; "you think then that someone you loved has just gone away for a little while, and is waiting somewhere for you."

The man's gaze wandered up to the lovely, smiling face above the mantel and stayed there a space before his eyes came back to Suzanna.

"And so," she finished, "because everything came together, rent and insurance and shoes, and a coat, I had to wear these slippers." Suzanna was quite cheerful again, only very eager that he should understand the situation.

At this moment the timid little valet appeared in the doorway. "Anything you wish, sir?" he began. "Are you quite comfortable?"

"You infernal idiot!" bawled the man in the chair. "Can anyone be comfortable with rheumatism in his knee?"

The little man precipitately retired. "You're awful cross," Suzanna commented. "What does the man mean asking if you're 'comfortable?' That's what Miss Massey asked me in the park carriage. I was sitting down, and nothing hurt me."

"In other words," he answered, strangely catching her meaning at once, "one chair is like another to you."

"Well, is there any difference?" she queried. She was very much interested in this question, for the subtleties of refined comfort held no place in her life. Knowledge of luxuries was quite outside the ken of the younger members of the Procter family.

The big man said: "Yes, there is a difference; a decided difference." He was thinking of his household with its retinue of trained servants, each helping to make the days revolve smoothly.

"Why aren't you at work?" asked Suzanna then. "My father works every day in the hardware store and sometimes way into the night on his invention in the attic. He doesn't have a chair filled with pillows to lean against. Does God like you better than He does us?"

"Eh, what's that? What do you mean?"

"Because you don't have to work! And you think one chair is better than another to sit in, and you can shout at the little man and make him afraid."

"Well, we'll not talk of that," said the big man testily. "And now I'll ask you a few questions. What does your mother do when rent week comes round? Cry, and throw up to your father the fact that she can't make ends meet? That's what women generally do, I've heard and read."

"Oh, no, my mother doesn't do that," said Suzanna, shaking her head. "She just looks sad at first and sits and thinks and thinks and then after awhile she says: 'Well, if everybody was thoughtful we'd all have enough. But when some people waste, then others must pay the piper'—'pay the piper'—I like the singing way that sounds, don't you?"

"And who does she mean by other people?"

Suzanna smiled confidently: "Oh, she just says that; so no one really is blamed, I guess. There really isn't anyone of that kind living; 'cause nobody in the world could waste if they knew some children needed shoes and some little boys' elbows stuck through their coats; would anyone?"

The man looked at her suspiciously. "Have you been listening to Reynolds haranging on his soap box?" But seeing her innocence, he went on: "Well, we don't know about those things. There's some reason why." He went on more vigorously: "Of course, some people are privileged because they're stronger; they've better judgment."

But Suzanna didn't understand that. She put the matter aside to think over later, and, if she could remember the words, to repeat them to her father for his explanation at a time when he wasn't hazy and far away from realities.

"What does your father do?" Suzanna's companion resumed after a moment.

"He weighs nails in Job Doane's hardware store," said Suzanna, "and he sells washboards to ladies. My father's a great man. He's an inventor! He has a wonderful machine in the attic and sometimes when he's thinking of his invention, he doesn't see us at all, and mother tells us not to talk then to disturb him."

"What's your father's name?"

"Richard Procter," said Suzanna. And then:

"You are like an eagle; that's why I like you. You'd fight, wouldn't you, if you had to! But I shouldn't mind your shouting. And I'd rather you'd see my toes sticking through my shoe than any person in the world outside my family. Now, get me a needle and thread before they all come back," she finished.

The man stared into her upraised flower-face. His own turned red for the visible second of hesitation. Then he raised his voice and called. The timid one appeared. His master said: "Get me some black thread and a needle; also a thimble. Don't stand there gaping! I'm waiting."

With some difficulty, the amazed valet gained volition over his power of locomotion. He returned shortly bearing the desired articles reposing on a silver tray, and retired once more, his eyes still dazed.

"Now hurry up," said the big man to Suzanna, "if you want to get into the garden at all."

Suzanna threaded the needle, then removed her slipper. "I'll overcast the ribbon, like mother does seams," she said. "Will you hold the slipper? There, that's easier. You see I need both hands."

Silence, till the work was finished. "Now," said Suzanna, stopping to bite the thread, no scissors being at hand, "I guess no toe in the world could push through that, I've stitched so tight. You think it will hold, don't you?"

Very carefully he looked at the mended place. "I should say, if my judgment's worth anything, that it's a very decent job. But see here, you've taken up such a large seam; the shoe will be too small again."

Suzanna smiled at him. "Oh, that doesn't matter, just so the toes can't burst through again," she answered. "You don't mind hobbling a little bit when you have to."

He cleared his throat. "Well, I'll call the housekeeper and she'll take you to the other children."

"Good-bye," said Suzanna friendlily. And then very politely, "Thank you for helping me."

"Well, I suppose I might say you're welcome."

But he watched the small figure, that did after all "hobble" a little all the way down the room as the summoned housekeeper led the way. And, left alone, he sat quite still for a few moments. Once or twice he smiled grimly, but several times he frowned.

Suzanna was full of her experience with the Eagle Man, and in spite of her mishap she had greatly enjoyed her day. Hadn't the fierce one, the one of the loud voice and cross face, been kind to her and helped her to mend her slipper? And hadn't he told the housekeeper to give her a great bunch of the purple grapes especially procured from the city for him, she was told?

She thought of all this when she and Maizie left the low phaeton in which they had been driven home. For some indefinable reason she was elated, and excited—an emotion far above the usual happy fatigue felt after a day of pleasure. She meant to tell her father and mother all about her talk with the Eagle Man when the supper dishes were washed and put away. She would show her father just how her toes had thrust themselves through her slipper and how she had sat upon her foot till it went to sleep. Not, however, till the setting was right would she tell her story. Suzanna's unconscious dramatic sense rarely failed her.

At the supper table that night the baby fell asleep in his high chair. Peter, after a hard day of play, was nodding in his place. Maizie, replete after her third dish of rice pudding, was quiet; a little sleepy too, if truth must be told.

It was then Suzanna told of her visit with the Eagle Man. She left out no detail, from the time her stocking burst its confines to her interesting intimacy with the Eagle Man.

"You told old John Massey, you say, Suzanna," said her father at length, his eyes bright, "about my machine?"

Suzanna nodded. Then a little fear stole upon her. She slipped from her place and went to her father.

"Did I talk too much, daddy?" she asked, mindful of former such indictments.

His arm went about her waist. Then he drew her close and kissed her.

"No, Suzanna, little girl," he said; "I guess talk from the heart rarely hurts." He paused. "Perhaps it was meant you should talk to him."