For days Maizie lived in the sanctity of the thought that the Master of all had smiled at her. But even so marvelous an occurrence, so sweet a marking out of her above all the children in the world, failed completely on one occasion to help her overcome a mood of sullenness.

She awoke late one morning, and found that Suzanna had arisen and gone down stairs. She heard sounds indicating breakfast, but there was a little dull feeling at her heart. Her customary joyous anticipation of living a whole day, ripe with possibilities, was quite absent. She decided to remain in bed, but at her mother's voice calling her name she was prompted to put out one small foot, then the other, and soon, as another call came up peremptorily, she went lazily ahead dressing herself.

Ready then for the day, she went to the window and looked out. The sky was hazy, with little dull clouds floating on its breast. From far away came grumbles of thunder. Over to the east the sky seemed to open in a long thin path of vivid light and then close again, leaving the heavens gray, bleak. Maizie wanted to cry; it was with an effort she controlled her tears.

At last, languidly she moved from the window, went down the stairs, through the tiny hall and into the dining-room, her little face downcast still, with no smile lightening it to greet the other children. Suzanna and Peter sat at the table awaiting the laggard.

"Father had to leave early this morning, Maizie," said Suzanna at once. "He ate his breakfast all alone."

Maizie did not answer; silently she sank into her chair as her mother appeared with the baby and took her usual place, after placing him in his high chair. Maizie gazed for a moment at the oatmeal in her own blue plate, then with a little petulant gesture, she pushed the plate away.

"I don't like oatmeal with a pool of syrup in the middle," she said slowly, not addressing anyone directly, but keeping her eyes on her plate.

"You've always liked it before this morning," her mother answered. "I think you're just cross, Maizie."

"I don't like syrup in the middle of my oatmeal," repeated Maizie; "I want milk on it like father has."

"Oh, Maizie," said Suzanna, "father must have milk on his oatmeal."

"Why?" asked Maizie.

"Because he is our father and he must have the nice things."

"Well, we're his children," pursued Maizie, apparently unconvinced. "And I don't see why we shouldn't have some nice things to eat, too."

"But there's so many of us," said Suzanna.

"Why did father leave orders for so many of us then?" said Maizie looking up. Belligerence was now in her tone, in her very attitude.

"Now," said Mrs. Procter, firmly. "We must not talk this way. Father doesn't like syrup. It doesn't agree with him. You're a very naughty little girl this morning, Maizie."

Maizie was again on the point of tears. Lest they overflow she rose quickly from the table and left the room.

"Maizie's in a bad humor today," said Mrs. Procter to Suzanna.

"Maybe she feels bad today, mother, because it's Wednesday."

"Well, what in the world has the day to do with it!" Mrs. Procter exclaimed.

"Well, Wednesday you know is the shape of a big black bear. It's not like Thursday, that's the shape of a great snowy white ship on a sparkling sea. I don't like Wednesday myself, mother."

"Well, I'm sorry," returned Mrs. Procter. "But it's not in my power to shape days to please you children," she spoke crisply.

"Are you tired, mother?" asked Suzanna, after a pause.

"I think I'm always tired these days," Mrs. Procter admitted, "but I'm particularly tired this morning. The baby was very restless last night."

"If you were like Mrs. Martin on the other side of the town," said Suzanna as she rose from the table and began to gather up the dishes, while Peter escaped into the yard, "who has only one little girl, you wouldn't be kept awake." Suzanna's eyes were widely questioning. Did her mother regret owning so many children?

Mrs. Procter stood up. She 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 should 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 usual sunny self. But set against the strange and varied emotions of her young family, loomed the house with its stern demands upon her. Should she postpone her tasks then vengeance in the double form of cleaning and baking day would descend upon her tomorrow!

Then suddenly the truth pressed in on her—the children had rights upon her time, her thoughts, her understandings, her sweetnesses! What if for this week the window sills upstairs did remain unwashed, the rugs downstairs stay unshaken? She stole a glance out of the window at the one tree in the yard, green and gently swaying in the soft breeze, and she spoke with the impulse of youth. "Well," she said, "where could we go?"

"We could have it in the yard if you say so, mother," cried Suzanna, mentally forecasting consent in her mother's question. "But I know some lovely woods not very far away. We could push the baby in his cart."

The baby from his high chair gurgled joyously.

"And take lunch," said Maizie, brightening.

"And my baseball," completed Peter.

"Well," said Mrs. Procter, the brief spark that had lifted her dying, "if I'm going to have grumbling all the time, something the matter with each one of you, I might as well let the work go for once, I suppose."

But though the consent fell leaden in its delivery, it was consent and in a miraculously short time they were all ready to start away; even the lunch basket was packed and the baby put into his carriage and wheeled out to the front gate to wait till the entire family was assembled.

Mrs. Procter locked the doors, ran across the street to ask Mrs. Reynolds to buy certain vegetables from a daily huckster and then away they all went down the wide white road to the woods.

Soon the joy and beauty of the day stole into Mrs. Procter's heart. She breathed in the invigorating air deeply. Cares seemed to fall from her. Materialities were banished into the background. She looked at her children as they went singing down the road. She had meant to bind them to sordid tasks within four walls when a jewel of a day beckoned to all! She visualized her house clean and in perfect order, but the children cross, she herself irritable and tired out, and wondering a little bit about the meaning of things. Was it worth while to let inflexible rules remain victors at such a cost. She knew a sudden thrill of gratitude for Suzanna, who had suggested the outing, and putting out her hand she drew the little girl to her.

Suzanna looked up. She caught the deep and tender look in her mother's face, so she voiced a plea which had been in her heart, but kept from utterance in fear that she might ask too much.

"Mother, if we're going on a real picnic we ought to take the lame and the halt with us. And I know a little girl who has cross eyes, and she's a weeny bit pigeon-toed. She's the lame and the halt, isn't she? Because when she looks at me I never think she is looking at me. I tried to teach her one day how to look straight but it wouldn't do. Could I invite her, do you think?"

"Where does she live?"

"Oh, just the other side of the fork road," Suzanna replied, pointing out the direction. "If you'll go on I'll run and get Mabel and then catch up with you. She's that new little girl. Her folks haven't lived here long."

"Very well."

In a short-time Suzanna returned, holding tight to little Mabel's hand. "I told her mother we had enough to eat with us and that we'd take good care of her. So here she is," said Suzanna.

Little Mabel looked up obliquely at Mrs. Procter.

"Her hair doesn't grow thick around her face," said Suzanna a little apologetically; "and I told her mother to rub Gray's ointment into it, like you did for the dog that came off in spots. The one Peter found, you remember."

"It didn't do any good—" began Maizie.

Mrs. Procter plunged in to prevent further discussion about the unfortunate dog. "Do you think you can walk quite a distance, Mabel?" she asked.

Mabel put her finger in her mouth.

"Don't talk to her right away, mother," begged Suzanna. "She's a little bit shy."

So they went on, little Mabel contributing no word to the talk. They passed fields full of yellow daisies and they walked by one group of gentle, cud-chewing cows. "But I hope there'll be no cows in your woods, Suzanna," said Mrs. Procter.

And her wish was granted. Indeed all, sky, flowers, breeze, absence of dust and curious animals, helped to make this a day of days. When they reached Suzanna's little patch of woods with many spreading oak trees that invited rest beneath their sheltering branches Mrs. Procter exclaimed in delight.

"Isn't it lovely, mother?" cried Suzanna. "See, there's a tiny brook, too. I've been here often when I wanted to think of poetry."

"And I've never had time," her mother murmured.

"Now you just sit right down here with your back against this tree," Suzanna went on with a delicious air of protection, "and I'll take care of the baby. Close your eyes, dear mother-love, and forget that God sent you a big family and that you've got to do your best by us all like you told Mrs. Reynolds last week."

Mrs. Procter's eyes were suddenly overflowing. Children! How rare and fine a gift they were. How many truths they could teach! She sank down upon the grass and Suzanna put the baby down beside her, first spreading out a thick shawl.

Mrs. Procter caught the small loving hand within her own: "I don't know, Suzanna; sometimes I wonder if I'll be able to do all I'd like to do for you all," she said in a low voice.

"Why, mother, you love us!" Suzanna exclaimed. "Don't you remember last Sunday when I put on my leghorn hat with the bunch of daisies over my left eye—"

"I remember," said Mrs. Procter, somewhat at a loss as to the connection between thought and thought.

"Well, when I said, 'good-bye, mother, I'm going to Sunday School,' you looked at me and smiled from your soul! And I forgot that there was Maizie and Peter and the baby, and I didn't even remember father, and I said to myself: 'That's my very own mother!' Just as though we just belonged to one another with nobody else in the whole world."

"Kiss me, Suzanna darling," said Mrs. Procter, after a long moment.

Suzanna stooped and kissed her mother very tenderly.

"Now run away and play," said Mrs. Procter, leaning against the supporting tree and closing her eyes, blissfully conscious that she could rest undisturbed for at least twenty minutes.

An hour later she opened her eyes and sat up straight. She had fallen asleep, though her position was not a particularly comfortable one, and slept sweetly, soundly. The baby still lay peacefully quiet, his little blanket covering him. And small bees had been working about her. Spread before her, reposing on a red table cloth lay a tempting meal. In the middle of the table cloth, to give an air of festivity, was a bunch of daisies. But most appealing of all to the mother was the sight of the four children, her own three and little Mabel, seated quietly near the table; they had evidently been there some time, waiting patiently till she should open her eyes.

"Oh," cried Maizie, great relief filling her at sight of her mother stirring, "Suzanna made us stay so quiet till you woke up, mother, and we're all awful hungry."

"Yes, I want that fat sandwich," said Peter.

And then they fell to eating with much laughter and gaiety.

"Out in the woods you don't have to pretend you hate to eat, do you, mother?" said Suzanna.

"Nor anywhere else that I know of," said Mrs. Procter, smiling.

"But I don't like to see anyone eat as though he liked to eat," said Suzanna. "May I have two or three grapes, mother?"

She received her grapes. And quiet fell, while each did his best to clear the table. At length when the meal was concluded, and the basket repacked, and the pewter knives and forks carefully wrapped in a napkin, the children begged Suzanna for stories.

So she began, and seemed never to fall short of material. Her mother listened, dreamily contented, till another hour passed and the baby awoke. He was a smiling, happy baby and crowed with delight when his mother allowed him a cracker and a cup of milk.

"Shall we play games?" asked Suzanna next, when just at the moment the sound of wheels was heard and shortly there came into sight a low carriage drawn by the two prosperous, fat brown horses, and seated in the carriage was Suzanna's Eagle Man.

Suzanna darted out into the road. As the carriage did not stop she called out: "Mr. Eagle Man! Oh, Mr. Eagle Man!"

The coachman involuntarily pulled in his horses. He didn't know what peremptory signal would be given him to move on, or what inquiry as to his sanity would scorchingly be made, but Suzanna's eager voice impelled him to stop. Mr. Massey leaned over the side of the carriage.

"I never dreamed you'd ride by our picnic," said Suzanna, all excited. "We've got my mother here and our baby."

"Well, well," said the Eagle Man. "And how are you, little girl?"

"I'm awfully well," returned Suzanna. "But today was cleaning day at home and we all started out wrong; the baby kept mother awake last night and Maizie hated her oatmeal with the syrup in the middle and Peter cried hard because he couldn't see his ears, and never in all his life can see his ears."

She paused tragically. "Never in all his life—and neither can you, or anybody."

"What a terrible loss, for sure," said the Eagle Man, after a look darted at his coachman's imperturbable back. "And what did you cry about?"

She stared at him in horror. "I never cry," she said. "I mean I never let the tears fall down my face. I cry in my heart sometimes, but never out loud, on top. But I felt funny this morning because I wished we didn't have to wash on Monday, and iron on Tuesday, and clean on Wednesday, and bake on Thursday, and mend on Friday, and clean again on Saturday."

"Well, ask your mother to wash on Saturday," the Eagle Man suggested easily.

"Oh, I don't think mother would," Suzanna cried, in a little horror herself at that idea. "She's awful set about washing on Monday. Still I'll ask her if you say so, Eagle Man, because Saturday is kind of a wet day anyhow. You see Saturday is just the shape of a big, immense, round ocean. Shall I bring my mother over here to look at you?" suddenly recalling the conventions.

"I don't think I'm fit to look at this morning," the Eagle Man muttered.

"Oh, I think you are," said Suzanna, earnestly. "I like your shiny shoes and your very high collar. I know mother would like you, too."

The Eagle Man looked down at his shiny shoes, hesitated and was lost. He opened the carriage door, seized his cane and struggled to the ground. "Now, let's see your wonderful family," he said to Suzanna, as he hobbled forward toward the little group under the trees.

Suzanna looked up at him. "Oh, you're the lame and the halt, too! We took Mabel along on our picnic because her eyes don't match, you know. They don't seem to work together. We are obeying the Bible today, aren't we?"

Old John Massey did not answer, since he was intent upon covering the ground with as little wear and tear on his nerves as possible, and so in silence they walked till they reached Mrs. Procter, still leaning against the tree, but now holding the baby in her arms.

Maizie, Mabel, and Peter all looked with vivid interest at the newcomer.

"Mother," began Suzanna, "this is the gentleman I told you about. He's John Massey; you've seen him on Main Street. He loves to be comfortable. And he doesn't work during the day, either, but he sits in a chair and shouts at a little man, and the little man hops mighty quick, I can tell you."

Mrs. Procter's face went crimson. "How do you do?" she said. She did not meet his keen eyes.

"How do you do, madam," the Eagle Man responded. "Out for an airing with your family?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Procter. "The children were all in a bad humor this morning and so we thought we'd have a picnic."

"Oh, no, mother," said Maizie earnestly, "we weren't in a bad humor. We just didn't like things at home."

"Well, we'll put it that way," smiled her mother, "and so Suzanna suggested a picnic." Mrs. Procter attempted to rise.

"Stay where you are, madam," said the Eagle Man. Mrs. Procter sank back against the tree.

"You sit down, too, Eagle Man," said Suzanna cordially. "We've got another shawl. Here it is." She spread it down on the ground and the Eagle Man quite gladly accepted the invitation, though his face whitened in the downward process of reaching the shawl.

"Well, madam," he began again, "most people can't afford big families these days."

Mrs. Procter smiled, but did not answer. Suzanna, sensing a criticism, spoke quickly.

"Mother can't afford them either, but she's not asked anything about it. The doctor who has charge of giving out babies stops at our gate often and looks into mother's eyes. Then he knows she'd be awful sweet to a little baby and so next time he gets around he brings one to us. Maybe one that no one else will have."

"I see," said the Eagle Man. He turned to Mrs. Procter. "Your daughter is very apt with explanations."

Mrs. Procter smiled.

"Her explanations," he continued, "are a trifle more honest than the ones I often hear."

Another little silence. The Eagle Man appeared to be thinking deeply. First he cast a glance out into the road to where his capacious vehicle stood, then he looked over at Mrs. Procter.

"I wonder, madam," he said, "if you and your family would do me the honor to drive with me."

Suzanna's eyes grew like stars, Maizie wrung her hands in a very eloquence of prayer as she awaited her mother's answer; Peter just stared, speech stricken from him; Mabel turned in her toes in her agony. The baby only was unconcerned. Finally Mrs. Procter answered:

"We'll be very glad to, I'm sure, Mr. Massey." And in less time than it takes to tell, Mrs. Procter, the baby on her knees, sat beside Mr. Massey in the carriage, while the three little girls sat on a seat facing Mrs. Procter, a seat that could at will be let down or pushed back. Peter, to his everlasting delight, sat beside the coachman.

"Out into the country, Robert," said Mr. Massey to his coachman, and so away they started at a leisurely pace, since the complacent horses refused any other. Sometimes vagrant chickens wandered into the road, exhibiting a daring that enthralled Peter. His opinion of chickens rose when, the fat horses almost upon their tail feathers, they disdainfully moved off.

"We couldn't run one down, I suppose," he asked Robert, hopefully. "Just take a feather off, you know, to learn 'em a lesson."

"I scared a pair of 'em good and proper, once," returned Robert, who had been, known to coddle an ailing worm, but at the moment he was just a little boy with Peter, in very proper high spirits. And while braggingly he went on talking to his delighted listener, the rest of the party were silently, but with keen enjoyment, watching the passing country side. It was a ride to be long remembered; the smooth roads wound alluringly away, Suzanna wondered, to what beautiful hidden country. The breezes fanned their cheeks with delicate, fragrant breath; the birds sang overhead, or flew gaily about, adding harmony and color to the atmosphere. And yet, to Suzanna's horror the baby, apparently quite insensible to all the beauty and totally oblivious of the gratitude due the Eagle Man, soon fell fast asleep, engagingly sucking his fat thumb.

"He's not very old," whispered Suzanna to her host; "and he doesn't know he must be truly thankful to you."

"Well, let him rest comfortably," said the Eagle Man, and he moved in such a way that the baby's head rested against his knee.

"There, that's better," he said to Mrs. Procter. "I didn't suppose you wanted its neck to be broken," he ended gruffly.

"You can't talk that way to mother," said Suzanna, very gently. "She's not used to it, you see, and she might think you meant it, though I know you better. Father, when he isn't thinking of his invention, speaks very kindly and sometimes he says, 'Are you tired, Little Woman?'"

Mrs. Procter attempted to speak, but again the Eagle Man stopped her—very gently, for him.

"It's all right," he said. "It's rather interesting to find someone, if only a child, who's not afraid to be absolutely sincere."

They came to a small hill where Robert stopped his horses. The breezes had gone whispering away and stillness was upon all. Soon the birds ceased their calls; over in the west the clouds were soft delicate folds of bronze; and even as one looked they broke into bars of distinct color, orange, purple, coral. An opal sunset.

"Oh, how beautiful!" cried Mrs. Procter.

"A daily incident," returned the Eagle Man, but he, too, gazed at the glowing sky.

"And now, I suppose we must return," he said at length, and so Robert turned his horses upon the homeward journey.

It was nearly dusk when, after leaving Mabel with her mother, the little cottage came into sight, and then Mrs. Procter said to the Eagle Man: "This has been one of the happiest days of my life. I thank you for helping to make it so."

"That's very kind of you to say so," the Eagle Man answered in his usual gruff voice.

They reached the gate and leaning upon it was Mr. Procter. He stared his amazement at sight of his family returning in such state.

"Father, we had a picnic," called Maizie, springing from the carriage.

"And once I drove," cried Peter, almost falling from his seat, "and scared a chicken."

"We've had the grandest day, father," finished Suzanna, running to him. "We went on a picnic and we took the lame and halt along, Mabel and the Eagle Man, and they had a good time, too."

"And twice today, father," said Maizie, taking her father's hand, "I remembered Who smiled at me."

"Who smiled at you?" asked the Eagle Man, who heard everything, it seemed.

"The Man with the halo, Jesus, you know," Maizie answered reverently. "When first I was a baby on this earth He came to smile at me and to wake me up. Suzanna told me so."

Silence. Then the Eagle Man turned to Mr. Procter. "Glad to have met your family, sir."

"Glad you've had the opportunity," said Mr. Procter.

"You sold a quantity of nails to me a few weeks ago, good nails, too; not underweight either, I noticed," said the Eagle Man at last. "Your little girl tells me you are an inventor."

"Yes, I'm working on a machine," Mr. Procter flushed. "It is nearly finished. That is, sometimes I think so; other times completion seems far away."

The Eagle Man paused. "I'd be interested in seeing your invention," he said, and stopped. Yet there was promise, too, in his voice, in his eyes.

Again the color rushed to Mr. Procter's face. He stared unbelievingly at the other, and then said: "I'll be glad any time to show my machine; to tell you all about it—" He hesitated. "There'd be a great chance for you, should you become interested in it."

"Well, if that's the case, expect me any time. Good-bye."

Suzanna spoke cordially: "You must come and see us very often," she said warmly, "only not on Tuesday nights, if you're coming to supper, because we have stew then made from the last of Sunday's roast."

"I'll remember," said the Eagle Man gravely, as he gave the signal to Robert to drive away.

The little family went down through the yard and on to the house.

"I must hurry with your supper," said Mrs. Procter. "I'm sorry you were kept waiting." She felt rested enough not to dread preparing the meal.

"Don't hurry, I found some crackers," said Mr. Procter, and added, "Why, I've not seen you look so happy in many a long day."

"Well, I really must thank Suzanna," said Mrs. Procter. "She insisted upon a picnic because the day started wrong. The house is all upset though," she finished, as they went into the kitchen.

"The house?" he returned, gazing vaguely about. "It looks all right to me. Suppose, Jane, he should really be won over to believe in the machine. Oh, I never hoped I could interest him!"

"It may be the beginning of a great day," she answered. He put his arm about her.

"What should I do without you to encourage, to help," he said.

"That's my privilege," she said softly.

Bending, he kissed her.