Mrs. Graham Woods Bartlett sat in her own perfectly appointed room one morning in late June. She sat quietly, hands folded. She could hear Graham, her son, downstairs beneath her window talking to David and Daphne. She caught disconnected words. They floated to her broken like meaningless flakes of snow.

She had just returned from her call on Mrs. Procter, that impulsive call made on the wings of an impulsive, quixotic thought. There still remained sharp in her memory the picture of the little home; the busy mother, washing out small woolen garments. She had gone unconsciously prepared to patronize and had returned completely shorn of her feeling of superiority. In truth, a little envy for that sweet-faced mother was in her heart.

From the time when her husband's mother died, she had not been happy. Pursuits that hitherto had satisfied her altogether lost their power. New values were slowly born in her. Still possessing a degree of sensibility not killed by her false life, she had been by the attitude of her husband and her son, able to see herself clearly. Both had been dependent upon her in a measure for their happiness, and she had failed them. Their reaction had hurt her bitterly.

She had tried in the past two years to make amends, but some hurts heal slowly. Perhaps it was hard for her husband and son to realize that she was trying to make amends. In any event, each went his separate way, a household divided. Early in the morning had come the thought of the seashore and she had wasted no time in seeking the little home. And now its atmosphere filled her mind.

She heard Daphne's young voice, and a sudden rare pity filled her for the motherless child, her gardener's daughter. She would ask Daphne, too.

She went to seek David, and as she came upon him spading a flower bed, the two children with him, a station carriage stopped before the big iron gates and her husband alighted. He had been away on one of his long trips and was now returning home, unheralded, unexpected.

He came quickly down the path and stopped short at sight of his wife. "I did not think to find you here," he said.

She did not answer at once. He looked closer at her. "You look a bit fagged," he said, uncertainly. Perhaps he felt a softer appeal about her which took him back to their young days together.

"I am a little tired," she said.

"I thought you intended to spend the summer in the East," he went on.

"Strangely, Bartlett Villa held more fascination for me than any other place. I returned here a week ago," she hesitated before continuing. "I obeyed a whim this morning and invited the Procter children to accompany Graham and me to the seashore to spend a month."

He looked at her incredulously. "I—I don't understand," he said.

She returned his gaze, then suddenly she turned from him and hastened back to the house. Many emotions bit at her, among them anger with her husband for his difficulty in believing she had done something which would mean, some trouble to her; which in the days just behind she would have designated as impossible, or "boring."

After a moment he followed her and overtook her as she reached the small side room where Suzanna had once sat telling of the poor people who had been burned out of their homes. She knew he was near her, but she gave no heed. Instead she flung herself down in a near chair and buried her face in her hands.

He stood, looking down at her in silence. At last he let his hand fall gently on her shoulder.

"Ina," he said, softly.

She looked up at him.

"Dear," he went on, "have you and I just been playing at life?"

"Oh, it seems so," she cried. "I know I am unhappy, groping." She stood up and put out her hands to him. He took them, drew her close to him. "Ina," he said, "let me go with you and the children to the seashore. Let's try to know one another better."

A radiance came upon her, filling her eyes. She did not speak, only she held very fast to his hand, as though in the clasp she found an anchor.

There came the glorious summer day marked for the journey to the seashore. Suzanna, Maizie, and Peter waited for the Bartlett carriage which was to convey them to the depot. At last they heard it coming. At last it stood before the gate, and Daphne put her small head out of the carriage window. Then Graham opened the door and sprang to the ground. He said a word to David who was driving, and ran up the path.

Maizie began to dance, Peter to whistle. But Suzanna stood quite still, the glow of anticipation falling from her face.

"Are you quite ready, Suzanna?" asked Mrs. Procter.

At the words Suzanna's control broke. With a little cry she ran into her mother's arms. "Oh, mother, mother," she sobbed, "I can't go away, so far away and leave you—a whole month!"

Mrs. Procter held the small figure close. Her own eyes were wet, but she spoke calmly:

"Why, little girl, mother will be here waiting for your return, and longing to hear all about your good time. Come, dry your eyes and think how happy you're going to be."

"But I know you'll be lonesome, mother, and so shall I be for you."

"But when you grow lonesome," Mrs. Procter whispered, "just think how lovely it will be to return home; and remember that father's machine will be given its great test before you come back. Mr. Bartlett and Mr. Massey have made all arrangements."

Suzanna's face brightened; the clouds dispelled themselves, so she was able to greet Graham with much of her old smile.

"All ready?" he cried as he ran up the steps. "Father and mother and a maid are following in another carriage. Nancy is with us."

He was quite plainly excited by some thought deeper than the mere fact of going to the seashore. Suzanna's companionship was promised for long days to come; he knew her eye for beauty hidden from others; her quaint speech. And then, too, a new relationship had come to pass between himself and his mother. Between them an understanding that made him glow.

It seemed but a moment before they were all together in the train. Suzanna settled herself to look out of the window at the passing landscape, so exhilaratingly new to her. Maizie sat beside her, Peter across the aisle with Graham. Little Daphne was cuddled close to Mrs. Bartlett. Mr. Bartlett was in the dining-car.

Maizie whispered to her sister: "We've come to the future now, haven't we, Suzanna?"

"Why, you can't ever come to the future," returned Suzanna.

Maizie puzzled a moment. "But don't you remember, mother said we might travel on a train some time in the future? So now we're doing it, why haven't we come to the future?"

"Because you never can come to the future," Suzanna repeated. She leaned forward and spoke to Mrs. Bartlett. "When you're living a day it's the present, isn't it, Mrs. Bartlett?"

Mrs. Bartlett looked long at the two children. "Maizie thinks the future an occasion, I think," she said, and then, because lucid explanation was beyond her, she continued: "You know we have a big cottage at the seashore, and the cottage is close to the water."

Maizie it was who at last broke the thrilling silence: "Where there's an ocean? And where you can go wading and swimming?" she cried.

"And will there be sand?" asked Suzanna, hanging upon the answer breathlessly.

"Yes, there's a wide yellow beach running into the ocean where you can dig and build castles all day," said Mrs. Bartlett.

"Oh, my cup is full and runneth over," said Suzanna solemnly.

The train swept on through small towns and the children's delight and amazement increased. And when at noon the climax came, and they all went forward into the dining-car, they were one and all silent. No words great enough were in their vocabulary to express this moment.

Said Mr. Bartlett when they were all seated: "Now, children, you may order just exactly what you'd like. You first, Suzanna."

"Well," she said, without hesitation, "I should like some golden brown toast that isn't burned, with lots of butter on it, and a cup of cocoa with a marshmallow floating on top, and at the very last, a dish of striped ice cream with a cherry right in the middle."

Mr. Bartlett wrote the order rapidly on a card. Each of the children spoke out his deepest, perhaps his long-cherished desire. Some of the dishes were secretly and mercifully modified by Mrs. Bartlett, who sat in enjoyment of the scene.

"It's like a dream, Mrs. Bartlett," said Suzanna when, dinner finished, they were all back once more in the parlor car. "You don't think we'll wake up, do you?"

"No, I think not; you'll simply get wider and wider awake."

But, as the hours crept on and as she watched the flying landscape, the reaction to all her excitement came and a haze fell over everything, and she slept, to awaken some time later, full of contrition.

She spoke anxiously to Mrs. Bartlett: "Oh, I appreciated it all, Mrs. Bartlett, but my eyes just closed down of themselves," she said.

Mrs. Bartlett smiled. "It's a long journey," she said, "but we'll soon see the end of it."

At nine o'clock the train stopped for the first time since dark had fallen. "Here we are," cried Mr. Bartlett. And in a few moments they were all standing on the platform of a little railroad station waiting while carriages were being secured to take them for the night to a hotel nestling on the top of a tall hill.