y, that big space, and so I have filled it in
with a day of my own. If mother will let me, I'm going to have two
tucked-in days. On the first I'm a princess, and on the second, I shall
be an Only Child."

"Very well, little girl," said Suzanna's father. "And now I hear others
moving about upstairs. Will you stay to breakfast with us, Princess?"

"Oh, yes," said Suzanna, who began to feel the healthy pangs of hunger.
"I suppose perhaps I had better set the table."

A half-hour later the house was in a bustle. The baby was crying, Peter,
the five-year-old, was sliding in his usual exuberant manner down the
banisters, and at the stove in the kitchen, Mrs. Procter, the mother,
was filling pans and opening and closing the oven door with quick,
somewhat noisy movements.

When in time all were gathered about the dining table, they were an
interesting looking family. Mrs. Procter, young, despite her four
children, wore a little worried frown strangely at conflict with her
palpable desire to make the best of things. She darted here and there,
soothing the baby with a practiced hand, pouring her husband's coffee,
helping voracious Peter, her busy mind anticipating all the day's tasks.
Suzanna loved and admired her mother. She loved the way the luxuriant
dark hair was wound round and round the small head. She loved the rare
smile, the soft blue eyes fringed in black lashes. She liked to meet
those eyes when they were filled with understanding, when they seemed to
speak as plainly as the tender lips made just for lullabies--and
encouragements when the inventor-father stumbled, lost his belief in
himself and in his Machine.

Maizie, younger than Suzanna by only a year, looked like her
mother--sweet, very practical, always in a wide-eyed condition of
surprise at Suzanna's wonderful imagination; a dependable little body
who rarely fell from grace by reason of naughtiness.

Peter, a strange composite of his dreamy father and practical mother,
sat near the baby. Peter had had a twin, a little girl, who died when
she was three years old. Sometimes, even now, Peter cried himself to
sleep for Helen.

The baby, now crowing in his armchair beside his mother, was a bright
little chap of not quite a year. Too plump to even try his sturdy legs,
he was oftentimes very much of a burden to his devoted sisters.

Mrs. Procter's eyes had taken in at once Suzanna's finery, but Mrs.
Procter knew Suzanna; besides she did not always ask a direct