e. Sweet, you gave me
joy last night. I pretended that you were my own. I undressed you and
put you to bed, and heard your prayers. You did something for me, and I
be vastly grateful to you."

Suzanna's eyes brightened. "Oh, thank you for saying all that, Mrs.
Reynolds."

"Yes, you came to me in the night with your shiny bag, and you told in
your little way some truths to Reynolds. You made him see clear and
farther than he has for many a day, the fine man though he is, and I'll
always hold you in my heart as my dream child."

"Your dream child--and I'll dream for you--that you should have your
heart's desire like the fairies say," finished Suzanna.

"Ah, lack-a-me," cried Mrs. Reynolds. "Who e'er gets his deepest heart
desire in this drear world?"

Suzanna sprang to her feet.

"Oh, but heart's desires change."

"Change!"

"Yes. You can have new ones every day. Why, for many days my deepest
heart's desire has been to have the goods cut away from under the lace.
Now, I don't care so much for that--not so much--Now I want most in the
world to see--my--mother--"

Fearful that she had hurt Mrs. Reynolds by her confession, she put out
her hand and stroked the capable hand lying near.

But Mrs. Reynolds wasn't hurt. She was smiling. "Well, it's a hard thing
at times to learn to put one wish in place of another. But I guess life
teaches you that; it hurries you forward so you have to put wish on
wish." She stood up. "And now, the morning's well started, Suzanna.
Dress quickly and come down to a warm breakfast."

She raised the tray and Suzanna knew that now she was hungry.

"Come down when you're ready, my wee bit girl," said Mrs. Reynolds, as
she left, carrying the tray with her.

So Suzanna in a short time descended. How restful the house was; no
insistent voices of children, no clattering of dishes.

"It's so quiet and nice here, Mrs. Reynolds," said Suzanna, as she
entered the kitchen. "At home there's lots of talking and sometimes the
baby cries."

"Do you like quiet, Suzanna?"

"Ye-es," Suzanna stammered. A recurrent attack of homesickness was upon
her; that dreadful pulling of the heartstrings; that sinking feeling
that she had cut herself loose from all to whom she belonged rightfully.

She stood still watching Mrs. Reynolds who was busy at the stove. She
admired the deftness with which an egg was broken and dropped into
boiling water, and in a few seconds brought to the top intact, to be
placed