ised. The small face looked out with a distorted
artificial smile quite unknown to the face it sought to represent. Yet
Suzanna's aura was visible, Mr. Bartlett thought. That little girl who
so simply and lovingly had called his mother Drusilla because no one in
the world was left to do so! A fragrance straight from his heart made
the ugly crayon suddenly a thing of beauty, showing forth a child's
soul.

Suzanna returned, panting a little. She had run upstairs and down again.
"Father wants you to go right up," she said. "And maybe when I've
finished the dishes I'll come back, too."

So he followed her up the narrow stairs. Suzanna gravely told him that
every other step creaked, except if you put your foot carefully in the
middle. At the attic door she left him.

Mr. Procter looked up as his visitor entered. "I'm glad to see you, Mr.
Bartlett," he said cordially. "It's not very light in here, but we can
see to talk. Sit down."

Mr. Bartlett took the proffered chair. He looked about the dim room and
could see in outline the machine.

"David has told you something of my invention, I remember and its
object," said Mr. Procter.

"Yes, David has told me," Mr. Bartlett replied. "You're attempting a
tremendously big thing, Mr. Procter. David told me about the colors and
your theory of their meaning."

"Yes. Did David tell you, too, that my daughter Suzanna produced on the
plate of the machine purple and gold? In my book I had written down . . .
'Purple: high talent for writing.'"

Mr. Bartlett hesitated a moment before replying.

"But it hasn't been proven that Suzanna can write. You will have to wait
a few years for evidence."

"True, still she is talented. I may dare say that even though I happen
to be her father. She possesses an insatiable curiosity concerning life,
the divine birthright of the artist, the creator."

"Still I'm not convinced that such a machine as David drew for me is
possible," said Mr. Bartlett. "I can understand that if you place a
person in contact with an instrument and proceed to change his
circulation by arousing his emotions that chemical change might be
registered upon a sensitive plate. But how can a mere machine be so
miraculous as to show forth by color or any other method one's
'meaning'? It's too big for my imagination, that's all. There are so
many parts that go to make up a human being, so many points in his favor
for a certain line of work, so many against it."

Still the in