e daughter, so close to her heart fibers, should in any
degree turn from her, pierced the mother. She put her arms about the
unyielding small figure.

"Suzanna, little daughter," she whispered. "Mother is sometimes tired,
but always, always she loves you."

The response was immediate. With a little cry Suzanna pressed her lips
to her mother's. All her reticence was gone. This mother who enfolded
her stood once more the unwavering star that guided Suzanna's life.

"You see, little girl," Mrs. Procter said after a few moments, "mother
sometimes has a great deal to think about--and baby was cross."

"Oh, mother, dear, I'll help you," cried Suzanna. "I'll always be good
to you and when I'm grown up I'll buy you silk dresses and pretty hats
and take you to hear beautiful music."

Later they went downstairs together. In the kitchen Maizie was amusing
the baby as he sat in his high chair. She looked around as Suzanna
entered: "Are you going to see Drusilla now," asked Maizie.

"Who's Drusilla?" asked Mrs. Procter with interest.

Now Suzanna had not told her mother of her new friend. She had wished to
keep in character, and a princess, she felt, was rather secretive and
aloof. But now the renewed closeness she felt to her mother opened her
heart.

"Yesterday when I was a princess, living my very own first tucked-in
day, I walked and walked, and at last came to a little house with a
garden," she said, "and there was an old lady with no one to call her by
her first name--and so I'm going to call her Drusilla."

"Is she a little old lady with white hair, and curls on each side of her
face?" asked Mrs. Procter.

"Yes," said Suzanna.

"Why, she's Mr. Graham Woods Bartlett's mother, and she's a little--"
Mrs. Procter hesitated believing it wiser to leave her sentence
unfinished.

"A little what, mother?" asked Suzanna anxiously.

"Oh, she has fancies," evaded Mrs. Procter. "For instance, there are
times when she thinks herself a queen."

"What was the word you were going to use, mother?" persisted Suzanna.

"Well, then, Suzanna, such a person is called a little strange."

"Then I'm a little strange, too," said Suzanna.

"But you're a child, Suzanna," said Mrs. Procter, "and Mrs. Bartlett is
a very old lady."

"Does that make the difference?" asked Suzanna. "If it does, I can't
understand why. I think that an old lady, especially if she's lonely and
if she grieves for her king who went far away from her, has just