nto his carriage and wheeled him about till he fell asleep.
Then she called Maizie to watch him, while she tiptoed back into the
dining-room. Her mother still sat, dress in hand. Now she was drawing
out the bastings. The red spots still burned.

"The baby's asleep, mother," whispered Suzanna. She longed ardently for
the return of the loved one who could laugh and say something funny
about sleep claiming the baby when he had made up his small mind to
remain exasperatingly wide awake.

But instead--"Take out the stockings, Suzanna, and darn them. I'll call
you when I need your help for supper. Keep your eye on Peter."

That was all. Suzanna lingered, but no further word came.

Suzanna dragged a low rocking chair into the yard, emptied the bag of
freshly washed stockings on the ground beside her, selected a pair of
Peter's, slipped the egg down, threaded her needle and began the task of
filling in the huge holes. Then she called Maizie from beside the still
sleeping baby.

"Maizie," she began, "listen to me say two verses of 'The Little Martyr
of Smyrna.'"

Maizie sank down at her sister's feet. She listened in awe as Suzanna
dramatically repeated the first part of the poem. Her gestures were
remarkable, her voice charged with feeling.

"It's beautiful, Suzanna," said Maizie. "Everybody will listen and look
at you in your new dress."

"O, it isn't a dress, Maizie," cried Suzanna, the while her small
fingers dexterously wove the needle in and out. "It's a rose blossom.
And when I recite in it on the last day of school my heart will be a
butterfly sipping honey from the flower."

"I thought it was only a pale pink lawn at ten cents a yard," said
Maizie. She spoke somewhat timidly now, fearful of Suzanna's scorn.

"You think everything is just what it is," answered Suzanna
reproachfully. "Go see if the baby is still asleep, and look down the
road for Peter."

Maizie went off obediently, but she returned in a moment with the news
that the baby still slept and Peter was playing near Mr. Reynolds' gate.
She seated herself as before. She wanted to hear more of Suzanna's
fancies, but Suzanna remained silent, having been chilled a little by
Maizie's practicality. So Maizie put out her hand and touched her
sister. "Will the petticoat be a petticoat?" she asked, and wondered
excitedly into what beauty Suzanna's imagination would transmute this
ordinary piece of cambric.

Suzanna's spirits rose again. "It'll be a green