quickening of the senses that rallied themselves to meet and solve a
problem that brought a high glow; stimulated, and uplifted. She herself
was no stranger to that glow.

She put her arms about her mother's shoulder.

"Isn't it nice, mother, to have to think out things?"

A little puzzled, Mrs. Procter looked at Suzanna. Then her face cleared.

"O, I understand. It is--can you understand the word,
Suzanna--'exhilarating' sometimes."

"I feel what the word means, mother--like catching in your breath when
you touch cold water."

"Exactly. Now please get the slippers."

Suzanna ran upstairs. Returning, slippers in hand, she found the other
children had left.

"Has Maizie got the baby?" Suzanna asked anxiously.

Her mother smiled. "Yes, I carried him out to the yard. He's kicking
about, happy on his blanket."

Suzanna, relieved, handed the slippers to her mother.

"And I brought my old black hair ribbon. That will do for the shirring,
won't it, mother?"

"Nicely."

Together they evolved, worked, tried on, completed.

"It's more fun doing this than going to Bryson's and buying a new pair,
isn't it, mother?"

"Well, I believe it is, daughter."

"I feel so warm here--" Suzanna touched her heart--"because we're doing
something harder than just going out to the store and buying what we'd
like."

Mrs. Procter gazed at her handiwork reflectively. "Well, it does make
you feel that you've accomplished a great deal when you've created
something out of nothing."

Mrs. Procter rose then, touched the new dress lovingly, and said: "So,
we can put it away now, Suzanna; it's quite finished. The petticoat
needs just a button and buttonhole."

Suzanna stood quite still. At last she looked up into her mother's face
and put her question: "When will you begin to cut the goods out from
under the lace, mother?"

Mrs. Procter, her thoughts now supperward, spoke abstractedly: "Oh,
we'll not do that."

There was a silence, while the room suddenly whirled for Suzanna.
Recovering from the dizziness, with eyes large and black and her face
very pale, Suzanna gazed unbelievingly at her mother. For a moment she
was quite unable to speak. Then in a tiny voice which she endeavored to
keep steady, she asked: "Not even from under the wide row round the
bottom, mother?"

"No, Suzanna," Mrs. Procter answered, quite unconscious of the storm in
the child's breast. She moved towards the door.

"But, mother, listen, please." Suzann