ested, grew wildly expectant. Though she could send
up no airships of her own, she loved to contemplate Suzanna's daring
flights.

"I'll do anything, Suzanna," she promised.

So Suzanna gave Maizie her news. Hearing it, Maizie's lips quivered, but
she kept back the tears by the exercise of great control. They were
upstairs in their own room. It was late afternoon. Peter was out
playing. Mrs. Procter, the baby with her, was downtown ordering
groceries.

"Now, you mustn't cry, Maizie," said Suzanna; "it all had to be, and
what is to be is for the best." Suzanna quoted from Mrs. Reynolds. "Go
downstairs and get father's dictionary."

Maizie obeyed, returning quickly with the desired book.

"And now stand at the window so as to tell me when you see mother
coming."

So Maizie took her stand while Suzanna labored hard with the pen. An
hour passed. Once Suzanna flew downstairs to the kitchen, then returned
to her work. At last, Maizie in excited tones announced that her mother
and the baby had turned the corner. Suzanna laid down her pen.

"Well, it's all finished," she said.

Maizie looked at her sister. Now the tears came, blurring the big gray
eyes.

"You mustn't cry, Maizie," said Suzanna, trying to subdue her own
emotions.

"Couldn't you just wear the dress as it is?" asked Maizie in a small
voice, touching the crux of the whole matter, the cause of the great
change.

"I just couldn't," Suzanna returned. "It wouldn't be a rose blossom, you
see, Maizie, _when it could just as well be one_."

Maizie nodded. Perhaps she understood Suzanna's sense of waste.
Undoubtedly her grief at Suzanna's contemplated step had sharpened her
sensibilities. Vague stirrings told her that the artist in Suzanna had
been desperately hurt; and for the once her imagination thrilled as did
her sister's to the dress as a Rose Blossom. She knew with passion that
it could not remain simply pink lawn cut and slashed into a mere
garment.

So she went softly to Suzanna and touched her gently.

"I'll help you all I can, sister," she said.

So it was that just as the clock was striking nine, little Maizie stole
from her room--shared as long as she remembered with Suzanna--crept down
the stairs and into the parlor where her father sat studying, as always,
a formidable book, the while her mother sat sewing, her chair drawn
close to his. Maizie went straight to the quiet figure.

"Mother," she said, "Suzanna told me to stay awake till th