she wiped
her hands on a convenient roller towel.

Mr. Reynolds laughed. "Oh, you think you'd like a change of homes,
Suzanna?"

Suzanna turned to him then. She spoke quietly, but decisively so he
might perfectly understand. "No, that's not it, Reynolds. I love my
little home; but first I don't want Mrs. Reynolds to throw her apron
over her head at your slams. And second it's for myself I come, because
you can afford to do something for me my own mother thinks she can't on
account of little money."

But Mr. Reynolds caught only the first reason. "What do you mean, young
lady, about slammin'; that's what I want to know." His tone was
belligerent. Mrs. Reynolds threw him a withering look. "Here, Suzanna,"
she said; "give me the bag, and you sit down. Take your hat off, my
brave little lass. 'Twas but you and you alone could think of this sweet
thought."

"I'd rather have things settled before I take my hat off," said Suzanna.
She relinquished the bag, however, and seated herself in the chair Mrs.
Reynolds pulled forward. Then she went on: "You know, Reynolds, you do
slam doors and make Mrs. Reynolds cry. And you know, anyway, you
oughtn't to blame Mrs. Reynolds because you get no visits. It may be
just as much your fault because the mother angel don't like your ways."

She paused a moment before continuing. "And, anyway, my father never
blames mother for anything, only when she's tired and cries he remembers
to love her even if he's on the way upstairs to the attic to his
wonderful Machine, and he puts his arm about her waist, though mother
says it's much larger now than it was years ago. That's what my father
that used to be, does."

"Why bless my soul!" blustered Mr. Reynolds, his face a fine glowing
color; "bless my soul!" he repeated, removing his shoes and slamming
them down, as he always did under stress. "Women, my dear, will make up
all sorts of stories. If I did give the door a bit of a slam, it was
because the bacon didn't set right, perhaps. And a woman's always
fancying things."

"But you don't put your arm about her, you know that, Reynolds. I was
born in this town and I've never seen you put your arm about her."

Mrs. Reynolds' apron was over her head again, but she made no sound. Her
husband knocked the ashes from his pipe, and ran his fingers through his
thick hair. Then he stared helplessly at Suzanna. She rose valiantly to
the occasion.

"If you say, 'There, there, don't cry, you should have