married a better
man,' she'll say: 'There couldn't be a better' and take her apron down."
Thus innocently Suzanna exposed a tender home method of salving hurts,
and her listener, as near as his nature could, appropriated the method.
He rose from his chair and went softly to his wife. At her side he
hesitated in sheer embarrassment, but as she began to sob, he hurriedly
repeated Suzanna's formula: "There, there, dear, don't cry. I'm a bad
'un, I am--"

Mrs. Reynolds lowered her shield. "You know better than that,
Reynolds," she denied, almost indignantly. "You're a good provider, with
a bit of a temper."

"Well, out with it then. What _is_ the trouble? I'm willing to do what I
can, even occasionally to doing what the little lass suggests." And with
the words, his big arm went clumsily about his wife, the while he looked
at Suzanna for approval. She nodded vigorously, her eyes shining.

"It's just this, then, Reynolds," the words were now a whisper, and the
big red-faced man had to stoop to hear. "It's that I'm achin' all the
time to hold one in my arms; and always to you I've let on that I didn't
care. An'--an'--I know the hunger in your own fine heart, my lad."

Mr. Reynolds' face grew wonderfully soft; indeed, tender in a new
understanding. "I didn't know, Margie, that you grieved. Come, look up.
You and me are together anyway."

"And you have me, now, too," broke in Suzanna, eager to help. "I'm going
to stay with you forever'n forever, only except when my mother that used
to be wants to borrow me back. Now, I'll go to bed, if you please."

And then one swift, cuddling memory of little Maizie alone in bed across
the street brought the hot tears to Suzanna's eyes, but she winked them
resolutely back as she lifted the black, shiny bag.

"Tomorrow," she said to Mrs. Reynolds, "you can cut the goods away from
under the lace on my pink dress, can't you?" She went on, not waiting
for an answer. "Shall I go right along upstairs?"

Mrs. Reynolds spoke gently: "Yes, Suzanna. Did you tell your mother you
were coming to me to be my own lass?"

"I wrote her a letter."

Suzanna on her way upstairs waited a moment while Mrs. Reynolds
whispered directions to her husband: "You run across to the little home
while I put her to bed." Then looking wistfully up into his face: "Do
you think she'll let me undress her?"

"That young'un will do anything to make you happy, Margie."

From the top of the stairs the words floated do