At last, languidly she moved from the window, went down the stairs,
through the tiny hall and into the dining-room, her little face downcast
still, with no smile lightening it to greet the other children. Suzanna
and Peter sat at the table awaiting the laggard.

"Father had to leave early this morning, Maizie," said Suzanna at once.
"He ate his breakfast all alone."

Maizie did not answer; silently she sank into her chair as her mother
appeared with the baby and took her usual place, after placing him in
his high chair. Maizie gazed for a moment at the oatmeal in her own blue
plate, then with a little petulant gesture, she pushed the plate away.

"I don't like oatmeal with a pool of syrup in the middle," she said
slowly, not addressing anyone directly, but keeping her eyes on her
plate.

"You've always liked it before this morning," her mother answered. "I
think you're just cross, Maizie."

"I don't like syrup in the middle of my oatmeal," repeated Maizie; "I
want milk on it like father has."

"Oh, Maizie," said Suzanna, "father _must_ have milk on his oatmeal."

"Why?" asked Maizie.

"Because he is our father and he must have the nice things."