"I think I'm always tired these days," Mrs. Procter admitted, "but I'm
particularly tired this morning. The baby was very restless last night."

"If you were like Mrs. Martin on the other side of the town," said
Suzanna as she rose from the table and began to gather up the dishes,
while Peter escaped into the yard, "who has only one little girl, you
wouldn't be kept awake." Suzanna's eyes were widely questioning. Did her
mother regret owning so many children?

Mrs. Procter stood up. She lifted the baby out of his high chair.
"You're every one dear and wonderful to me," she said. "But we're all
human, dear, and apt to grow tired."

Suzanna walked into the kitchen and put the dishes down on the table. On
her way back to the dining-room she glanced out of the window. The
early September day had changed. Miraculously every dull gray cloud had
scurried away, leaving a sky soft, yet brilliant. Birds flew about,
carolling madly, as though some elixir in the air sent their spirits
bounding. Suzanna's every fiber responded. The desire whipped her to
plunge into the beauty of outdoors, to run madly about, to shout, to
sing. But alas, she knew there was no chance to obey her ardent impulse,
since Wednesday was cleaning day, a day rigid, inflexible, when all the
Procter family were pressed into service; that is, all but Peter,
belonging to a sex blessedly free from work during its young, upgrowing
years.

Mrs. Procter spoke: "Bring the high chair into the kitchen, Suzanna,
near the window for the baby; then we'll start cleaning."