Suzanna obeyed reluctantly. She turned from the window. "Mother," she
said, "when I'm grown up I'll have no steady days for anything."

"What do you mean?" asked Mrs. Procter.

"Well, I won't wash on Monday, and iron on Tuesday, and clean on
Wednesday, and bake on Thursday. I'll let every day be a surprise."

"Yes," said Mrs. Procter, "and a nice mix-up there'd be. You must have
set times for every task if you expect to accomplish anything."

"But isn't it 'complishing anything if you're happy?" asked Suzanna,
really puzzled.

Mrs. Procter hesitated. "But you can be happy working, too."

"But I know, mother, that I'd be happier today out in the sun."

"But the truth remains, Suzanna, that if we don't wash on Monday we'd
have to wash on Tuesday, and that ties up everything at the end of the
week," said her mother.

Suzanna sighed. She couldn't by mere words combat her mother's
arguments. They seemed indeed unassailable if you applied plain reason
to them. But something deeper, finer than reason, made Suzanna believe
that to be out in the sun, to be under the trees, to be dreaming in the
perfume of flowers, was more important than cleaning and dusting; anyway
in a glorious, straight-from-Heaven day like this Wednesday. So she
returned unconvinced to the dishes, while her mother after tying the
baby in his high chair cast an appraising eye around, wondering just