"Oh, she has fancies," evaded Mrs. Procter. "For instance, there are
times when she thinks herself a queen."

"What was the word you were going to use, mother?" persisted Suzanna.

"Well, then, Suzanna, such a person is called a little strange."

"Then I'm a little strange, too," said Suzanna.

"But you're a child, Suzanna," said Mrs. Procter, "and Mrs. Bartlett is
a very old lady."

"Does that make the difference?" asked Suzanna. "If it does, I can't
understand why. I think that an old lady, especially if she's lonely and
if she grieves for her king who went far away from her, has just as much
right to have fancies as a little girl has."

"Well, I don't know," said Mrs. Procter, turning a soft look upon
Suzanna.

Maizie, who had been standing near listening intently, now spoke: "A
girl I know had a grandfather who thought he was a cat and every once in
awhile he meowed, and he liked to sit in the sun. He thought he was a
nice, gentle, Maltese cat, and when he wasn't busy meowing he was awful
sweet to the children, and played with them and took care of the little
ones; but the big people thought they'd better send him far away,
because it wasn't right that he should think himself a cat."

Suzanna's eyes flamed in anger. "I think they were cruel," she cried,