"Can't I wear my patent leather slippers?"

"You've outgrown them, Suzanna. They're too short even for Maizie, you
remember."

"I could stand them for that one time, mother."

"No," said Mrs. Procter decidedly; "I should be distressed seeing you in
shoes too small for you."

"Mother, you could open the end of my patent leather slipper so my toes
can push through and then put a puff of black, ribbon over the hole!"
The idea was an inspiration, and Suzanna's eyes shone.

Mrs. Procter saw immediately possibilities in the idea. Years of working
and scheming and praying to raise her ever increasing family on the
inadequate and varying income of her inventor husband had ultimated in
keen sensibilities for opportunities. "Why, I think I can do that," she
said. "I'll make a sort of shirred bag into which your toes will fit and
so lengthen the slipper and cover the stitching with a bow. I hope I can
find a needle strong enough to go through the leather." Her face was
bright, her voice clear. She was all at once quite different from the
weary, dragged mother of the past few days, determined against all odds
to finish the dress so the cleaning might be started the following week.

Suzanna gazed delightedly. With the fine intuition of an imaginative
child she understood the reason for the metamorphosis. It was the
quickening of the senses that rallied themselves to meet and solve a
problem that brought a high glow; stimulated, and uplifted. She herself