and the baby had turned the corner. Suzanna laid down her pen.

"Well, it's all finished," she said.

Maizie looked at her sister. Now the tears came, blurring the big gray
eyes.

"You mustn't cry, Maizie," said Suzanna, trying to subdue her own
emotions.

"Couldn't you just wear the dress as it is?" asked Maizie in a small
voice, touching the crux of the whole matter, the cause of the great
change.

"I just couldn't," Suzanna returned. "It wouldn't be a rose blossom, you
see, Maizie, _when it could just as well be one_."

Maizie nodded. Perhaps she understood Suzanna's sense of waste.
Undoubtedly her grief at Suzanna's contemplated step had sharpened her
sensibilities. Vague stirrings told her that the artist in Suzanna had
been desperately hurt; and for the once her imagination thrilled as did
her sister's to the dress as a Rose Blossom. She knew with passion that
it could not remain simply pink lawn cut and slashed into a mere
garment.

So she went softly to Suzanna and touched her gently.

"I'll help you all I can, sister," she said.

So it was that just as the clock was striking nine, little Maizie stole