Still now, lying there alone in her strange surroundings, that desire
was losing its poignancy. It didn't seem quite to fill her entire
universe.

Mrs. Reynolds put her head inside the door. She wore a crisp blue and
white dress, her black hair was drawn smoothly back from her brow. Her
eyes dwelt lovingly on the little girl.

"Quite awake, Suzanna?" she asked.

Suzanna nodded. She couldn't trust herself to speak.

"Well, then," said Mrs. Reynolds, "I'm going to give thee a treat." She
went away quite unconscious that she had fallen into her original quaint
method of speech.

Presently she returned, carrying a tray covered with a white and red
napkin.

Suzanna sat up, received the tray in her lap and waited unexcitedly
while Mrs. Reynolds removed the enshrouding napkin.

There lay an orange cut up and sugared; a poached egg on a slice of
perfectly browned toast, and a glass of rich milk.

"For my little girl," said Mrs. Reynolds in her contralto voice. "Now
eat thee, my dearie, and take your time. I'll leave now."

Alone once more, Suzanna surveyed the tray. She lifted a spoon with the
tiniest piece of orange on its tip, and found strangely that when she