aching with weariness from the day's many tasks. And then as the hours
wore on, and the quiet soothed her weary nerves, the knowledge came,
flashing out of the ether, as often it does for serious mothers, that
the gift of keen sensibility, of intense desire was too valuable to be
quenched.

What if Suzanna began to question her own motives; what if she should
lose belief in her own spiritual integrity; learn in time to look in on
herself with a spirit of morbid analysis instead of living out her
natural qualities beautifully and spontaneously!

All these truths stirred her again as she looked at her child.

While Suzanna didn't move from her place, she wanted to stay at some
distance that she might look her soul's full at her mother--_her
mother_!

At length she spoke: "Mother--I want to be your little girl again. Will
you take me back?"

Would she take her back? Mrs. Procter's arms opened wide. Into them
Suzanna flew.

Mrs. Reynolds regarded the cold poached egg, the second one spoiled that
morning. Furtively she wiped the tears from her eyes. At last she
cleared her voice and spoke:

"I'll go upstairs and pack your bag, Suzanna," she said.