Part 16 (2/2)
She awoke late one morning, and found that Suzanna had arisen and gone down stairs. She heard sounds indicating breakfast, but there was a little dull feeling at her heart. Her customary joyous antic.i.p.ation of living a whole day, ripe with possibilities, was quite absent. She decided to remain in bed, but at her mother's voice calling her name she was prompted to put out one small foot, then the other, and soon, as another call came up peremptorily, she went lazily ahead dressing herself.
Ready then for the day, she went to the window and looked out. The sky was hazy, with little dull clouds floating on its breast. From far away came grumbles of thunder. Over to the east the sky seemed to open in a long thin path of vivid light and then close again, leaving the heavens gray, bleak. Maizie wanted to cry; it was with an effort she controlled her tears.
At last, languidly she moved from the window, went down the stairs, through the tiny hall and into the dining-room, her little face downcast still, with no smile lightening it to greet the other children. Suzanna and Peter sat at the table awaiting the laggard.
”Father had to leave early this morning, Maizie,” said Suzanna at once.
”He ate his breakfast all alone.”
Maizie did not answer; silently she sank into her chair as her mother appeared with the baby and took her usual place, after placing him in his high chair. Maizie gazed for a moment at the oatmeal in her own blue plate, then with a little petulant gesture, she pushed the plate away.
”I don't like oatmeal with a pool of syrup in the middle,” she said slowly, not addressing anyone directly, but keeping her eyes on her plate.
”You've always liked it before this morning,” her mother answered. ”I think you're just cross, Maizie.”
”I don't like syrup in the middle of my oatmeal,” repeated Maizie; ”I want milk on it like father has.”
”Oh, Maizie,” said Suzanna, ”father _must_ have milk on his oatmeal.”
”Why?” asked Maizie.
”Because he is our father and he must have the nice things.”
”Well, we're his children,” pursued Maizie, apparently unconvinced. ”And I don't see why we shouldn't have some nice things to eat, too.”
”But there's so many of us,” said Suzanna.
”Why did father leave orders for so many of us then?” said Maizie looking up. Belligerence was now in her tone, in her very att.i.tude.
”Now,” said Mrs. Procter, firmly. ”We must not talk this way. Father doesn't like syrup. It doesn't agree with him. You're a very naughty little girl this morning, Maizie.”
Maizie was again on the point of tears. Lest they overflow she rose quickly from the table and left the room.
”Maizie's in a bad humor today,” said Mrs. Procter to Suzanna.
”Maybe she feels bad today, mother, because it's Wednesday.”
”Well, what in the world has the day to do with it!” Mrs. Procter exclaimed.
”Well, Wednesday you know is the shape of a big black bear. It's not like Thursday, that's the shape of a great snowy white s.h.i.+p on a sparkling sea. I don't like Wednesday myself, mother.”
”Well, I'm sorry,” returned Mrs. Procter. ”But it's not in my power to shape days to please you children,” she spoke crisply.
”Are you tired, mother?” asked Suzanna, after a pause.
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