Part 38 (2/2)

But above and beyond his love she had put wealth and fine position. He had given her both, but now before her stood her husband and son estranged from her.

She moved away at last. With new awakening power of perception, she felt she was stripped of everything of worth. When she was half-way down the wide hall she heard a step behind her. She paused, waited, and in a moment Graham was beside her.

He put his hand in hers. ”Mother,” he said, quietly.

Her eyes filled with the near tears. She clung to his hand as though he would protect her against her own bitter thoughts.

”Does your head ache?” he asked. There was solicitude in his voice, but still that strange, dreadful aloofness, more dreadful because he was not conscious of it.

”No,” she answered. She looked down at him and out of an impulse she cried: ”Do you still love me, Graham?”

”I love you, mother,” he answered gravely. But she knew then that there would be work on her part before once again she stood to him his ideal.

She had dwelt in the core of his heart; perhaps in time she could once more move near to that sanctified place. The intimate human relation, husband and wife, parent and child--she knew with pain and yearning that all else--position, great wealth, worldly power--were vain beside the joy of those relations in their purest.

Perhaps a week later Suzanna was was.h.i.+ng the supper dishes, and Maizie wiping them. Their mother was upstairs with Peter and the baby, Mr.

Procter in the attic. As Maizie finished the last dish, the door bell rang.

Suzanna ran to the foot of the stairs.

”Oh, mother, shall I answer?” she cried.

”I wish you would,” Mrs. Procter called down. ”Peter has a stone bruise and I'm using liniment.”

So Suzanna went to the front door. She opened it to Mr. Bartlett.

”Good evening, Suzanna,” he said in a friendly voice. ”Is your father at home?”

”He's upstairs in the attic. Shall I take you to him?” asked Suzanna very politely.

”Perhaps you'd better consult him first as to that, Suzanna. He may not wish to be disturbed.”

”Well, I will. Won't you sit down in the parlor?”

Mr. Bartlett, half smiling, followed the small figure into the room designated. He looked about interestedly after Suzanna had gone. A kerosene lamp set upon a center table sent an apologetic light over the shabby furniture. Above the mantel with its velvet cover and statuette of a crying baby, was a picture of Suzanna, a ”crayon,” Mr. Bartlett amusingly surmised. The small face looked out with a distorted artificial smile quite unknown to the face it sought to represent. Yet Suzanna's aura was visible, Mr. Bartlett thought. That little girl who so simply and lovingly had called his mother Drusilla because no one in the world was left to do so! A fragrance straight from his heart made the ugly crayon suddenly a thing of beauty, showing forth a child's soul.

Suzanna returned, panting a little. She had run upstairs and down again.

”Father wants you to go right up,” she said. ”And maybe when I've finished the dishes I'll come back, too.”

So he followed her up the narrow stairs. Suzanna gravely told him that every other step creaked, except if you put your foot carefully in the middle. At the attic door she left him.

Mr. Procter looked up as his visitor entered. ”I'm glad to see you, Mr.

Bartlett,” he said cordially. ”It's not very light in here, but we can see to talk. Sit down.”

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