Part 44 (2/2)

The flames lit all the faces, young and old. They fell on Mrs. Bartlett, touching her lovely hair to molten gold, touching her thoughtful face till it seemed a smile beyond itself rested upon it. She was thinking--”Tomorrow we start back, and in my hands lie the happiness of many. In my hands lies the keeping of the ideals of two--” She closed her eyes and asked for clear vision, for strength to keep true to life's highest values.

Graham, at her knee, looked up at her. Feeling that his eyes were upon her, she opened hers and gazed at him. She did not speak, nor did he, but she felt his heart's nearness.

And then his gaze wandered to Suzanna, Suzanna gazing into the flames, her dark eyes like glowing jewels, her soft lips parted. And into Mrs.

Bartlett's heart crept a little fear and a little yearning and a little great knowledge--that composite emotion all mothers are born to know.

CHAPTER XXVI

SUZANNA AND HER FATHER

At home again after the glorious month spent at the seash.o.r.e! Habits, dear customs, taken up once more. The splendor of the trip had not faded for the Procter children. But home was home after all, with father and mother and sisters and brothers all sharing the common life; with short wanderings away and joyous returns; with small resentments, quick flashes, and happy reconciliations.

”It was lovely at the seash.o.r.e,” said Suzanna to her mother one Sat.u.r.day afternoon, ”but I'm awfully glad to be at home again. Were you lonely without us?”

”Very,” said Mrs. Procter, ”but then I knew you were all having such interesting experiences.”

”Is father coming home early, mother?” Maizie asked, looking up from her work. She was sewing b.u.t.tons on Peter's blouse with the strongest linen thread obtainable in Anchorville.

Mrs. Procter's face shadowed. She looked at Suzanna and Maizie as though pondering the wisdom of giving them some piece of news. Evidently she decided against doing so, for she answered:

”I can't tell, Maizie, he may be kept at the mills. Mr. Ma.s.sey is growing more dependent on father every day,” she ended, with a little burst of pride.

Father did not come home in the afternoon. The children lost hope after a time, and followed their separate whims.

But at six he arrived. Suzanna had noticed at once upon her return, that he was quieter, less exuberant than he had been since entering old John Ma.s.sey's employ. Some light seemed to have gone from his face. Suzanna wanted always to comfort him, and he, though saying nothing, was quite conscious of his little daughter's yearning over him.

During supper his absorption continued, and immediately afterward he went into the parlor, selected a big book from a shelf, and drawing a chair near the lamp began to read. Mother put the ”baby” and Peter to bed. Suzanna and Maizie, after the dishes were finished, followed father, and drawing their chairs close, looked over some pictures together.

”Sat.u.r.day night”--how Suzanna loved it! It seemed the hush time of the week, the hush before waking to the next beautiful day, Sunday, when all the family were together--father in his nice dark suit, mother in her soft wisteria gown, all the children in pretty clothes; church, with its resonant organ, and the minister's deep voice reading from the old book.

Then, weather propitious, the walk with father and mother in the afternoon down the country road, and at night the lamps again lit--all the homely significances of the place where love and peace and courage dwelt.

Mrs. Procter returned from putting the children to bed. ”I think I'll go upstairs for a little while,” said Mr. Procter looking up at her.

”Oh, do, Richard,” she urged.

Suzanna went close to him, her hand sought his. ”Could--could you invite us for a little while, daddy,” she asked, beseechingly.

”Why, yes, if you wish,” he answered. ”You and mother and Maizie.”

It was rather a heavy consent, but they all accompanied him up to the attic. He lit the shaded lamp standing on the corner table, regulated it till it gave out a subdued glow, and then walked and stood before his machine.

He stood a long time looking at it. Once he put out his hand and touched it softly, as a mother might a sleeping child.

Suzanna and Maizie, awed and troubled, they knew not why, watched their father. Only their mother, with a little tender smile that held in it a great deal of wistfulness, went close to him.

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