A swift shadow darkened David's fine face and he shaded his eyes with his hand. Then he went to the little girl and raised her as though she were one of his carefully cherished flowers. Her sobs ceased as she found herself in her father's arms.

"You see," said her father, "she has no mother!"

Now the children knew by his tone and by the extreme sadness in his eyes that the little Daphne's mother had gone away never to return. And they knew it must be the saddest thing in the world to be without a mother; one who was always ready to understand even if you had to wait till the baby was hushed, or the bread looked at in the oven. The understanding did come, sure and tender; a mother who sometimes smiled at you in that complete, deep way, as Suzanna's mother had smiled at her the day she wore her leghorn hat with the daisies.

"Can Daphne play with us?" asked Suzanna after awhile. "And can we take her home to see our mother?"

The man's face brightened at this. "Why, that will be fine," he said.

"Perhaps you'd like to play here in the grounds for awhile. Then Daphne can go home with you. You're the Procter children, aren't you? I've talked often with your father when I've bought things in the hardware shop. I'm coming sometime to see his machine."

"Yes," said Suzanna, "but how did you know we were the Procter children?

We didn't tell you our name. Did Graham?"

"No," said the man, "but you're the living image of your father. You look at a person just like he does, out of your big dark eyes."

Suzanna flushed. There was nothing in all the world she so loved to hear as that she looked like her father.

Little Daphne had ceased crying and her father carried her up the narrow winding stairs to their own quarters. Shortly he returned again. The little girl now wore a pretty lace-trimmed bonnet mother-made, one knew at once, and a little white cape. She was a very charming and quaint figure.

"I think, daddy," she said, "I'd like to go home right away and see the little girl's mother."

He turned his head away again for a moment, but he managed at last to meet his little daughter's eyes with a smile.

"Run along, sweet," he said.

"Can she stay to supper with us?" asked Suzanna.

"If your mother would like to have her," said the man. "And I'll come up later for her."

"All right," replied Suzanna.

Now came the hard moment for Peter, in the parting from his dog. He came reluctantly forward.

Graham, seeing Peter's distress when the animal had been delivered into David's care, said: "You can come up here often, Peter, and see the dog.

I know it's awful hard giving him up."

Peter's heart was touched. Here at last was one who understood! Here at last was one who would not condemn a dog merely because he had an unnaturally big appet.i.te; because he got around under people's feet and had no manners.

"You're a very nice boy," said Suzanna when they were parting, "and we wish you would come to see us."

Graham's face lit. "Oh, I will come. Do you live in that little cottage with the crooked chimney?"

"Yes," said Suzanna. "Come soon, won't you?"

Graham promised he would do so.

As the Procter children went down the road, Graham watched them, but his gaze presently concentrated itself on Suzanna, who was leading the small Daphne.

"I like Suzanna," thought Graham. "I like to see her flush up like a rose when she speaks." Which was a poetical observation for a boy of twelve.

CHAPTER XV

A LENT MOTHER

Mrs. Procter was in the dining-room arranging the shelves of her small sideboard when she heard sounds betokening the children's return.

They entered the dining-room, Suzanna leading a small stranger by the hand, Maizie and Peter behind.

"Mother," began Suzanna at once, "David, the gardener, took the dog and we brought this little girl home to see you."

Mrs. Procter looked questioningly at Daphne, who stood close to Suzanna's protecting arm.

"Stay with Maizie a moment, Daphne," said Suzanna, "while I tell my mother something." Daphne smiled and did as she was told, and Suzanna went close to Mrs. Procter. In a low tone she said: "Daphne's mother went far away awhile ago, and I'm telling this to you in a low voice because Daphne cried when we asked her where her mother was. I brought her home so she could remember how beautiful a mother is."

In an instant the tears sprang to Mrs. Procter's eyes. She went quickly to Daphne, and lifted the little girl.

"Sit down in a rocking chair with her," said Suzanna, "and hold her close up to you. And then when she's cuddled down, look at her like you do at our babies."

Mrs. Procter obeyed. Daphne nestled close. "Her father knows my father, Mrs. Procter," said Suzanna.

Mrs. Procter looked up quickly at this new mode of address. Suzanna explained.

"Daphne," she said, going close and looking down at the contented little face, "I'm giving you a share in my mother while you're here today. I give over the part I own in her to you, and I shall call her Mrs.

Procter whenever you visit us."

"But you can't give away even your part in your very own mother,"

protested Maizie.

"But I have done so, haven't I?"

"Does just saying so make a thing true?" Maizie asked.

"If you say so and live up to it," Suzanna returned.

"Well, anyway," said Maizie, "mother's not cuddling Daphne because she wants to; only because she's sorry for her."

"What do you mean?" asked Mrs. Procter. "I like little Daphne, too, and I'm glad she's come to visit us."

"But you know, mother," said Maizie, "you only find time to cuddle your own babies. And you stop just as soon as they can walk around."

"Mrs. Procter cuddles all children in her heart," said Suzanna loyally.

"She'd wear her arms out if she cuddled all of us all the time."

Maizie didn't answer that. But when little Daphne finally left Mrs.

Procter's sheltering clasp and went away to play with the children, Maizie still hovered about her mother.