"I'll be glad to do all I can," said Mr. Procter at last; then fervently, "and thank you." Someone knocked softly, and Suzanna entered. "This special letter came for you, daddy," she said. "Mother said I might bring it up to you." Mr. Procter took the letter, looked curiously at it before tearing it open. He glanced through its contents, held it a second while he looked away then he went through it again. It ran: Dear Procter: You've known for some time that Job Doane is running the hardware shop in my interest. I bought the place for a future purpose, never mind that purpose, it isn't of interest to you or anyone in Anchorville. I am confined to my room with an attack of rheumatism, so I can't see you to talk over a scheme which I have in mind. I will say that I have concluded all arrangements to rebuild homes for the men and their families who were burned out some time ago, and I want you to act as my agent. No sentiment in building these up-to-date houses, let me assure you. Only perhaps I've given some thought to Suzanna's little wrist chain. Come to me within a day or two and we'll talk over salary, and other things of interest to you. Yours, John Massey. Suzanna plunged into the ensuing quiet. "Is there any answer, daddy?" she asked. Mr. Procter looked at his small daughter through a mist, then at Mr. Bartlett still standing regarding him somewhat curiously. "No, no answer," he said at last, "but I want to see your mother--right away." BOOK III CHAPTER XXII HAPPY DAYS Summer once again, with the flowers abloom and all the richness of the season scattered lavishly about. The Procter house seemed more colorful too, perhaps because it had acquired within some late months a new coat of paint. Once inside if you were familiar enough to go upstairs, you could not find the steps which had been wont to creak. And peeping into the parlor you could see that some pretty new furniture had taken the place of the shaky old lounge and chairs; one good marine picture hung between the windows and a new rug lay upon the hardwood floor. Two years had gone since the fire, two years bringing some changes. Suzanna had shot up. She was a tall, slim girl now, though with the same dark, questioning eyes. She stood one Saturday morning in the kitchen making a cake, yes, actually stirring the mixture all by herself in the brown earthen vessel. Her mother, hovering near, was offering comment and a few directions. Between times she attended to the "baby," a baby no longer since he was nearly four years old. Maizie, coming in from the yard with Peter behind her, stopped short at sight of Suzanna's work.