She lay, her cheek pressed against his, for a long time. All the thoughts that had raced through her upstairs in the sleepless hours returned to her, but she had to struggle to find language in which to tell them. "Daddy," she began, "maybe The Machine can't work except where it was born." "Tell me all that's in your heart, little girl," he said. "Well, we've all thought of The Machine, and loved it and believed in it ever since I was the tiniest girl, and you've talked to us of what it was to mean." "All true, my child, all true." "And The Machine stood there and listened, daddy." She released herself from his clasp and stood very straight. Her dark eyes seeing pictures, were brilliantly wide. Her breath came quickly from between her parted lips: "And so it grew and grew, and soon out of its soul it sent colors. And it loved the man who made it, and it loved his little children, and made them all want to be good and do something for others. "And then one day, they took it away from its home and into a big mill, and men crowded around it and looked at it, but they didn't love it, and they didn't believe in it. And it felt shy and hurt and the color stayed in its soul and wouldn't come forth. "And the man who had made it felt sad and he cried, and he took his machine home. And then one day, years and years after when the man's little girl, Suzanna, was a woman and she was out in the world trying to do good, as her father had taught her, trying to make other people happy, the colors crept out from The Machine again, all gold and purple and rose and green, this time for everybody." She finished, and with a great cry her father folded her to him. The tears came streaming to his eyes, and quite frankly now he wept. She felt the hot tears upon her face, they burned her, but she knew she had helped him and she was satisfied. They sat on in a wonderful silence. A distant clock struck one. They heard the sound of quickly descending feet, and turning, Suzanna saw her mother standing in the doorway. "I heard voices," said Mrs. Procter. "Come here," her husband said. She saw his face transfigured, and she went to him and fell on her knees beside him. "Courage--belief?" she questioned. "Yes, they have returned," he said. Suzanna spoke again: "Daddy," she said, in her eager voice, "I forgot to tell you of a nice happening. You know when we were at the seashore with Mr. Bartlett, John, the waiter at the hotel, said something one day about a son of his who wanted to write beautiful music, and Mr. Bartlett said right before me: 'John, let me help that boy of yours. This little girl's father has shown me the beauty of doing good for others.'" The inventor did not speak. He sat, his arms about his wife and child, and in his eyes the radiance of new inspiration, new purpose. At last his wife spoke. "Richard, could success as you planned it, have meant more, and wouldn't it have brushed some of the butterfly dust away?"