"Couldn't you just wear the dress as it is?" asked Maizie in a small voice, touching the crux of the whole matter, the cause of the great change. "I just couldn't," Suzanna returned. "It wouldn't be a rose blossom, you see, Maizie, _when it could just as well be one_." Maizie nodded. Perhaps she understood Suzanna's sense of waste. Undoubtedly her grief at Suzanna's contemplated step had sharpened her sensibilities. Vague stirrings told her that the artist in Suzanna had been desperately hurt; and for the once her imagination thrilled as did her sister's to the dress as a Rose Blossom. She knew with passion that it could not remain simply pink lawn cut and slashed into a mere garment. So she went softly to Suzanna and touched her gently. "I'll help you all I can, sister," she said. So it was that just as the clock was striking nine, little Maizie stole from her room--shared as long as she remembered with Suzanna--crept down the stairs and into the parlor where her father sat studying, as always, a formidable book, the while her mother sat sewing, her chair drawn close to his. Maizie went straight to the quiet figure. "Mother," she said, "Suzanna told me to stay awake till the clock struck nine and then to give you this." "This" was a note folded into the shape of a cocked hat, which Suzanna thought very elegant. Mrs. Procter, accustomed to Suzanna's ways, unfolded the note, smiled at the large printed letters, sighed a little at the thought of the great effort put into their forming, read once, twice, then sat up very straight. The note thus told its own story: My Loving Mother: