Suzanna sprang to her feet. "Oh, but heart's desires change." "Change!" "Yes. You can have new ones every day. Why, for many days my deepest heart's desire has been to have the goods cut away from under the lace. Now, I don't care so much for that--not so much--Now I want most in the world to see--my--mother--" Fearful that she had hurt Mrs. Reynolds by her confession, she put out her hand and stroked the capable hand lying near. But Mrs. Reynolds wasn't hurt. She was smiling. "Well, it's a hard thing at times to learn to put one wish in place of another. But I guess life teaches you that; it hurries you forward so you have to put wish on wish." She stood up. "And now, the morning's well started, Suzanna. Dress quickly and come down to a warm breakfast." She raised the tray and Suzanna knew that now she was hungry. "Come down when you're ready, my wee bit girl," said Mrs. Reynolds, as she left, carrying the tray with her. So Suzanna in a short time descended. How restful the house was; no insistent voices of children, no clattering of dishes. "It's so quiet and nice here, Mrs. Reynolds," said Suzanna, as she entered the kitchen. "At home there's lots of talking and sometimes the baby cries." "Do you like quiet, Suzanna?" "Ye-es," Suzanna stammered. A recurrent attack of homesickness was upon her; that dreadful pulling of the heartstrings; that sinking feeling that she had cut herself loose from all to whom she belonged rightfully. She stood still watching Mrs. Reynolds who was busy at the stove. She admired the deftness with which an egg was broken and dropped into boiling water, and in a few seconds brought to the top intact, to be placed upon the awaiting toast. "You're awful quick, Mrs. Reynolds," she started to say when a knock sounded upon the door. The door slowly opened and, alone, Suzanna's mother entered. She stood just looking in. She was pale, her eyes wide, languid, shadows beneath them as though she had not slept. But those same tired eyes lightened as they fell upon Suzanna. "Mother-eyes," the phrase grew in Suzanna's heart. She should never in all her life forget that look of longing, of love. And somehow another impression, new, almost unbelievable, came to Suzanna. Her mother was _young_, for wasn't that yearning note in her voice; that tentative little gesture; her whole questioning attitude, all her seekings, but expressions of her youngness? She wasn't after all far removed from her little daughter, not for this minute, anyway. A delicious sense of comradeship with this mother flooded the child. And the mother stood and looked at her child, almost as for the first time, at least with a sense of newness, as though Suzanna had been born anew to her.