Suzanna sighed. She couldn't by mere words combat her mother's arguments. They seemed indeed unassailable if you applied plain reason to them. But something deeper, finer than reason, made Suzanna believe that to be out in the sun, to be under the trees, to be dreaming in the perfume of flowers, was more important than cleaning and dusting; anyway in a glorious, straight-from-Heaven day like this Wednesday. So she returned unconvinced to the dishes, while her mother after tying the baby in his high chair cast an appraising eye around, wondering just where she should begin her upheaval. Suddenly a loud, heart-rending outcry was heard, and Peter, who a moment before had been playing peacefully in the yard, came rushing into the house. Out of the medley of his piteous cries, Suzanna at last made sense. Not so her mother who asked anxiously: "What in the world is he crying so for, Suzanna? Is he hurt? Will he let you look him over?" "No, he's not hurt," returned Suzanna. "He is crying because _never in all his life will he be able to see his ears_." Mrs. Procter stared dumbfounded. But she soon recovered. She was accustomed to originalities of this sort in her family. "So! Well, what am I to do about it?" she asked the small boy. Peter looked at her stolidly. "I want to see my ears," he repeated. "And I can't only in the mirror." "Have you lived for five years," asked Mrs. Procter, "without discovering that your ears are attached to your head, and that I can't take them off in order that you may see them?" "And you can't see the back of your neck either, Peter," cried Suzanna at this juncture. At which disastrous piece of information Peter cried louder. "Now, Suzanna," exclaimed Mrs. Procter in some exasperation. "What did you tell him that for? Isn't it enough for him to learn in one day that he'll never see his ears without telling him about the back of his neck? Stop your crying, Peter. It's bad enough to have you cry for things that can be mended." Maizie, attracted by the noise, unable to control her curiosity, appeared at the door. Her face was still sullen, but it also bore a rare expression of stubbornness. Satisfying her curiosity as to the reason for the commotion, she then made her announcement. "Mother," she began, "I'm not going to wash the window sills upstairs this cleaning morning." "Now, Maizie," said Suzanna, conciliatingly, "don't you remember Who smiled at you once?" "M-hm, I remember," said Maizie, without change of expression, "but I'm not going to wash the window sills." A little silence ensued. Then Suzanna offered a suggestion. "Mother," she said, "none of us feels right, do we? Can't we have a picnic?"