"It was beautiful," he answered with gratifying response. "I was very proud of my little girl--and the shoes--I was so glad you could have them--they were the prettiest in the drill." "I think they were, too," Suzanna answered, with real truth. Out in the street she saw the boy. He was standing near the gate of the school yard, by his side a tall, dark young man. "How do you do?" said Suzanna. He snatched his hat from his head. "Oh, I liked your dance," he said. "This is my tutor," he finished. "How do you do," said Suzanna politely to the young man. She wondered what a tutor was. Then to the boy: "Drusilla's your grandmother, isn't she?" "Yes; do you live in this town?" "Yes, right down that road. Your big house was closed for three years, wasn't it--since I was a little girl of five. That's why we haven't seen one another, I suppose." Then: "How did you think of coming to the Indian Drill?" "Why, one of the school trustees had to see my father on business and he spoke about the entertainment. I thought I'd like to see it." "Well, I'm glad you came. Good-bye." A carriage drew up. The boy and his companion stepped into it and were driven off. "That's young Graham Woods Bartlett," said Mrs. Procter as they started home. "They live in the big house on the top of the hill. This is the first time it's been open for some years." "And Drusilla's his grandmother," said Suzanna. "He's an awful nice boy." "His father and old John Massey are business associates," put in Mr. Procter. "Such a fine big house to be occupied only a few months of the year, and then not every year," put in Mrs. Procter. "And they rarely stay so late in the season as they're staying this year--way into October." "I'll take Maizie and Peter and go and see him tomorrow," said Suzanna. "Oh, Suzanna, I don't believe--" began Mrs. Procter. Then sensing immediately that her small daughter would be totally unable to understand social distinctions, she did not finish her sentence. So it was that the next afternoon right after school, Suzanna, who never lost time in carrying out a resolve, prepared for her visit. "I wonder where Peter is?" Mrs. Procter asked. As if in answer to his mother's question, Peter opened the kitchen door. He wore primarily a guilty expression. His hat was on one side of his head, the suit which two seasons before he had outgrown, was short in the legs, tight as to chest, and there was a very symphony of entreaty in his eyes. By a frayed string he held a stray dog, the fourth one since spring. Mrs. Procter looked at him sternly. As mothers do, she took in with one glance Peter's prayerful attitude and the appealing one of the shrinking animal. "You take that dog right away and lose it!" she commanded. "Oh, mother," began the small boy entering the kitchen, the dog perforce entering also. "He followed me all the way home and we're awful good friends already. Can't he stay?"