"I should know that at once by the close resemblance," returned Miss Smithson.
"Yes, Suzanna and I do look alike," said Mr. Procter, "and I think I've sold tacks to you." He rarely failed to speak of his work. He was so exalted a being, Suzanna thought glowingly, that he lifted his daily labor to the dignity of a fine art. People must think so too, because they always looked closer at him when he spoke of weighing nails, or wrapping wringers and washboards.
"We were going on to the drug store for some ice cream. Will you join us?" asked Mr. Procter of Miss Smithson.
Suzanna's face went white as she waited Miss Smithson's answer. Teachers, being purely ethereal she felt, never descended to the discussion of materialities. She wondered at her father's overlooking this truth.
But, "Thank you," said the teacher, very calmly.
So together they all entered the corner drug store, Suzanna still very quiet. Mr. Procter found a table large enough to accommodate them all. Suzanna sat next to Maizie.
"I'm going to have a chocolate ice cream soda," whispered Maizie.
"No, you can't, Maizie," Suzanna returned in an agony; "take lemon ice cream soda."
"But I don't like it."
"Well, that doesn't matter, Maizie. Chocolate is too dark; and besides you smear it all over your lips and it looks dreadful; pale lemon ice cream soda is sweet looking. We must do something to honor Miss Smithson, who's here just because she wouldn't hurt father's feelings."