So Suzanna went to the front door. She opened it to Mr. Bartlett.
"Good evening, Suzanna," he said in a friendly voice. "Is your father at home?"
"He's upstairs in the attic. Shall I take you to him?" asked Suzanna very politely.
"Perhaps you'd better consult him first as to that, Suzanna. He may not wish to be disturbed."
"Well, I will. Won't you sit down in the parlor?"
Mr. Bartlett, half smiling, followed the small figure into the room designated. He looked about interestedly after Suzanna had gone. A kerosene lamp set upon a center table sent an apologetic light over the shabby furniture. Above the mantel with its velvet cover and statuette of a crying baby, was a picture of Suzanna, a "crayon," Mr. Bartlett amusingly surmised. The small face looked out with a distorted artificial smile quite unknown to the face it sought to represent. Yet Suzanna's aura was visible, Mr. Bartlett thought. That little girl who so simply and lovingly had called his mother Drusilla because no one in the world was left to do so! A fragrance straight from his heart made the ugly crayon suddenly a thing of beauty, showing forth a child's soul.
Suzanna returned, panting a little. She had run upstairs and down again. "Father wants you to go right up," she said. "And maybe when I've finished the dishes I'll come back, too."
So he followed her up the narrow stairs. Suzanna gravely told him that every other step creaked, except if you put your foot carefully in the middle. At the attic door she left him.
Mr. Procter looked up as his visitor entered. "I'm glad to see you, Mr. Bartlett," he said cordially. "It's not very light in here, but we can see to talk. Sit down."
Mr. Bartlett took the proffered chair. He looked about the dim room and could see in outline the machine.