I had failed in my mission to keep Susan at home, where I thought she belonged. But I did not mention this to Mrs. Felder.

Anyway, I arrived at Susan's house at three-thirty, and Mrs. Felder greeted me with a smile and an armload of freshly washed and ironed clothes.

"Hi," she said. "Come on inside." In the background I could hear Susan singing, "I love you madly, madly, Madame Librarian, Marian," and accompanying herself on the piano. Mrs. Felder and I left her alone. As long as we could hear the piano, we knew she was safe.

We carried the pile of clothes to Susan's bedroom, where a steamer trunk was open on the floor.

"Okay," said Mrs. Felder. "There's the checklist from the school." She pointed to a piece of paper lying on Susan's bed. "The items I've checked off have been washed, ironed, folded, labeled, and packed. I don't check anything off until all five things have been done. That way, I know I'll send Susan off in good - " Mrs. Felder paused, and her eyes looked awfully bright. I could tell she was trying not to cry, and I hoped she wouldn't. (I never know what to do when an adult cries, especially an adult I don't know very well.) "Off in good shape," Mrs. Felder finished, apparently getting control of herself.

I guessed that sending Susan away again wasn't easy for Mrs. Felder. There were times when I thought that packing her off was the Felders' idea of the easy way out. But Susan was their only child. It couldn't be easy to let her go.

"Can you sew?" Mrs. Felder asked me.

"A little," I replied. (I hate sewing, but I can do it if I have to.) "Good. These clean clothes in the basket need Susan's name tags sewn inside them.

The job goes faster than you'd think." "Okay," I replied, as Mrs. Felder handed me a threaded needle and then threaded one for herself.

We settled into our work. At first we didn't talk. The sounds of "Gary, Indiana," another song from The Music Man, floated upstairs.