Missy by Dana Gatlin (page 2)

ten minutes, Young Doc, peering through the leaves of the summerhouse, saw Missy and her convoy coming across the lawn. Missy was walking along very solemnly, with only an occasional skip to betray the ebullition within her.

But it was on the tall girl that Young Doc’s gaze was riveted, the slender graceful figure which, for all its loveliness, had something pathetically drooping about it–like a lily with a storm-bruised stem.

Something in Young Doc’s throat clicked, and every last trace of resentment and wounded pride magically dissolved. He went straight to her in the doorway, and for a moment they stood there as if forgetful of everyone else in the world. Neither spoke, as is the way of those whose minds and hearts are full of inarticulate things. Then it was Doc who broke the silence.

“By the way, Missy,” he said in quite an ordinary tone, “there are some of those sugar pills in a bag out in the Ford. You’ll find them tucked in a corner of the seat.”

Obediently Missy departed to get the treat. And when she returned, not too quickly, Miss Princess was laughing and crying both at once, and Young Doc was openly squeezing both her hands.

“Missy,” he hailed, “run in and ask your mother if you can go for a ride. Needn’t mention Miss Princess is going along.”

O, it is a wonderful world! Swiftly back at the trysting place with the necessary permission, tucked into the Ford between the two happy lovers, “away they did race until soon lost to view.”

And exactly the same happy purpose as that in the Poem! For, half- way down the stretch of Boulevard, Miss Princess squeezed her hand and said:

“We’re going over to Somerville, darling, to be married, and you’re to be one of the witnesses.”

Missy’s heart surged with delight–O, it was a wonderful world! Then a dart of remembrance came, and a big tear spilled out and ran down her cheek. Miss Princess, in the midst of a laugh, looked down and spied it.

“Why, darling, what is it?” she cried anxiously.

“My Pink Dress–I just happened to think of it. But it doesn’t really make any difference.” However Missy’s eyes were wet and shining with an emotion she couldn’t quite control.

With eyes which were shining with many emotions, the man and girl, over her head, regarded each other. It was the man who spoke first, slowing down the car as he did so.

“Don’t you think we’d better run back to Miss Martin’s and get it?”

For answer, his sweetheart leaned across Missy and kissed him.

A fifteen minutes’ delay, and again the Ford was headed towards Somerville and the County Courthouse; but now an additional passenger, a big brown box, was hugged between Missy’s knees. In the County Courthouse she did not forget to guard this box tenderly all the time Young Doc and Miss Princess were scurrying around musty offices, interviewing important, shirt-sleeved men, and signing papers–not even when she herself was permitted to sign her name to an imposing document, “just for luck,” as Doc laughingly said.

Then he bent his head to hear what Miss Princess wanted to whisper to him, and they both laughed some more; and then he said something to the shirtsleeved men, and they laughed; and then–O, it is a wonderful world!–Miss Princess took her into a dusty, paper- littered inner office, lifted the Pink Dress out of the box, dressed Missy up in it, fluffed out the “wave” in her front hair, and exclaimed that she was the loveliest little flower-girl in the whole world.

“Even without the flower-hat and the pink stockings?”

“Even without the flower-hat and the pink stockings,” said Miss Princess with such assurance that Missy cast off doubt forever.

After the Wedding–and never in Romance was such a gay, laughing Wedding–when again they were all packed in the Ford, Missy gave a contented sigh.

“I kind of knew it,” she confided. “For I dreamed it all, two nights running. Both times I had on the Pink Dress, and both times it was Doc. I’m so happy it’s Doc.”

And over her head the other two looked in each other’s eyes.

CHAPTER III

LIKE A SINGING BIRD

She was fourteen, going on fifteen; and the world was a fascinating place. There were people who found Cherryvale a dull, poky little town to live in, but not Melissa. Not even in winter, when school and lessons took up so much time that it almost shut out reading and the wonderful dreams which reading is bound to bring you. Yet even school-especially high school the first year-was interesting. The more so when there was a teacher like Miss Smith, who looked too pretty to know so much about algebra and who was said to get a letter every day from a lieutenant-in the Philippines! Then there was ancient history, full of things fascinating enough to make up for algebra and physics. But even physics becomes suddenly thrilling at times. And always literature! Of course “grades” were bothersome, and sometimes you hated to show your monthly report to your parents, who seemed to set so much store by it; and sometimes you almost envied Beulah Crosswhite, who always got an A and who could ask questions which disconcerted even the teachers.

Yes, even school was interesting. However, summertime was best, although then you must practice your music lesson two hours instead of one a day, dust the sitting room, and mind the baby. But you could spend long, long hours in the summerhouse, reading poetry out of the big Anthology and-this a secret-writing poetry yourself! It was heavenly to write poetry. Something soft and warm seemed to ooze through your being as you sat out there and watched the sorrow of a drab, drab sky; or else, on a bright day, a big shining cloud aloft like some silver-gold fairy palace and, down below, the smell of warm, new-cut grass, and whispers of little live things everywhere! It was then that you felt you’d have died if you couldn’t have written poetry!

It was on such a lilting day of June, and Melissa’s whole being in tune with it, that she was called in to the midday dinner-and received the invitation.

Father had brought it from the post office and handed it to her with exaggerated solemnity. “For Miss Melissa Merriam,” he announced.

Yes! there was her name on the tiny envelope.

And, on the tiny card within, written in a painstaking, cramped hand:

Mr. Raymond Bonner At Home Wednesday June Tenth R.S.V.P. 8 P.M.

With her whole soul in her mouth, which made it quite impossible to speak, she passed the card to her mother and waited. “Oh,” said mother, “an evening party.”

Melissa’s soul dropped a trifle: it still clogged her throat, but she was able to form words.

“Oh, mother!”

“You KNOW you’re not to ask to go to evening parties, Missy.” Mother’s tone was as firm as doom.

Missy turned her eyes to father.

“Don’t look at me with those big saucers!” he smiled. “Mother’s the judge.”

So Missy turned her eyes back again. “Mother, PLEASE-“

But mother shook her head. “You’re too young to begin such things, Missy. I don’t know what this town’s coming to–mere babies running round at night, playing cards and dancing!”

“But, mother–“

“Don’t start teasing, Missy. It won’t do any good.”

So Missy didn’t start teasing, but her soul remained choking in her throat. It made it difficult for her to swallow, and nothing tasted good, though they had lamb chops, which she adored.

“Eat your meat, Missy,” adjured mother. Missy tried to obey and felt that she was swallowing lumps of lead.

But in the afternoon everything miraculously changed. Kitty Allen and her mother came to call. Kitty was her chum, and lived in the next block, up the hill. Kitty was beautiful, with long curls which showed golden glints in the sun. She had a whim that she and Missy, sometimes, should have dresses made exactly alike-for instance, this summer, their best dresses of pink dotted mull. Missy tried to enjoy the whim with Kitty, but she couldn’t help feeling sad at seeing how much prettier Kitty could look in the same dress. If only she had gold-threaded curls!

During the call the party at the Bonners’ was mentioned. Mrs. Allen was going to “assist” Mrs. Bonner. She suggested that Missy might accompany Kitty and herself.

“I hadn’t thought of letting Missy go,” said Mrs. Merriam. “She seems so young to start going out evenings that way.”

“I know just how you feel,” replied Mrs. Allen. “I feel just the same way. But as long as I’ve got to assist, I’m willing Kitty should go this time; and I thought you mightn’t object to Missy’s going along with us.”

“Oh, mother!” Missy’s tone was a prayer.

And her mother, smiling toward her a charming, tolerant smile as if to say: .”Well, what can one do in the face of those eyes?” finally assented.

After that the afternoon went rushing by on wings of joy. When the visitors departed Missy had many duties to perform, but they were not dull, ordinary duties; they were all tinted over with rainbow colours. She stemmed strawberries in the kitchen where Marguerite, the hired girl, was putting up fruit, and she loved the pinkish-red and grey-green of the berries against the deep yellow of the bowl. She loved, too, the colour of the geraniums against the green- painted sill just beside her. And the sunlight making leafwork brocade on the grass out the window! There were times when combinations of colour seemed the most beautiful thing in the world.

Then she had to mind the baby for a while, and she took him out on the side lawn and pretended to play croquet with him. The baby wasn’t quite three, and it was delicious to see him, with mallet and ball before a wicket, trying to mimic the actions of his elders. Poppylinda, Missy’s big black cat, wanted to play too, and succeeded in getting between the baby’s legs and upsetting him. But the baby was under a charm; he only picked himself up and laughed. And Missy was sure that black Poppy also laughed.

That night at supper she didn’t have much chance to talk to father about the big event, for he had brought an old friend home to supper. Missy was rather left out of the conversation. She felt glad for that; it is hard to talk to old people; it is hard to express to them the thoughts and feelings that possess you. Besides, to-night she didn’t want to talk to anyone, nor to listen. She only wanted to sit immersed in that soft, warm, fluttering deliciousness.

Just as the meal was over the hall telephone rang and, at a sign from mother, she excused herself to answer it. From outside the door she heard father’s friend say: “What beautiful eyes!” Could he be speaking of her?

The evening, as the afternoon had been, was divine. When Missy was getting ready for bed she leaned out of the window to look at the night, and the fabric of her soul seemed to stretch out and mingle with all that dark, luminous loveliness. It seemed that she herself was a part of the silver moon high up there, a part of the white, shining radiance which spread down and over leaves and grass everywhere. The strong, damp scent of the ramblers on the porch seemed to be her own fragrant breath, and the black shadows pointing out from the pine trees were her own blots of sadness–sadness vague and mysterious, with more of pleasure in it than pain.

She could hardly bear to leave this mysterious, fascinating night; to leave off thinking the big, vague thoughts the night always called forth; but she had to light the gas and set about the business of undressing.

But, first, she paused to gaze at herself in the looking-glass. For the millionth time she wished she were pretty like Kitty Allen. And Kitty would wear her pink dotted mull to the party. Missy sighed.

Then meditatively she unbraided her long, mouse-coloured braids; twisted them into tentative loops over her ears; earnestly studied the effect. No; her hair was too straight and heavy. She tried to imagine undulating waves across her forehead-if only mother would let her use crimpers! Perhaps she would! And then, perhaps, she wouldn’t look so plain. She wished she were not so plain; the longing to be pretty made her fairly ache.

Then slowly the words of that man crept across her memory: “What beautiful eyes!” Could he have meant her? She stared at the eyes which stared back from the looking-glass till she had the odd sensation that they were something quite strange and Allen to her: big, dark, deep, and grave eyes, peering out from some unknown consciousness. And they were beautiful eyes!

Suddenly she was awakened from her dreams by a voice at the door: “Missy, why in the world haven’t you gone to bed?”

Missy started and blushed as though discovered in mischief.

“What have you been doing with your hair?”

“Oh, just experimenting. Mother, may I have it crimped for the party?”

“I don’t know–we’ll see. Now hurry and jump into bed.”

After mother had kissed her good night and gone, and after the light had been turned out, Missy lay awake for a long time.

Through the lace window curtains shone the moonlight, a gleaming path along which Missy had often flown out to be a fairy. It is quite easy to be a fairy. You lie perfectly still, your arms stretched out like wings. Then you fix your eyes on the moonlight and imagine you feel your wings stir. And the first thing you know you feel yourself being wafted through the window, up through the silver-tinged air. You touch the clouds with your magic wand, and from them fall shimmering jewels.

Missy was fourteen, going on fifteen, but she could still play being a fairy.

But to-night, though the fairy path stretched invitingly to her very bed, she did not ride out upon it. She shut her eyes, though she felt wide-awake. She shut her eyes so as to see better the pictures that came before them.

With her eyes shut she could see herself quite plainly at the party. She looked like herself, only much prettier. Yes, and a little older, perhaps. Her pink dotted mull was easily recognizable, though it had taken on a certain ethereally chic quality–as if a rosy cloud had been manipulated by French fingers. Her hair was a soft, bright, curling triumph. And when she moved she was graceful as a swaying flower stem.

As Missy watched this radiant being which was herself she could see that she was as gracious and sweet-mannered as she was beautiful; perhaps a bit dignified and reserved, but that is always fitting.

No wonder the other girls and the boys gathered round her, captivated. All the boys were eager to dance with her, and when she danced she reminded you of a swaying lily. Most often her partner was Raymond himself. Raymond danced well too. And he was the handsomest boy at his party. He had blonde hair and deep, soft black eyes like his father, who was the handsomest as well as the richest man in Cherryvale. And he liked her, for last year, their first year in high school, he used to study the Latin lesson with her and wait for her after school and carry her books home for her. He had done that although Kitty Allen was much prettier than she and though Beulah Crosswhite was much, much smarter. The other girls had teased her about him, and the boys must have teased Raymond, for after a while he had stopped walking home with her. She didn’t know whether she was gladder or sorrier for that. But she knew that she was glad he did not ignore that radiant, pink-swathed guest who, in her beautiful vision, was having such a glorious time at his party.

Next morning she awoke to find a soft, misty rain greying the world outside her window. Missy did not mind that; she loved rainy days– they made you feel so pleasantly sad. For a time she lay quiet, watching the slant, silvery threads and feeling mysteriously, fascinatingly, at peace. Then Poppy, who always slept at the foot of her bed, awoke with a tremendous yawning and stretching–exactly the kind of “exercises” that young Doc Alison prescribed for father, who hated to get up in the mornings!

Then Poppy, her exercises done, majestically trod the coverlet to salute her mistress with the accustomed matinal salutation which Missy called a kiss. Mother did not approve of Poppy’s “kisses,” but Missy argued to herself that the morning one, dependable as an alarm clock, kept her from oversleeping.

She hugged Poppy, jumped out of bed, and began dressing. When she got downstairs breakfast was ready and the house all sweetly diffused with the dreamy shadows that come with a rainy day.

Father had heard the great news and bantered her: “So we’ve got a society queen in our midst!”

“I think,” put in Aunt Nettie, “that it’s disgraceful the way they put children forward these days.”

“I wouldn’t let Missy go if Mrs. Allen wasn’t going to be there to look after her,” said mother.

“Mother, may I have the hem of my pink dress let down?” asked Missy.

At that father laughed, and Aunt Nettie might just as well have said: “I told you so!” as put on that expression.

“It’s my first real party,” Missy went on, “and I’d like to look as pretty as I can.”

Something prompted father, as he rose from the table, to pause and lay his hand on Missy’s shoulder.

“Can’t you get her a new ribbon or something, mother?” he asked.

“Maybe a new sash,” answered mother reflectively. “They’ve got some pretty brocaded pink ribbon at Bonner’s.”

After which Missy finished her breakfast in a rapture. It is queer how you can eat, and like what you eat very much, and yet scarcely taste it at all.

When the two hours of practicing were over, mother sent her down town to buy the ribbon for the sash–a pleasant errand. She changed the black tie on her middy blouse to a scarlet one and let the ends fly out of her grey waterproof cape. Why is it that red is such a divine colour on a rainy day?

Upon her return there was still an hour before dinner, and she sat by the dining-room window with Aunt Nettie, to darn stockings.

“Well, Missy,” said Aunt Nettie presently, “a penny for your thoughts.”

Missy looked up vaguely, at a loss. “I wasn’t thinking of anything exactly,” she said.

“What were you smiling about?”

“Was I smiling?”

Just then mother entered and Aunt Nettie said: “Missy smiles, and doesn’t know it. Party!”

But Missy knew it wasn’t the party entirely. Nor was it entirely the sound of the rain swishing, nor the look of the trees quietly weeping, nor of the vivid red patches of geranium beds. Everything could have been quite different, and still she’d have felt happy. Her feeling, mysteriously, was as much from things INSIDE her as from things outside.

After dinner was over and the baby minded for an hour, mother made the pink-brocaded sash. It was very lovely. Then she had an hour to herself, and since the rain wouldn’t permit her to spend it in the summerhouse, she took a book up to her own room. It was a book of poems from the Public Library.

The first poem she opened to was one of the most marvellous things she had ever read–almost as wonderful as “The Blessed Damozel.” She was glad she had chanced upon it on a rainy day, and when she felt like this. It was called “A Birthday,” and it went:

My heart is like a singing bird Whose nest is in a watered shoot; My heart is like an apple tree Whose boughs are bent with thickset fruit; My heart is like a rainbow shell That paddles in a halcyon sea; My heart is gladder than all these, Because my love is come to me.

Raise me a dais of silk and down; Hang it with vair and purple dyes; Carve it with doves and pomegranates, And peacocks with a hundred eyes; Work in it gold and silver grapes, In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys, Because the birthday of my life Is come; my love is come to me.

The poem expressed beautifully what she might have answered when Aunt Nettie asked why she smiled. Only, even though she herself could have expressed it so beautifully then, it was not the kind of answer you’d dream of making to Aunt Nettie.

Thp next morning Missy awoke to find the rain gone and warm, golden sunshine filtering through the lace curtains. She dressed herself quickly, while the sunshine smiled and watched her toilet. After breakfast, at the piano, her fingers found the scales tiresome. Of themselves they wandered off into unexpected rhythms which seemed to sing aloud: Work it in gold and silver grapes, In leaves and silver fieurs-de-lys . . . Raise me a dais of silk and down; Hang it with vair and purple dyes . . .

She was idly wondering what a “vair” might be when her dreams were crashed into by mother’s reproving voice: “Missy, what are you doing? If you don’t get right down to practicing, there’ll be no more parties!”

Abashed, Missy made her fingers behave, but not her heart. It was singing a tune far out of harmony with chromatic exercises, and she was glad her mother could not hear.

The tune kept right on throughout dinner. During the meal she was called to the telephone, and at the other end was Raymond; he wanted her to save him the first dance that evening. What rapture–this was what happened to the beautiful belles you read about!

After dinner mother and Aunt Nettie went to call upon some ladies they hoped wouldn’t be at home–what funny things grown-ups do! The baby was taking his nap, and Missy had a delicious long time ahead in which to be utterly alone.

She took the library book of poems and a book of her father’s out to the summerhouse. First she opened the book of her father’s. It was a translation of a Russian book, very deep and moving and sad and incomprehensible. A perfectly fascinating book! It always filled her with vague, undefinable emotions. She read: “O youth, youth! Thou carest for nothing: thou possessest, as it were, all the treasures of the universe; even sorrow comforts thee, even melancholy becomes thee; thou art self-confident and audacious; thou sayest: ‘I alone live–behold!’ But the days speed on and vanish without a trace and without reckoning, and everything vanishes in thee, like wax in the sun, like snow. . .”

Missy felt sublime sadness resounding through her soul. It was intolerable that days should speed by irrevocably and vanish, like wax in the sun, like snow. She sighed. But even as she sighed the feeling of sadness began to slip away. So she turned to the poem discovered last night, and read it over happily.

The title, “A Birthday,” made her feel that Raymond Bonner was somehow connected with it. This was his birthday–and that brought her thoughts back definitely to the party. Mother had said that presents were not expected, that they were getting too big to exchange little presents, yet she would have liked to carry him some little token. The ramblers and honeysuckle above her head sniffed at her in fragrant suggestion–why couldn’t she just take him some flowers?

Acting on the impulse, Missy jumped up and began breaking off the loveliest blooms. But after she had gathered a big bunch a swift wave of self-consciousness swept over her. What would they say at the house? Would they let her take them? Would they understand? And a strong distaste for their inevitable questions, for the explanations which she could not explain definitely even to herself, prompted her not to carry the bouquet to the house. Instead she ran, got a pitcher of water, carried it back to the summerhouse and left the flowers temporarily there, hoping to figure out ways and means later.

At the house she discovered that the baby was awake, so she had to hurry back to take care of him. She always loved to do that; she didn’t mind that a desire to dress up in her party attire had just struck her, for the baby always entered into the spirit of her performances. While she was fastening up the pink dotted mull, Poppy walked inquisitively in and sat down to oversee this special, important event. Missy succeeded with the greatest difficulty in adjusting the brocaded sash to her satisfaction. She regretted her unwaved hair, but mother was going to crimp it herself in the evening. The straight, everyday coiffure marred the picture in the mirror, yet, aided by her imagination, it was pleasing. She stood with arms extended in a languid, graceful pose, her head thrown back, gazing with half-closed eyes at something far, far beyond her own eyes in the glass.

Then suddenly she began to dance. She danced with her feet, her arms, her hands, her soul. She felt within her the grace of stately beauties, the heartbeat of dew-jewelled fairies, the longings of untrammelled butterflies–dancing, she could have flown up to heaven at that moment! A gurgle of sound interrupted her; it was the baby. “Do you like me, baby?” she cried. “Am I beautiful, baby?”

Baby, now, could talk quite presentably in the language of grown- ups. But in addition he knew all kinds of wise, unintelligible words. Missy knew that they were wise, even though she could not understand their meaning, and she was glad the baby chose, this time, to answer in that secret jargon.

She kissed the baby and, in return, the baby smiled his secret smile. Missy was sure that Poppy then smiled too, a secret smile; so she kissed Poppy also. How wonderful, how mysterious, were the smiles of baby and Poppy! What unknown thoughts produced them?

At this point her cogitations were interrupted and her playacting spoiled by the unexpected return of mother and Aunt Nettie. It seemed that certain of the ladies had obligingly been “out.”

“What in the world are you doing, Missy?” asked mother.

Missy suddenly felt herself a very foolish-appearing object in her party finery. She tried to make an answer, but the right words were difficult to find.

“Party!” said Aunt Nettie significantly.

Missy, still standing in mute embarrassment, couldn’t have explained how it was not the party entirely.

Mother did not scold her for dressing up.

“Better get those things off, dear,” she said kindly, “and come in and let me curl your hair. I’d better do it before supper, before the baby gets cross.” The crimped coiffure was an immense success; even in her middy blouse Missy felt transformed. She could have kissed herself in the glass!

“Do you think I look pretty, mother?” she asked. “You mustn’t think of such things, dear.” But, as mother stooped to readjust a waving lock, her fingers felt marvellously tender to Missy’s forehead.

Evening arrived with a sunset of grandeur and glory. It made everything look as beautiful as it should look on the occasion of a festival. The beautiful and festive aspect of the world without, and of, her heart within, made it difficult to eat supper. And after supper it was hard to breathe naturally, to control her nervous fingers as she dressed.

At last, with the help of mother and Aunt Nettie, her toilet was finished: the pink-silk stockings and slippers shimmering beneath the lengthened pink mull; the brocaded pink ribbon now become a huge, pink-winged butterfly; and, mother’s last touch, a pink rosebud holding a tendril–a curling tendril–artfully above the left ear! Missy felt a stranger to herself as, like some gracious belle and fairy princess and airy butterfly all compounded into one, she walked–no, floated down the stairs.

“Well!” exclaimed father, “behold the Queen of the Ball!” But Missy did not mind his bantering tone. The expression of his eyes told her that he thought she looked pretty.

Presently Mrs. Allen and Kitty, in the Allens’ surrey, stopped by for her. With them was a boy she had never seen before, a tall, dark boy in a blue-grey braided coat and white duck trousers–a military cadet!

He was introduced as Kitty’s cousin, Jim Henley. Missy had heard about this Cousin Jim who was going to visit Cherryvale some time during the summer; he had arrived rather unexpectedly that day.

Kitty herself–in pink dotted mull, of course–was looking rather wan. Mrs. Allen explained she had eaten too much of the candy Cousin Jim had brought her.

Cousin Jim, with creaking new shoes, leaped down to help Missy in. She had received her mother’s last admonition, her father’s last banter, Aunt Nettie’s last anxious peck at her sash, and was just lifting her foot to the surrey step when suddenly she said: “Oh!”

“What is it?” asked mother. “Forgotten something?”

Missy had forgotten something. But how, with mother’s inquiring eyes upon her, and father’s and Aunt Nettie’s and Mrs. Allen’s and Kitty’s and Cousin Jim’s inquiring eyes upon her, could she mention Raymond’s bouquet in the summerhouse? How could she get them? What should she say? And what would they think? “No,” she answered hesitantly. “I guess not.” But the bright shining of her pleasure was a little dimmed. She could not forget those flowers waiting, waiting there in the summerhouse. She worried more about them, so pitifully abandoned, than she did about Raymond’s having to go without a remembrance.

Missy sat in the back seat with Mrs. Allen, Kitty in front with her cousin. Now and then he threw a remark over his shoulder, and smiled. He had beautiful white teeth which gleamed out of his dark- skinned face, and he seemed very nice. But he wasn’t as handsome as Raymond, nor as nice–even if he did wear a uniform.

When they reached the Bonners they saw it all illumined for the party. The Bonners’ house was big and square with a porch running round three sides, the most imposing house in Cherryvale. Already strings of lanterns were lighted on the lawn, blue and red and yellow orbs. The lights made the trees and shrubs seem shadowy and remote, mysterious creatures awhisper over their own business.

Not yet had many guests arrived, but almost immediately they appeared in such droves that it seemed they must have come up miraculously through the floor. The folding camp chairs which lined the parlours and porches (the rented chairs always seen at Cherryvale parties and funerals) were one moment starkly exposed and the next moment hidden by light-hued skirts and by stiffly held, Sunday-trousered dark legs. For a while that stiffness which inevitably introduces a formal gathering of youngsters held them unnaturally bound. But just as inevitably it wore away, and by the time the folding chairs were drawn up round the little table where “hearts” were to be played, voices were babbling, and laughter was to be heard everywhere for no reason at all.

At Missy’s table sat Raymond Bonner, looking handsomer than ever with his golden hair and his eyes like black velvet pansies. There was another boy who didn’t count; and then there was the most striking creature Missy had ever seen. She was a city girl visiting in town, an older, tall, red-haired girl, with languishing, long- lashed eyes. She wore a red chiffon dress, lower cut than was worn in Cherryvale, which looked like a picture in a fashion magazine. But it was not her chic alone that made her so striking. It was her manner. Missy was, not sure that she knew what “sophisticated” meant, but she decided that the visiting girl’s air of self- possession, of calm, almost superior assurance, denoted sophistication. How eloquent was that languid way of using her fan!

In this languishing-eyed presence she herself did not feel at her best; nor was she made happier by the way Raymond couldn’t keep his eyes off the visitor. She played her hand badly, so that Raymond and his alluring partner “progressed” to the higher table while she remained with the boy who didn’t count. But, as luck would have it, to take the empty places, from the head table, vanquished, came Cousin Jim and his partner. Jim now played opposite her, and laughed over his “dumbness” at the game.

“I feel sorry for you!” he told Missy. “I’m a regular dub at this game!”

“I guess I’m a ‘dub’ too.” It was impossible not to smile back at that engaging flash of white teeth in the dark face.

This time, however, neither of them proved “dubs.” Together they “progressed” to the next higher table. Cousin Jim assured her it was all due to her skill. She almost thought that, perhaps, she was skillful at “hearts,” and for the first time she liked the silly game.

Eventually came time for the prizes–and then dancing. Dancing Missy liked tremendously. Raymond claimed her for the first waltz. Missy wondered, a little wistfully, whether now he mightn’t be regretting that pre-engagement, whether he wouldn’t rather dance it with the languishing-eyed girl he was following about.

But as soon as the violin and piano, back near the library window, began to play, Raymond came straight to Missy and made his charming bow. They danced through the two parlours and then out to the porch and round its full length; the music carried beautifully through the open windows; it was heavenly dancing outdoors like that. Too soon it was over.

“Will you excuse me?” Raymond asked in his polite way. “Mother wants to see me about something. I hate to run away, but–“

Scarcely had he gone when Mrs. Allen, with Jim in tow, came hurrying up.

“Oh, Missy! I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Kitty’s awfully sick. She was helping with the refreshments and got hold of some pickles. And on top of all that candy–“

“Oh!” commiserated Missy.

“I’ve got to get her home at once,” Mrs. Allen went on. “I hate to take you away just when your good time’s beginning, but–“

“Why does she have to go?” Jim broke in. “I can take you and Kitty home, and then come back, and take her home after the party’s over.” He gave a little laugh. “You see that gives me an excuse to see the party through myself!”

Mrs. Allen eyed Missy a little dubiously.

“Oh, Mrs. Allen, couldn’t I?”

“I don’t know–I said I’d bring you home myself.”

“Oh, Mrs. Allen! Please!” Missy’s eyes pleaded even more than her voice.

“Well, I don’t see why not,” decided Kitty’s mother, anxious to return to her own daughter. “Jim will take good care of you, and Mrs. Bonner will send you all home early.”

When Mrs. Allen, accompanied by her nephew, had hurried away, Missy had an impulse to wander alone, for a moment, out into the deliciously alluring night. She loved the night always, but just now it looked indescribably beautiful. The grounds were deserted, but the lanterns, quivering in the breeze, seemed to be huge live glow- worms suspended up there in the dark. It was enchantment. Stepping lightly, holding her breath, sniffing at unseen scents, hearing laughter and dance music from far away as if in another world, she penetrated farther and farther into the shadows. An orange-coloured moon was pushing its way over the horizon, so close she could surely reach out her hands and touch it!

And then, too near to belong to any other world, and quite distinctly, she heard a voice beyond the rose arbour:

“Oh, yes! Words sound well! But the fact remains you didn’t ask me for the first dance.”

Missy knew that drawling yet strangely assured voice. Almost, with its tones, she could see the languorously uplifted eyes, the provoking little gesture of fan at lips. Before she could move, whether to advance or to flee, Raymond replied:

“I wanted to ask you–you know I wanted to ask you!”

“Oh, yes, you did!” replied the visiting girl ironically.

“I did!” protested Raymond.

“Well, why didn’t you then?”

“I’d already asked somebody else. I couldn’t!”

And then the visiting girl laughed strangely. Missy knew she knew with whom Raymond had danced that first dance. Why did she laugh? And Raymond–oh, oh! She had seemed to grow rooted to the ground, unable to get away; her heart, her breathing, seemed to petrify too; they hurt her. Why had Raymond danced with her if he didn’t want to? And why, why did that girl laugh? She suddenly felt that she must let them know that she heard them, that she must ask why! And, in order not to exclaim the question against her will, she covered her mouth with both hands, and crept silently away from the rose arbour.

Without any definite purpose, borne along by an inner whirlwind of suppressed sobs and utter despair, Missy finally found herself nearer the entrance gate, Fortunately there was nobody to see her; everyone–except those two–was back up there in the glare and noise, laughing and dancing. Laughing and dancing–oh, oh! What ages ago it seemed when she too had laughed and danced!

Oh, why hadn’t she gone home with Mrs. Allen and Kitty before her silly pleasure had turned to anguish? But, of course, that was what life was: pain crowding elbows with pleasure always–she had read that somewhere. She was just inevitably living Life.

Consoled a trifle by this reflection and by a certain note of sublimity in her experience, Missy leaned against the gatepost upon which a lantern was blinking its last shred of life, and gazed at the slow-rising, splendid moon.

She was still there when Cousin Jim, walking quickly and his shoes creaking loudly, returned. “Hello!” he said. “What’re you doing out here?”

“Oh, just watching the moon.”

“You’re a funny girl,” he laughed.

“Why am I funny?” Her tone was a little wistful. “Why, moon-gazing instead of dancing, and everything.”

“But I like to dance too,” emphasized Missy, as if to defend herself against a charge.

“I’ll take you up on that. Come straight in and dance the next dance with me!”

Missy obeyed. And then she knew that she had met the Dancer of the World. At first she was pleased that her steps fitted his so well, and then she forgot all about steps and just floated along, on invisible gauzy wings, unconscious of her will of direction, of his will of direction. There was nothing in the world but invisible gauzy wings, which were herself and Jim and the music. And they were a part of the music and the music was a part of them. It was divine.

“Say, you can dance!” said Jim admiringly when the music stopped.

“I love to dance.”

“I should say you might! You dance better than any girl I ever danced with!”

This, from a military uniform, was praise indeed. Missy blushed and was moved to hide her exaltation under modesty.

“I guess the reason is because I love it so much. I feel as if it’s the music dancing–not me. Do you feel it that way?” “Never thought of it that way,” answered Jim. “But I don’t know but what you’re right. Say, you ARE a funny girl, aren’t you?”

But Missy knew that whatever he meant by her being a “funny girl” he didn’t dislike her for it, because he rushed on: “You must let me have a lot of dances–every one you can spare.”

After that everything was rapture. All the boys liked to dance with Missy because she was such a good dancer, and Jim kept wanting to cut in to get an extra dance with her himself. Somehow even the sting of the visiting girl’s laugh and of Raymond’s defection seemed to have subsided into triviality. And when Raymond came up to ask for a dance she experienced a new and pleasurable thrill in telling him she was already engaged. That thrill disturbed her a little. Was it possible that she was vindictive, wicked? But when she saw Jim approaching while Raymond was receiving his conge, she thrilled again, simultaneously wondering whether she was, after all, but a heartless coquette.

Jim had just been dancing with the visiting girl, so she asked: “Is Miss Slade a good dancer?”

“Oh, fair. Not in it with you though.”

Missy thrilled again, and felt wicked again–alas, how pleasant is wickedness! “She’s awfully pretty,” vouchsafed Missy.

“Oh, I guess so”–indifferently.

Yet another thrill.

They took refreshments together, Jim going to get her a second glass of lemonade and waiting upon her with devotion. Then came the time to go home. Missy could not hold back a certain sense of triumph as, after thanking Raymond for a glorious time, she started off, under his inquisitive eye, arm in arm with Jim.

That unwonted arm-in-arm business confused Missy a good deal. She had an idea it was the proper thing when one is being escorted home, and had put her arm in his as a matter of course, but before they had reached the gate she was acutely conscious of the touch of her arm on his. To make matters worse, a curious wave of embarrassment was creeping over her; she couldn’t think of anything to say, and they had walked nearly a block down moon-flooded Silver Street, with no sound but Jim’s creaking shoes, before she got out: “How do you like Cherry vale, Mr. Henley?”

“Looks good to me,” he responded.

Then silence again, save for Jim’s shoes. Missy racked her brains. What do you say to boys who don’t know the same people and affairs you do? Back there at the party things had gone easily, but they were playing cards or dancing or eating; there had been no need for tete-a-tete conversation. How do you talk to people you don’t know?

She liked Jim, but the need to make talk was spoiling everything. She moved along beside his creaking shoes as in a nightmare, and, as she felt every atom of her freezing to stupidity, she desperately forced her voice: “What a beautiful night it is!”

“Yes, it’s great.”

Missy sent him a sidelong glance. He didn’t look exactly happy either. Did he feel awkward too?

Creak! creak! creak! said the shoes.

“Listen to those shoes–never heard ’em squeak like that before,” he muttered apologetically.

Missy, striving for a proper answer and finding none, kept on moving through that feeling of nightmare. What was the matter with her tongue, her brain? Was it because she didn’t know Jim well enough to talk to him? Surely not, for she had met strange boys before and not felt like this. Was it because it was night? Did you always feel like this when you were all dressed up and going home from an evening party?

Creak! creak! said the shoes.

Another block lay behind them.

Missy, fighting that sensation of stupidity, in anguished resolution spoke again: “Just look at the moon–how big it is!” Jim followed her upward glance. “Yes, it’s great,” he agreed.

Creak! creak! said the shoes.

A heavy, regularly punctuated pause. “Don’t you love moonlight nights?” persisted Missy.

“Yes–when my shoes don’t squeak.” He tried to laugh.

Missy tried to laugh too. Creak! creak! said the shoes.

Another block lay behind them.

“Moonlight always makes me feel–“

She paused. What was it moonlight always made her feel? Hardly hearing what she was saying, she made herself reiterate banalities about the moon. Her mind flew upward to the moon–Jim’s downward to his squeaking shoes. She lived at the other end of town from Raymond Bonner’s house, and the long walk was made up of endless intermittent perorations on the moon, on squeaking shoes. But the song of the shoes never ceased. Louder and louder it waxed. It crashed into the innermost fibres of her frame, completely deafened her mental processes. Never would she forget it: creak-creak-creak- creak!

And the moon, usually so kind and gentle, grinned down derisively.

At last, after eons, they reached the corner of her own yard. How unchanged, how natural everything looked here! Over there, across the stretch of white moonlight, sat the summerhouse, symbol of peace and every day, cloaked in its fragrant ramblers.

Ramblers! A sudden remembrance darted through Missy’s perturbed brain. Her poor flowers–were they still out there? She must carry them into the house with her! On the impulse, without pausing to reflect that her action might look queer, she exclaimed: “Wait a minute!” and ran fleetly across the moonlit yard. In a second she had the bouquet out of the pitcher and was back again beside him, breathless.

“I left them out there,” she said. “I–I forgot them. And I didn’t want to leave them out there all night.”

Jim bent down and sniffed at the roses. “They smell awfully sweet, don’t they?” he said.

Suddenly, without premeditation, Missy extended them to him. “You may have them,” she offered.

“I?” He received them awkwardly. “That’s awfully sweet of you. Say, you are sweet, aren’t you?”

“You may have them if you want them,” she repeated.

Jim, still holding the bunch awkwardly, had an inspiration.

“I do want them. And now, if they’re really mine, I want to do with them what I’d like most to do with them. May I?”

“Why, of course.”

“I’d like to give them to the girl who ought to have flowers more than any girl I know. I’d like to give them to you!”

He smiled at her daringly.

“Oh!” breathed Missy. How poetical he was!

“But,” he stipulated, “on one condition. I demand one rose for myself. And you must put it in my buttonhole for me.”

With trembling fingers Missy fixed the rose in place.

They walked on up to the gate. Jim said: “In our school town the girls are all crazy for brass buttons. They make hatpins and things. If you’d like a button, I’d like to give you one–off my sleeve.”

“Wouldn’t it spoil your sleeve?” she asked tremulously.

“Oh, I can get more”–somewhat airily. “Of course we have to do extra guard mount and things for punishment. But that’s part of the game, and no fellow minds if he’s giving buttons to somebody he likes.”

Missy wasn’t exactly sure she knew what “subtle” meant, but she felt that Jim was being subtle. Oh, the romance of it! To give her a brass button he was willing to suffer punishment. He was like a knight of old!

As Jim was severing the button with his penknife, Missy, chancing to glance upward, noted that the curtain of an upstairs window was being held back by an invisible hand. That was her mother’s window.

“I must go in now,” she said hurriedly. “Mother’s waiting up for me.”

“Well I guess I’ll see you soon. You’re up at Kitty’s a lot, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” she murmured, one eye on the upstairs window. So many things she had to say now. A little while ago she hadn’t been able to talk. Now, for no apparent reason, there was much to say, yet no time to say it. How queer Life was!

“To-morrow, I expect,” she hurried on. “Good night, Mr. Henley.” “Good night–Missy.” With his daring, gleaming smile.

Inside the hall door, mother, wrapper-clad, met her disapprovingly. “Missy, where in the world did you get all those flowers?”

“Ji–Kitty’s cousin gave them to me.”

“For the land’s sake!” It required a moment for mother to find further words. Then she continued accusingly: “I thought you were to come home with Mrs. Allen and Kitty.”

“Kitty got sick, and her mother had to take her home.”

“Why didn’t you come with them?”

“Oh, mother! I was having such a good time!” For the minute Missy had forgotten there had been a shred of anything but “good time” in the whole glorious evening. “And Mrs. Allen said I might stay and come home with Jim and–“

“That will do,” cut in mother severely. “You’ve taken advantage of me, Missy. And don’t let me hear evening party from you again this summer!”

The import of this dreadful dictum did not penetrate fully to Missy’s consciousness. She was too confused in her emotions, just then, to think clearly of anything.

“Go up to bed,” said mother.

“May I put my flowers in water first?”

“Yes, but be quick about it.”

Missy would have liked to carry the flowers up to her own room, to sleep there beside her while she slept, but mother wouldn’t understand and there would be questions which she didn’t know how to answer.

Mother was offended with her. Dimly she felt unhappy about that, but she was too happy to be definitely unhappy. Anyway, mother followed to unfasten her dress, to help take down her hair, to plait the mouse-coloured braids. She wanted to be alone, yet she liked the touch of mother’s hands, unusually gentle and tender. Why was mother gentle and tender with her when she was offended?

At last mother kissed her good night, and she was alone in her little bed. It was hard to get to sleep. What an eventful party it had been! Since supper time she seemed to have lived years and years. She had been a success even though Raymond Bonner had said– that. Anyway, Jim was a better dancer than Raymond, and handsomer and nicer–besides the uniform. He was more poetical too–much more. What was it he had said about liking her? . . . better dancer than any other. . . Funny she should feel so happy after Raymond . . . Maybe she was just a vain, inconstant, coquettish . . .

She strove to focus on the possibility of her frailty. She turned her face to the window. Through the lace curtains shone the moonlight, the gleaming path along which she had so often flown out to be a fairy. But to-night she didn’t wish to be a fairy; just to be herself . . .

The moonlight flowed in and engulfed her, a great, eternal, golden- white mystery. And its mystery became her mystery. She was the mystery of the moon, of the universe, of Life. And the tune in her heart, which could take on so many bewildering variations, became the Chant of Mystery. How interesting, how tremendously, ineffably interesting was Life! She slept.

CHAPTER IV

MISSY TACKLES ROMANCE

Melissa was out in the summerhouse, reading; now and then lifting her eyes from the big book on her lap to watch the baby at play. With a pail of sand, a broken lead-pencil and several bits of twig, the baby had concocted an engrossing game. Melissa smiled indulgently at his absurd absorption; while the baby, looking up, smiled back as one who would say: “What a stupid game reading is to waste your time with!”

For the standpoint of three-years-old is quite different from that of fourteen-going-on-fifteen. Missy now felt almost grown-up; it had been eons since SHE was a baby, and three; even thirteen lay back across a chasm so wide her thoughts rarely tried to bridge it. Besides, her thoughts were kept too busy with the present. Every day the world was presenting itself as a more bewitching place. Cherryvale had always been a thrilling place to live in; but this was the summer which, surely, would ever stand out in italics in her mind. For, this summer, she had come really to know Romance.

Her more intimate acquaintance with this enchanting phenomenon had begun in May, the last month of school, when she learned that Miss Smith, her Algebra teacher, received a letter every day from an army officer. An army officer!–and a letter every day! And she knew Miss Smith very well, indeed! Ecstasy! Miss Smith, who looked too pretty to know so much about Algebra, made an adorable heroine of Romance.

But she was not more adorable-looking than Aunt Isabel. Aunt Isabel was Uncle Charlie’s wife, and lived in Pleasanton; Missy was going to Pleasanton in just three days, now, and every time she thought of the visit, she felt delicious little tremors of anticipation. What an experience that would be! For father and mother and grandpa and grandma and all the other family grown-ups admitted that Uncle Charlie’s marriage to Aunt Isabel was romantic. Uncle Charlie had been forty-three–very, very old, even older than father–and a “confirmed bachelor” when, a year ago last summer, he had married Aunt Isabel. Aunt Isabel was much younger, only twenty; that was what made the marriage romantic.

Like Miss Smith, Aunt Isabel had big violet eyes and curly golden hair. Most heroines seemed to be like that. The reflection saddened Missy. Her own eyes were grey instead of violet, her hair straight and mouse-coloured instead of wavy and golden.

Even La Beale Isoud was a blonde, and La Beale Isoud, as she had recently discovered, was one of the Romantic Queens of all time. She knew this fact on the authority of grandpa, who was enormously wise. Grandpa said that the beauteous lady was a heroine in all languages, and her name was spelled Iseult, and Yseult, and Isolde, and other queer ways; but in “The Romance of King Arthur” it was spelled La Beale Isoud. “The Romance of King Arthur” was a fascinating book, and Missy was amazed that, up to this very summer, she had passed by the rather ponderous volume, which was kept on the top shelf of the “secretary,” as uninteresting-looking. Uninteresting!

It was “The Romance of King Arthur” that, this July afternoon, lay open on Missy’s lap while she minded the baby in the summerhouse. Already she knew by heart its “deep” and complicated story, and, now, she was re-reading the part which told of Sir Tristram de Liones and his ill-fated love for La Beale Isoud. It was all very sad, yet very beautiful.

Sir Tristram was a “worshipful knight” and a “harper passing all other.” He got wounded, and his uncle, King Mark, “let purvey a fair vessel, well victualled,” and sent him to Ireland to be healed. There the Irish King’s daughter, La Beale Isoud, “the fairest maid and lady in the world,” nursed him back to health, while Sir Tristram “learned her to harp.”

That last was an odd expression. In Cherryvale it would be considered bad grammar; but, evidently, grammar rules were different in olden times. The unusual phraseology of the whole narrative fascinated Missy; even when you could hardly understand it, it was– inspiring. Yes, that was the word. In inspiring! That was because it was the true language of Romance. The language of Love . . . Missy’s thoughts drifted off to ponder the kind of language the army officer used to Miss Smith; Uncle Charlie to Aunt Isabel . . .

She came back to the tale of La Beale Isoud.

Alas! true love must ever suffer at the hands of might. For the harper’s uncle, old King Mark himself, decided to marry La Beale Isoud; and he ordered poor Sir Tristram personally to escort her from Ireland. And Isoud’s mother entrusted to two servants a magical drink which they should give Isoud and King Mark on their wedding- day, so that the married pair “either should love the other the days of their life.”

But, Tristram and La Beale Isoud found that love-drink! Breathing quickly, Missy read the fateful part:

“It happened so that they were thirsty, and it seemed by the colour and the taste that it was a noble wine. When Sir Tristram took the flasket in his hand, and said, ‘Madam Isoud, here is the best drink that ever ye drunk, that Dame Braguaine, your maiden, and Gouvernail, my servant, have kept for themselves.’ Then they laughed (laughed–think of it!) and made good cheer, and either drank to other freely. And they thought never drink that ever they drank was so sweet nor so good. But by that drink was in their bodies, they loved either other so well that never their love departed for weal neither for woe.” (Think of that, too!)

Missy gazed at the accompanying illustration: La Beale Isoud slenderly tall in her straight girdled gown of grey-green velvet, head thrown back so that her filleted golden hair brushed her shoulders, violet eyes half-closed, and an “antique”-looking metal goblet clasped in her two slim hands; and Sir Tristram so imperiously dark and handsome in his crimson, fur-trimmed doublet, his two hands stretched out and gripping her two shoulders, his black eyes burning as if to look through her closed lids. What a tremendous situation! Love that never would depart for weal neither for woe!

Missy sighed. For she had read and re-read what was the fullness of their woe. And she couldn’t help hating King Mark, even if he was Isoud’s lawful lord, because he proved himself such a recreant and false traitor to true love. Of course, he WAS Isoud’s husband; and Missy lived in Cherryvale, where conventions were not complicated and were strictly adhered to; else scandal was the result. But she told herself that this situation was different because it was an unusual kind of love. They couldn’t help themselves. It wasn’t their fault. It was the love-drink that did it. Besides, it happened in the Middle Ages . . .

Suddenly her reverie was blasted by a compelling disaster. The baby, left to his own devices, had stuck a twig into his eye, and was uttering loud cries for attention. Missy remorsefully hurried over and kissed his hurt. As if healed thereby, the baby abruptly ceased crying; even sent her a little wavering smile. Missy gazed at him and pondered: why do babies cry over their tiny troubles, and so often laugh over their bigger ones? She felt an immense yearning over babies–over all things inexplicable.

That evening after supper, grandpa and grandma came over for a little while. They all sat out on the porch and chatted. It was very beautiful out on the porch,–greying twilight, and young little stars just coming into being, all aquiver as if frightened.

The talk turned to Missy’s imminent visit.

“Aren’t you afraid you’ll get homesick?” asked grandma.

It was Missy’s first visit away from Cherryvale without her mother. A year ago she would have dreaded the separation, but now she was almost grown-up. Besides, this very summer, in Cherryvale, she had seen how for some reason, a visiting girl seems to excite more attention than does a mere home girl. Missy realized that, of course, she wasn’t so “fashionable” as was the sophisticated Miss Slade from Macon City who had so agitated Cherryvale, yet she was pleased to try the experience for herself. Moreover, the visit was to be at Uncle Charlie’s!

“Oh, no,” answered Missy. “Not with Uncle Charlie and Aunt Isabel. She’s so pretty and wears such pretty clothes–remember that grey silk dress with grey-topped shoes exactly to match?”

“I think she has shoes to match everything, even her wrappers,” said grandma rather drily. “Isabel’s very extravagant.”

“Extravagance becomes a virtue when Isabel wears the clothes,” commented grandpa. Grandpa often said “deep” things like that, which were hard to understand exactly.

“She shouldn’t squander Charlie’s money,” insisted grandma.

“Charlie doesn’t seem to mind it,” put in mother in her gentle way. “He’s as pleased as Punch buying her pretty things.”

“Yes–poor Charlie!” agreed grandma. “And there’s another thing: Isabel’s always been used to so much attention, I hope she won’t give poor Charlie anxiety.”

Why did grandma keep calling him “poor” Charlie? Missy had always understood that Uncle Charlie wasn’t poor at all; he owned the biggest “general store” in Pleasanton and was, in fact, the “best- fixed” of the whole Merriam family.

But, save for fragments, she soon lost the drift of the family discussion. She was absorbed in her own trend of thoughts. At Uncle Charlie’s she was sure of encountering Romance. Living-and-breathing Romance. And only two days more! How could she wait?

But the two days flew by in a flurry of mending, and running ribbons, and polishing all her shoes and wearing old dresses to keep her good ones clean, and, finally, packing. It was all so exciting that only at the last minute just before the trunk was shut, did she remember to tuck in “The Romance of King Arthur.”

At the depot in Pleasanton, Aunt Isabel alone met her; Uncle Charlie was “indisposed.” Missy was sorry to hear that. For she had liked Uncle Charlie even before he had become Romantic. He was big and silent like father and grandpa and you had a feeling that, like them, he understood you more than did most grown-ups.

She liked Aunt Isabel, too; she couldn’t have helped that, because Aunt Isabel was so radiantly beautiful. Missy loved all beautiful things. She loved the heavenly colour of sunlight through the stained-glass windows at church; the unquenchable blaze of her nasturtium bed under a blanket of grey mist; the corner street-lamp reflecting on the wet sidewalk; the smell of clean, sweet linen sheets; the sound of the brass band practicing at night, blaring but unspeakably sad through the distance; the divine mystery of faint- tinted rainbows; trees in moonlight turned into great drifts of fairy-white blossoms.

And she loved shining ripples of golden hair; and great blue eyes that laughed in a sidewise glance and then turned softly pensive in a second; and a sweet high voice now vivacious and now falling into hushed cadences; and delicate white hands always restlessly fluttering; and, a drifting, elusive fragrance, as of wind-swept petals. . .

All of which meant that she loved Aunt Isabel very much; especially in the frilly, pastel-flowered organdy she was wearing to-day–an “extravagant” dress, doubtless, but lovely enough to justify that. Naturally such a person as Aunt Isabel would make her home a beautiful place. It was a “bungalow.” Missy had often regretted that her own home had been built before the vogue of the bungalow. And now, when she beheld Aunt Isabel’s enchanting house, the solid, substantial furnishings left behind in Cherryvale lost all their savour for her, even the old-fashioned “quaintness” of grandma’s house.

For Aunt Isabel’s house was what Pleasanton termed “artistic.” It had white-painted woodwork, and built-in bookshelves instead of ordinary bookcases, and lots of window-seats, and chintz draperies which trailed flowers or birds or peacocks, which were like a combination of both, and big wicker chairs with deep cushions–all very bright and cosy and beautiful. In the living-room were some Chinese embroideries which Missy liked, especially when the sun came in and shone upon their soft, rich colours; she had never before seen Chinese embroideries and, thus, encountered a brand-new love. Then Aunt Isabel was the kind of woman who keeps big bowls of fresh flowers sitting around in all the rooms, even if there’s no party–a delightful habit. Missy was going to adore watching Aunt Isabel’s pretty, restless hands flutter about as, each morning, she arranged the fresh flowers in their bowls.

Even in Missy’s room there was a little bowl of jade-green pottery, a colour which harmonized admirably with sweet peas, late roses, nasturtiums, or what-not. And all the furniture in that room was painted white, while the chintz bloomed with delicate little nosegays.

The one inharmonious element was that of Uncle Charlie’s indisposition–not only the fact that he was suffering, but also the nature of his ailment. For Uncle Charlie, it developed, had been helping move a barrel of mixed-pickles in the grocery department of his store, and the barrel had fallen full-weight upon his foot and broken his big toe. Missy realized that, of course, a tournament with a sword-thrust in the heart, or some catastrophe like that, would have meant a more dangerous injury; but–a barrel of pickles! And his big toe! Any toe was unromantic. But the BIG toe! That was somehow the worst of all.

Uncle Charlie, however, spoke quite openly of the cause of his trouble. Also of its locale. Indeed, he could hardly have concealed the latter, as his whole foot was bandaged up, and he had to hobble about, very awkwardly, with the aid of a cane.

Uncle Charlie’s indisposition kept him from accompanying Missy and Aunt Isabel to an ice-cream festival which was held on the Congregational church lawn that first night. Aunt Isabel was a Congregationalist; and, as mother was a Presbyterian and grandma a Methodist, Missy was beginning to feel a certain kinship with all religions.

This festival proved to be a sort of social gathering, because the Congregational church in Pleasanton was attended by the town’s “best” people. The women were as stylishly dressed as though they were at a bridge party–or a tournament. The church lawn looked very picturesque with red, blue and yellow lanterns–truly a fair lawn and “well victualled” with its ice-cream tables in the open. Large numbers of people strolled about, and ate, and chatted and laughed. The floating voices of people you couldn’t see, the flickering light of the lanterns, the shadows just beyond their swaying range, all made it seem gay and alluring, so that you almost forgot that it was only a church festival.

A big moon rose up from behind the church-tower, a beautiful and medieval-looking combination. Missy thought of those olden-time feasts “unto kings and dukes,” when there was revel and play, and “all manner of noblesse.” And, though none but her suspected it, the little white-covered tables became long, rough-hewn boards, and the Congregational ladies’ loaned china became antique-looking pewter, and the tumblers of water were golden flaskets of noble wine. Missy, who was helping Aunt Isabel serve at one of the tables, attended her worshipful patrons with all manner of noblesse. She was glad she was wearing her best pink mull with the brocaded sash.

Aunt Isabel’s table was well patronized. It seemed to Missy that most of the men present tried to get “served” here. Perhaps it was because they admired Aunt Isabel. Missy couldn’t have blamed them for that, because none of the other Congregational ladies was half as pretty. To-night Aunt Isabel had on a billowy pale-blue organdy, and she looked more like an angel than ever. An ethereally radiant, laughing, vivacious angel. And whenever she moved near you, you caught a ghostly whiff of that delicious perfume. (Missy now knows Aunt Isabel got it from little sachet bags, tucked away with her clothes, and from an “atomizer” which showered a delicate, fairy- like spray of fragrance upon her hair.) There was one young man, who was handsome in a dark, imperious way, who hung about and ate so much ice-cream that Missy feared lest he should have an “upset” to- morrow.

Also, there was another persevering patron for whom she surmised, with modest palpitation, Aunt Isabel might not be the chief attraction. The joy of being a visiting girl was begun! This individual was a talkative, self-confident youth named Raleigh Peters. She loved the name Raleigh–though for the Peters part she didn’t care so much. And albeit, with the dignity which became her advancing years, she addressed him as “Mr. Peters,” in her mind she preferred to think of him as “Raleigh.” Raleigh, she learned (from himself), was the only son of a widowed mother and, though but little older than Missy, had already started making his own way by clerking in Uncle Charlie’s store. He clerked in the grocery department, the prosperity of which, she gathered, was largely due to his own connection with it. Some day, he admitted, he was going to own the biggest grocery store in the State. He was thrillingly independent and ambitious and assured. All that seemed admirable, but–if only he hadn’t decided on groceries! “Peters’ Grocery Store!” Missy thought of jousting, of hawking, of harping, customs which noble gentlemen used to follow, and sighed.

But Raleigh, unaware that his suit had been lost before it started, accompanied them all home. “All” because the dark and imperiously handsome young man went along, too. His name was Mr. Saunders, and Missy had now learned he was a “travelling man” who came to Pleasanton to sell Uncle Charlie merchandise; he was also quite a friend of the family’s, she gathered, and visited them at the house.

When they reached home, Mr. Saunders suggested stopping in a minute to see how Uncle Charlie was. However, Uncle Charlie, it turned out, was already in bed.

“But you needn’t go yet, anyway,” said Aunt Isabel. “It’s heavenly out here on the porch.”

“Doesn’t the hour wax late?” demurred Mr. Saunders. “Wax late!”– What quaint, delightful language he used!

“Oh, it’s still early. Stay a while, and help shake off the atmosphere of the festival–those festivals bore me to death!”

Odd how women can act one way while they’re feeling another way! Missy had supposed, at the festival, that Aunt Isabel was having a particularly enjoyable time.

“Stay and let’s have some music,” Aunt Isabel went on. “You left your ukelele here last week.”

So the handsome Mr. Saunders played the ukelele!–How wonderfully that suited his type. And it was just the kind of moonlight night for music. Missy rejoiced when Mr. Saunders decided to stay, and Aunt Isabel went in the house for the ukelele. It was heavenly when Mr. Saunders began to play and sing. The others had seated themselves in porch chairs, but he chose a place on the top step, his head thrown back against a pillar, and the moon shining full on his dark, imperious face. His bold eyes now gazed dreamily into distance as, in a golden tenor that seemed to melt into the moonlight itself, he sang:

“They plucked the stars out of the blue, dear, Gave them to you, dear, For eyes . . . “

The ukelele under his fingers thrummed out a soft, vibrant, melancholy accompaniment. It was divine! Here surely was a “harper passing all other!” Mr. Saunders looked something like a knight, too–all but his costume. He was so tall and dark and handsome; and his dark eyes were bold, though now so soft from his own music.

The music stopped. Aunt Isabel jumped up from her porch chair, left the shadows, and seated herself beside him on the moonlit top.

“That looks easy,” she said. “Show me how to do it.”

She took the ukelele from him. He showed her how to place her fingers–their fingers got tangled up–they laughed.

Missy started to laugh, too, but stopped right in the middle of it. A sudden thought had struck her, remembrance of another beauteous lady who had been “learned” to harp. She gazed down on Aunt Isabel– how beautiful there in the white moonlight! So fair and slight, the scarf-thing around her shoulders like a shroud of mist, hair like unto gold, eyes like the stars of heaven. Her eyes were now lifted laughingly to Mr. Saunders’. She was so close he must catch that faintly sweetness of her hair. He returned the look and started to sing again; while La Beale–no, Aunt Isabel–

Even the names were alike!

Missy drew in a quick, sharp breath. Mr. Saunders, now smiling straight at Aunt Isabel as she tried to pick the chords, went on:

“They plucked the stars out of the blue, dear, Gave them to you, dear, For eyes . . .”

How expressively he sang those words! Missy became troubled. Of course Romance was beautiful but those things belonged in ancient times. You wouldn’t want things like that right in your own family, especially when Uncle Charlie already had a broken big toe . . .

She forgot that the music was beautiful, the night bewitching; she even forgot to listen to what Raleigh was saying, till he leaned forward and demanded irately:

“Say! you haven’t gone to sleep, have you?”

Missy gave a start, blinked, and looked self-conscious.

“Oh, excuse me,” she murmured. “I guess I was sort of dreaming.”

Mr. Saunders, overhearing, glanced up at her.

“The spell of moon and music, fair maid?” he asked. And, though he smiled, she didn’t feel that he was making fun of her.

Again that quaint language! A knight of old might have talked that way! But Missy, just now, was doubtful as to whether a knight in the flesh was entirely desirable.

It was with rather confused emotions that, after the visitors had departed and she had told Aunt Isabel good night, Missy went up to the little white-painted, cretonne-draped room. Life was interesting, but sometimes it got very queer.

After she had undressed and snapped off the light, she leaned out of the window and looked at the night for a long time. Missy loved the night; the hordes of friendly little stars which nodded and whispered to one another; the round silver moon, up there at some enigmatic distance yet able to transfigure the whole world with fairy-whiteness–turning the dew on the grass into pearls, the leaves on the trees into trembling silver butterflies, and the dusty street into a breadth of shimmering silk. At night, too, the very flowers seemed to give out a sweeter odour; perhaps that was because you couldn’t see them.

Missy leaned farther out the window to sniff in that damp, sweet scent of unseen flowers, to feel the white moonlight on her hand. She had often wished that, by some magic, the world might be enabled to spin out its whole time in such a gossamer, irradiant sheen as this–a sort of moon-haunted night-without-end, keeping you tingling with beautiful, blurred, indescribable feelings.

But to-night, for the first time, Missy felt skeptical as to that earlier desire. She still found the night beautiful–oh, inexpressibly beautiful!–but moonlight nights were what made lovers want to look into each other’s eyes, and sing each other love songs “with expression.” To be sure, she had formerly considered this very tendency an elysian feature of such nights; but that was when she thought that love always was right for its own sake, that true lovers never should be thwarted. She still held by that belief; and yet–she visioned Uncle Charlie, dear Uncle Charlie, so fond of buying Aunt Isabel extravagant organdies and slippers to match; so like grandpa and father–and King Mark!

Missy had always hated King Mark, the lawful husband, the enemy of true love. But Romance gets terribly complicated when it threatens to leave the Middle Ages, pop right in on you when you are visiting in Pleasanton; and when the lawful husband is your own Uncle Charlie–poor Uncle Charlie!–lying in there suffering with his broken–well there was no denying it was his big toe.

Missy didn’t know that her eyes had filled–tears sometimes came so unexpectedly nowadays–till a big drop splashed down on her hand.

She felt very, very sad. Often she didn’t mind being sad. Sometimes she even enjoyed it in a peculiar way on moonlit nights; found a certain pleasant poignancy of exaltation in the feeling. But there are different kinds of sadness. To-night she didn’t like it. She forsook the moonlit vista and crept into bed.

The next morning she overslept. Perhaps it was because she wasn’t in her own little east room at home, where the sun and Poppy, her cat, vied to waken her; or perhaps because it had turned intensely hot and sultry during the night–the air seemed to glue down her eyelids so as to make waking up all the harder.

It was Sunday, and, when she finally got dressed and downstairs, the house was still unusually quiet. But she found Uncle Charlie in his “den” with the papers. He said Aunt Isabel was staying in bed with a headache; and he himself hobbled into the dining room with Missy, and sat with her while the maid (Aunt Isabel called her hired girl a “maid”) gave her breakfast.

Uncle Charlie seemed cheerful despite his–his trouble. And everything seemed so peaceful and beautiful that Missy could hardly realize that ever Tragedy might come to this house. Somewhere in the distance church bells were tranquilly sounding. Out in the kitchen could be heard the ordinary clatter of dishes. And in the dining room it was very, very sweet. The sun filtered through the gently swaying curtains, touching vividly the sweet peas on the breakfast- table. The sweet peas were arranged to stand upright in a round, shallow bowl, just as if they were growing up out of a little pool– a marvellously artistic effect. The china was very artistic, too, Japanese, with curious-looking dragons in soft old-blue. And, after the orange, she had a finger-bowl with a little sprig of rose- geranium she could crunch between her fingers till it sent out a heavenly odour. It was just like Aunt Isabel to have rose-geranium in her finger-bowls!

Her mind was filled with scarcely defined surmises concerning Aunt Isabel, her unexpected headache, and the too handsome harper. But Uncle Charlie, unsuspecting, talked on in that cheerful strain. He was teasing Missy because she liked the ham and eggs and muffins, and took a second helping of everything.

“Good thing I can get groceries at wholesale!” he bantered. “Else I’d never dare ask you to visit me!”

Missy returned his smile, grateful that the matter of her appetite might serve to keep him jolly a little while longer. Perhaps he didn’t even suspect, yet. DID he suspect? She couldn’t forbear a tentative question:

“What seems to be the matter with Aunt Isabel, Uncle Charlie?”

“Why, didn’t I tell you she has a headache?’

“Oh! a headache.” She was silent a second; then, as if there was something strange about this malady, she went on: “Did she SAY she had a headache?”

“Of course, my dear. It’s a pretty bad one. I guess it must be the weather.” It was hot. Uncle Charlie had taken off his coat and was in his shirt sleeves–she was pleased to note it was a silken shirt; little beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead, and on his head where it was just beginning to get bald. Somehow, the fact that he looked so hot had the effect of making her feel even more tender toward him. So, though she thirsted for information, not for the world would she have aroused his suspicions by questions. And she made her voice very casual, when she finally enquired:

“By the way, that Mr. Saunders who brought us home is awfully handsome. Sort of gallant looking, don’t you think?”

Uncle Charlie laughed; then shook his finger at her in mock admonition.

“Oh, Missy! You’ve fallen, too?”

Missy gulped; Uncle Charlie had made an unwitting revelation! But she tried not to give herself away; still casual, she asked:

“Oh! do other people fall?”

“All the ladies fall for Saunders,” said Uncle Charlie.

Missy hesitated, then hazarded:

“Aunt Isabel, too?”

“Oh, yes.” Uncle Charlie looked pathetically unconcerned. “Aunt Isabel likes to have him around. He often comes in handy at dances.”

It would be just like Mr. Saunders to be a good dancer!

“He harps well, too,” she said meditatively.

“What’s that?” enquired Uncle Charlie.

“Oh, I mean that thing he plays.”

“The ukelele. Yes, Saunders is a wizard with it. But in spite of that he’s a good fellow.” (What did “in spite of that” mean–didn’t Uncle Charlie approve of harpers?)

He continued: “He sometimes goes on fishing-trips with me.”

Fishing-trips! From father Missy had learned that this was the highest proof of camaraderie. So Uncle Charlie didn’t suspect. He was harbouring the serpent in his very bosom. Missy crumpled the fragrant rose-geranium reflectively between her fingers.

Then Uncle Charlie suggested that she play something for him on the piano. And Missy, feeling every minute tenderer toward him because she must keep to herself the dreadful truths which would hurt him if he knew, hurried to his side, took away his cane, and put her own arm in its place for him to lean on. And Uncle Charlie seemed to divine there was something special in her deed, for he reached down and patted the arm which supported him, and said:

“You’re a dear child, Missy.”

In the living-room the sun was shining through the charming, cretonne-hung bay window and upon the soft, rich colours of the Chinese embroideries. The embroideries were on the wall beyond the piano, so that she could see them while she played. Uncle Charlie wasn’t in her range of vision unless she turned her head; but she could smell his cigar, and could sense him sitting there very quiet in a big wicker chair, smoking, his eyes half closed, his bandaged foot stretched out on a little stool.

And her poignant feeling of sympathy for him, sitting there thus, and her rapturous delight in the sun-touched colours of the embroideries, and the hushed peace of the hot Sabbath morning, all seemed to intermingle and pierce to her very soul. She was glad to play the piano. When deeply moved she loved to play, to pour out her feelings in dreamy melodies and deep vibrant harmonies with queer minor cadences thrown in–the kind of music you can play “with expression,” while you vision mysterious, poetic pictures.

After a moment’s reflection, she decided on “The Angel’s Serenade”; she knew it by heart, and adored playing it. There was something brightly-sweet and brightly-sad in those strains of loveliness; she could almost hear the soft flutter of angelic wings, almost see the silvery sheen of them astir. And, oddly, all that sheen and stir, all that sadly-sweet sound, seemed to come from within herself–just as if her own soul were singing, instead of the piano keyboard.

And with Missy, to play “The Angel’s Serenade” was to crave playing more such divine pieces; she drifted on into “Traumerei”; “Simple Confession”; “One Sweetly Solemn Thought,” with variations. She played them all with extra “expression,” putting all her loving sympathy for Uncle Charlie into her finger-tips. And he must have been soothed by it, for he dozed off, and came to with a start when she finally paused, to tell her how beautifully she played.

Then began a delicious time of talking together. Uncle Charlie was like grandpa–the kind of man you enjoyed talking with, about deep, unusual things. They talked about music, and the meaning of the pieces she’d played. Then about reading. He asked her what she was reading nowadays.

“This is your book, isn’t it?” he enquired, picking up “The Romances of King Arthur” from the table beside him. Heavens! how tactless of her to have brought it down this morning! But there was nothing for her to do, save to act in a natural, casual manner.

“Yes,” she said.

Uncle Charlie opened the book. Heavens! it fell open at the illustration of the two lovers drinking the fateful potion!

“Which is your favourite legend?” he asked.

Missy was too nervous to utter anything but the simple truth.

“The story of Sir Tristram and La Beale Isoud,” she answered.

“Ah,” said Uncle Charlie. He gazed at the picture she knew so well. What was he thinking?

“Why is it your favourite?” he went on.

“I don’t know–because it’s so romantic, I guess. And so sad and beautiful.”

“Ah, yes,” said Uncle Charlie. “You have a feeling for the classic, I see. You call her ‘Isoud’?”

That pleased Missy; and, despite her agitation over this malaprop theme, she couldn’t resist the impulse to air her lately acquired learning.

“Yes, but she has different names in all the different languages, you know. And she was the most beautiful lady or maiden that ever lived.”

“Is that so?” said Uncle Charlie. “More beautiful than your Aunt Isabel?”

Missy hesitated, confused; the conversation was getting on dangerous ground. “Why, I guess they’re the same type, don’t you? I’ve often thought Aunt Isabel looks like La Beale Isoud.”

Uncle Charlie smiled again at her–an altogether cheerful kind of smile; no, he didn’t suspect any tragic undercurrent beneath this pleasant-sounding conversation. All he said was:

“Aunt Isabel should feel flattered–but I hope she finds a happier lot.”

Ah!

“Yes, I hope so,” breathed Missy, rather weakly.

Then Uncle Charlie at last closed the book.

“Poor Tristram and Isolde,” he said, as if speaking an epitaph.

But Missy caught her breath. Uncle Charlie felt sorry for the ill- fated lovers. Oh, if he only knew!

At dinner time (on Sundays they had midday dinner here), Aunt Isabel came down to the table. She said her head was better, but she looked pale; and her blue eyes were just like the Blessed Damozel’s, “deeper than the depth of waters stilled at even.” Yet, pale and quiet like this, she seemed even more beautiful than ever, especially in that adorable lavender negligee–with slippers to match. Missy regarded her with secret fascination.

After dinner, complaining of the heat, Aunt Isabel retired to her room again. She suggested that Missy take a nap, also. Missy didn’t think she was sleepy, but, desiring to be alone with her bewildered thoughts, she went upstairs and lay down. The better to think things over, she closed her eyes; and when she opened them to her amazement there was Aunt Isabel standing beside the bed–a radiant vision in pink organdy this time–and saying:

“Wake up, sleepy-head! It’s nearly six o’clock!”

Aunt Isabel, her vivacious self once more, with gentle fingers (Oh, hard not to love Aunt Isabel!) helped Missy get dressed for supper.

It was still so hot that, at supper, everyone drank a lot of ice-tea and ate a lot of ice-cream. Missy felt in a steam all over when they rose from the table and went out to sit on the porch. It was very serene, for all the sultriness, out on the porch; and Aunt Isabel was so sweet toward Uncle Charlie that Missy felt her gathering suspicions had something of the unreal quality of a nightmare. Aunt Isabel was reading aloud to Uncle Charlie out of the Sunday paper. Beautiful! The sunset was carrying away its gold like some bold knight with his captured, streaming-tressed lady. The fitful breeze whispered in the rhythm of olden ballads. Unseen church bells sent long-drawn cadences across the evening hush. And the little stars quivered into being, to peer at the young poignancy of feeling which cannot know what it contributes to the world. . .

Everything was idyllic–that is, almost idyllic–till, suddenly Uncle Charlie spoke:

“Isn’t that Saunders coming up the street?”

Why, oh why, did Mr. Saunders have to come and spoil everything?

But poor Uncle Charlie seemed glad to see him–just as glad as Aunt Isabel. Mr. Saunders sat up there amongst them, laughing and joking, now and then directing one of his quaint, romantic-sounding phrases at Missy. And she pretended to be pleased with him–indeed, she would have liked Mr. Saunders under any other circumstances.

Presently he exclaimed:

“By my halidome, I’m hot! My kingdom for a long, tall ice-cream soda!”

And Uncle Charlie said:

“Well, why don’t you go and get one? The drug store’s just two blocks around the corner.”

“A happy suggestion,” said Mr. Saunders. He turned to Aunt Isabel. “Will you join me?”

“Indeed I will,” she answered. “I’m stifling.”

Then Mr. Saunders looked at Missy.

“And you, fair maid?”

Missy thought a cool soda would taste good.

At the drug store, the three of them sat on tall stools before the white marble counter, and quaffed heavenly cold soda from high glasses in silver-looking flaskets. “Poor Charlie! He likes soda, so,” remarked Aunt Isabel.

“Why not take him some?”

Missy didn’t know you could do that, but the drug store man said it would be all right.

Then they all started home again, Aunt Isabel carrying the silver- looking flasket.

It was when they were about half-way, that Aunt Isabel suddenly exclaimed:

“Do you know, I believe I could drink another soda? I feel hotter than ever–and it looks so good!”

“Why not drink it, then?” asked Mr. Saunders.

“Oh, no,” said Aunt Isabel.

“Do,” he insisted. “We can go back and get another.”

“Well, I’ll take a taste,” she said.

On the words, she lifted the flasket to her lips and took a long draught. Then Mr. Saunders, laughing, caught it from her, and he took a long draught.

Missy felt a wave of icy horror sweep down her spine. She wanted to cry out in protest. For, even while she stared at them, at Aunt Isabel in pink organdie and Mr. Saunders in blue serge dividing the flasket of soda between them, a vision presented itself clearly before her eyes:

La Beale Isoud slenderly tall in a straight girdled gown of grey- green velvet, head thrown back so that her filleted golden hair brushed her shoulders, violet eyes half-closed, and an “antique”- looking flasket clasped in her two slim hands; and Sir Tristram so imperiously dark and handsome in his crimson, fur-trimmed doublet, his two hands stretched out and gripping her two shoulders, his black eyes burning as if to look through her closed lids–the magical love-potion. . . love that never would depart for weal neither for woe. . .

Missy closed her eyes tight, as if fearing what they might behold in the flesh. But when she opened them again, Aunt Isabel was only gazing into the drained flasket with a rueful expression.

Then they went back and got another soda for Uncle Charlie. And poor Uncle Charlie, unsuspecting, seemed to enjoy it.

During the remainder of that evening Missy was unusually subdued. She realized, of course, that there were no love-potions nowadays; that they existed only in the Middle Ages; and that the silver flasket contained everyday ice-cream soda. And she wasn’t sure she knew exactly what the word “symbol” meant, but she felt that somehow the ice-cream soda, shared between them, was symbolic of that famous, fateful drink. She wished acutely that this second episode, so singularly parallel, hadn’t happened.

She was still absorbed in gloomy meditations when Mr. Saunders arose to go.

“Oh, it’s early yet,” protested Uncle Charlie–dear, kind, ignorant Uncle Charlie!

“But I’ve got to catch the ten-thirty-five,” said Mr. Saunders.

“Why can’t you stay over till to-morrow night,” suggested Aunt Isabel. She had risen, too, and now put her hand on Mr. Saunders’s sleeve; her face looked quite pleading in the moonlight. “There’s to be a dance in Odd Fellows’ Hall.”

“I’d certainly love to stay.” He even dared to take hold of her hand openly. “But I’ve got to be in Paola in the morning, and Blue Mound next day.”

“The orchestra’s coming down from Macon City,” she cajoled.

“Now, don’t make it any harder for me,” begged Mr. Saunders, smiling down at her.

Aunt Isabel petulantly drew away her hand.

“You’re selfish! And Charlie laid up and all!”

Mr. Saunders outspread his hands in a helpless gesture.

“Well, you know the hard lot of the knight of the road–here to-day, gone to-morrow, never able to stay where his heart would wish!”

Missy caught her breath; how incautiously he talked!

After Mr. Saunders was gone, Aunt Isabel sat relapsed in her porch chair, very quiet. Missy couldn’t keep her eyes off of that lovely, apathetic figure. Once Aunt Isabel put her hand to her head.

“Head hitting it up again?” asked Uncle Charlie solicitously.

Aunt Isabel nodded.

“You’d better get to bed, then,” he said. And, despite his wounded toe, he wouldn’t let her attend to the shutting-up “chores,” but, accompanied by Missy, hobbled around to all the screen doors himself. Poor Uncle Charlie!

It was hard for Missy to get to sleep that night. Her brain was a dark, seething whirlpool. And the air seemed to grow thicker and thicker; it rested heavily on her hot eyelids, pressed suffocatingly against her throat. And when, finally, she escaped her thoughts in sleep, it was only to encounter them again in troubled dreams.

She was awakened abruptly by a terrific noise. Oh, Lord! what was it? She sat up. It sounded as if the house were falling down. Then the room, the whole world, turned suddenly a glaring, ghostly white- -then a sharp, spiteful, head-splitting crack of sound–then heavier, staccato volleys–then a baneful rumble, dying away.

A thunder-storm! Oh, Lord! Missy buried her face in her pillow. Nothing in the world so terrified her as thunder-storms.

She seemed to have lain there ages, scarcely breathing, when, in a little lull, above the fierce swish of rain she thought she heard voices. Cautiously she lifted her head; listened. She had left her door open for air and, now, she was sure she heard Uncle Charlie’s deep voice. She couldn’t hear what he was saying. Then she heard Aunt Isabel’s voice, no louder than uncle Charlie’s but more penetrating; it had a queer note in it–almost as if she were crying. Suddenly she did cry out!–And then Uncle Charlie’s deep grumble again.

Missy’s heart nearly stopped beating. Could it be that Uncle Charlie had found out?–That he was accusing Aunt Isabel and making her cry? But surely they wouldn’t quarrel in a thunder-storm! Lightning might hit the house, or anything!

The conjunction of terrors was too much for Missy to bear. Finally she crept out of bed and to the door. An unmistakable moan issued from Aunt Isabel’s room. And then she saw Uncle Charlie, in bath- robe and pajamas, coming down the hall from the bathroom. He was carrying a hot-water bottle.

“Why, what’s the matter, Missy?” he asked her. “The storm frighten you?”

Missy nodded; she couldn’t voice those other horrible fears which were tormenting her.

“Well, the worst is over now,” he said reassuringly. “Run back to bed. Your aunt’s sick again–I’ve just been filling the hot-water bottle for her.”

“Is she–very sick?” asked Missy tremulously.

“Pretty sick,” answered Uncle Charlie. “But there’s nothing you can do. Jump back into bed.”

So Missy crept back, and listened to the gradual steadying down of the rain. She was almost sorry, now, that the whirlwind of frantic elements had subsided; that had been a sort of terrible complement