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 meditativel