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 embroider