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 e