ast 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.