so endowed by
the gods!

Missy--Melissa--now, at the advanced age of fifteen, had supposed she
knew all the wonders of books. She had learned to read the Book of Life:
its enchantments, so many and so varied in Cherryvale, had kept her big
grey eyes wide with smiles or wonder or, just occasionally, darkened
with the mystery of sorrow. There was the reiterant magic of greening
spring; and the long, leisurely days of delicious summer; the
companionship of a quaint and infinitely interesting baby brother, and
of her own cat--majesty incarnate on four black legs; and then, just
lately, this exciting new "best friend," Tess O'Neill. Tess had recently
moved to Cherryvale, and was "different"--different even from Kitty
Allen, though Missy had suffered twinges about letting anyone displace
Kitty. But--

And, now, here it was in Tess's adorable attic (full of treasures
discarded by departed tenants of the old Smith place) that Missy turned
one of Life's milestones and met "the Duchess."

Missy had loved to read the Bible (good stories there, and beautiful
words that made you tingle solemnly); and fairy tales never old; and,
almost best of all, the Anthology, full of poetry, that made you feel a
strange live spirit back of the wind and a world of mysteries beyond the
curtain of the sky.

But this--

The lure of letters was turned loud and seductive as the Blue Danube
played on a golden flute by a boy king with his crown on!

Tess glanced up from her reading.

"How's your book?" she enquired.

"Oh, it's wonderful," breathed Missy.

"Mine, too. Here's a description that reminds me a little of you."

"Me?" incredulously.

"Yes. It's about the heroine--Phyllis. She's not pretty, but she's got a
strange, underlying charm."

Missy held her breath. She was ashamed to ask Tess to read the
description of the strangely charming heroine, but Tess knew what
friendship demanded, and read:

"'I am something over five-feet-two, with brown hair that hangs in rich
chestnut tresses far below my waist.'"

"Oh," put in Missy modestly, while her heart palpitated, "my hair is
just mouse-coloured."

"No," denied Tess authoritatively, "you've got nut-brown locks. And
your eyes, too, are something like Phyllis's eyes--great grey eyes with
subtle depths. Only yours haven't got saucy hints in them."

Missy wished her eyes included the saucy hints. However, she was
enthralled by Tess's comparison, though incomplete. Was it possible Tes