d her stern gaze to the pulpit.
She held it there steadfast though she was conscious of Genevieve,
undaunted, urging Arthur to throw another wad. He, however, refused.
That pleased Missy, for it made it easier to fix the blame for the
breach of religious etiquette upon Genevieve alone. Of course, it was
Genevieve who was really to blame. She was a frivolous, light-minded
girl. She was a bad influence for Arthur.

Yet, when it came time for the "crowd" to disperse and Arthur told
her good night as though nothing had happened, Missy deemed it only
consistent with dignity to maintain extreme reserve.

"Oh, fudge, Missy! Don't be so stand-offish!" Arthur was very appealing
when he looked at you like that--his eyes so mischievous under their
upcurling lashes. But Missy made herself say firmly:

"You put me in a rather awkward position, Arthur. You know Reverend
MacGill entrusted me to--"

"Oh, come out of it!" interrupted Arthur, grinning.

Missy sighed in her heart. She feared Arthur was utterly unregenerate.
Especially, when as he turned to Genevieve--who was tugging at his
arm--he gave the Reverend MacGill's missionary an open wink. Missy
watched the white fox furs, their light-minded wearer and her quarry
all depart together; commiseration for the victim vied with resentment
against the temptress. Poor Arthur!

She herself expected to be taken home by the O'Neills, but to her
surprise she found her father waiting in the church vestibule. He
said he had decided to come and hear the new minister, and Missy never
suspected it was the unrest of a father who sees his little girl trying
to become a big girl that had dragged him from his house-slippers and
smoking-jacket this snowy evening.

They walked homeward through the swirling flakes in silence. That was
one reason why Missy enjoyed being with her father--she could be
so companionably silent with him. She trudged along beside him,
half-consciously trying to match his stride, while her thoughts flew far
afield.

But presently father spoke.

"He's very eloquent, isn't he?"

"He?--who?" She struggled to get her thoughts back home.

Her father peered at her through the feathery gloom.

"Why, the preacher--Reverend MacGill."

"Oh, yes." She shook herself mentally. "He's perfectly fasci--" she
broke off, remembering she was talking to a grown-up. "He's very
inspired," she amended.

Another pause. Again it was father who spoke first.

"Who was the boy who thr