amused twinkle,
she felt she would die of shame.

That afternoon she had been out on Gypsy and, chancing to ride by home
on her way back to the sanitarium barn, was hailed by her mother.

"Missy! I want you to gather some peaches!"

"Well, I'll have to take Gypsy home first."

"No, you won't have time--it's after five already, and I want to make
a deep-dish peach pie. I hear Rev. MacGill's especially fond of it.
You can take Gypsy home after supper. Now hurry up!--I'm behindhand
already."

So Missy led Gypsy into the yard and took the pail her mother brought
out to her.

"The peaches aren't quite ripe," said mother, with a little worried
pucker, "but they'll have to do. They have some lovely peaches at
Picker's, but papa won't hear of my trading at Picker's any more."

Missy thought it silly of her father to have curtailed trading at
Picker's--she missed Arthur's daily visit to the kitchen door with
the delivery-basket--merely because Mr. Picker had beaten father for
election on the Board of Aldermen. Father explained it was a larger
issue than party politics; even had Picker been a Republican he'd
have fought him, he said, for everyone knew Picker was abetting the
Waterworks graft. But Missy didn't see why that should keep him from
buying things from Picker's which mother really needed; mother said it
was "cutting off your nose to spite your face."

Philosophizing on the irrationality of old people, she proceeded to get
enough scarcely-ripe peaches for a deep-dish pie. Being horribly afraid
of climbing, she used the simple expedient of grasping the lower limbs
of the tree and shaking down the fruit.

"Missy!" called mother's voice from the dining room window. "That horse
is slobbering all over the peaches!" "I can't help it--she follows me
every place."

"Then you'll have to tie her up!"

"Tess never ties her up in THEIR yard!"

"Well, I won't have him slobbering over the fruit," repeated mother
firmly.

"I'll--climb the tree," said Missy desperately.

And she did. She was in mortal terror--every second she was sure she was
going to fall--but she couldn't bear the vision of Gypsy's reproachful
eyes above a strangling halter; Gypsy shouldn't think her hostess, so to
speak, less kind than her own mistress.

The peach pie came out beautifully and the supper promised to be a
great success. Mother had zealously ascertained Rev. MacGill's favourite
dishes, and was flushed but triumphant; she came of a dev