out family that
loved to feed preachers well. And everyone was in fine spirits; only
Missy, at the first, had a few bad moments. WOULD he mention it? He
might think it his duty, think that mother should know. It was maybe his
duty to tell. Preachers have a sterner creed of duty than other people,
of course. She regarded him anxiously from under the veil of her lashes,
wondering what would happen if he did tell. Mother would be horribly
ashamed, and she herself would be all the more ashamed because mother
was. Aunt Nettie would be satirically disapproving and say cutting
things. Father would probably just laugh, but later he'd be serious and
severe. And not one of them would ever, ever understand.

As the minutes went by, her strain of suspense gradually lessened. Rev.
MacGill was chatting away easily--about the delicious chicken-stuffing
and quince jelly, and the election, and the repairs on the church
steeple, and things like that. Now and then he caught Missy's eye, but
his expression for her was exactly the same as for the others--no one
could suspect there was any secret between them. He WAS a good sport!

Once a shadow passed outside the window. Gypsy! Missy saw that he saw,
and, as his glance came back to rest upon herself, for a second her
heart surged. But something in his eyes--she couldn't define exactly
what it was save that it was neither censorious nor quizzical--subtly
gave her reassurance. It was as if he had told her in so many words that
everything was all right, for her not to worry the least little bit.
All of a sudden she felt blissfully at peace. She smiled at him for no
reason at all, and he smiled back--a nice, not at all amused kind of
smile. Oh, he was a perfect brick! And what glorious eyes he had! And
that fascinating habit of flinging his hair back with a quick toss
of the head. How gracefully he used his hands. And what lovely,
distinguished table manners--she must practice that trick of lifting
your napkin, delicately and swiftly, so as to barely touch your lips.
She ate her own food in a kind of trance, unaware of what she was
eating; yet it was like eating supper in heaven.

And then, at the very end, something terrible happened. Marguerite had
brought in the pie'ce de re'sistance, the climactic dish toward which
mother had built the whole meal--the deep-dish peach pie, sugar-coated,
fragrant and savory--and placed it on the serving-table near the open
window. There was a bit, of wire l