l the lawns, glistening under the torrid azure of the
great arched sky, made walking along the shady sidewalk inexpressibly
sweet; the many-hued flowers in all the flowerbeds seemed to sing out
their vying colours; the strong hard wind passed almost visible fingers
through the thick, rustling mane of the trees. Oh, she hoped she would
find the right kind of book!

Mother, back on the porch, looked up from her sewing to watch the
disappearing figure, and smiled.

"We have our little girl back again," she observed to Aunt Nettie.

"I wish that O'Neill girl'd move away," Aunt Nettie said. "Missy's a
regular chameleon."

It's a pity Missy couldn't hear her new classification; it would have
interested her tremendously; she was always interested in the perplexing
vagaries of her own nature. However, at the Library, she was quite
happy: for she found two books, each the right kind, though different.
One was called "Famous Heroines of Medieval Legend." They all had names
of strange beauty and splendour--Guinevere--Elaine--Vivien--names which
softly rustled in syllables of silken brocade. The other book was no
less satisfying. It was a book of poems--wonderful poems, by a man named
Swinburne--lilting, haunting things of beauty which washed through
her soul like the waves of a sun-bejewelled sea. She read the choicest
verses over and over till she knew them by heart:

Before the beginning of years, there came to the making of man Grief
with her gift of tears, and Time with her glass that ran...

and, equally lovely:

From too much love of living, from hope and fear set free, We thank with
brief thanksgiving whatever gods may be That no life lives forever; that
dead men rise up never; That even the weariest river winds somewhere
safe to sea...

The verses brought her beautiful, stirring thoughts to weave into verses
of her own when she should find a quiet hour in the summerhouse; or to
incorporate into soul-soothing improvisings at the piano.

Next morning, after her hour's stint at finger exercises, she improvised
and it went beautifully. She knew it was a success both because of her
exalted feelings and because Poppy meowed out in discordant disapproval
only once; the rest of the time Poppy purred as appreciatively as for
"The Maiden's Prayer." Dear Poppy! Missy felt suddenly contrite for her
defection from faithful Poppy. And Poppy was getting old--Aunt Nettie
said she'd already lived much longer than most cats. She m