ll come to
her in time. Missy believed in Inspiration. Mother did not.

Mother had worried all through the four years of her daughter's high
school career--over "grades" or "exams" or "themes" or whatnot. She
had fretted and urged and made Missy get up early to study; had even
punished her. And, now, she was sure Missy would let time slide by and
never get the Valedictory written on time. The two had already "had
words" over it. Mother was dear and tender and sweet, and Missy would
rather have her for mother than any other woman in Cherryvale, but now
and then she was to be feared somewhat.

Sometimes she would utter an ugly, upsetting phrase:

"How can you dilly-dally so, Missy? You put everything off!--put
off--put off! Now, go and try to get that thesis started!"

There was nothing for Missy to do but go and try to obey. She
took tablet and pencil out to the summerhouse, where it was always
inspiringly quiet and beautiful; she also took along the big blue-bound
Anthology from the living-room table--an oft-tapped fount; but even
reading poetry didn't seem able to lift her to the creative mood. And
you have to be in the mood before you can create, don't you? Missy felt
this necessity vaguely but strongly; but she couldn't get it across to
mother.

And even worse than mother's reproaches was when father finally gave her
a "talking to"; father was a big, wise, but usually silent man, so that
when he did speak his words seemed to carry a double force. Missy's
young friends were apt to show a little awe of father, but she knew he
was enormously kind and sympathetic. Long ago--oh, years before--when
she was a little girl, she used to find it easier to talk to him than
to most grown-ups; about all kinds of unusual things--the strange,
mysterious, fascinating thoughts that come to one. But lately, for some
reason, she had felt more shy with father. There was much she feared he
mightn't understand--or, perhaps, she feared he might understand.

So, in this rather unsympathetic domestic environment, the class
Valedictorian, with the kindling of her soul all laid, so to speak,
uneasily awaited the divine spark. It was hard to maintain an easy
assumption that all was well; especially after the affair of the hats
got under way.

Late in April Miss Ackerman, the Domestic Science teacher, had organized
a special night class in millinery which met, in turns, at the homes of
the various members. The girls got no "credit" for th