her father, though Missy did not
know it) connected Missy's eloquent handling of this subject with the
fleeting appearance in Cherryvale of one Ridgeley Holman Dobson. Dobson
had given a "Lyceum Course" lecture in the Opera House, but Missy
remembered him not because of what he lectured about, nor because he was
an outstanding hero of the recent Spanish-American war, nor even because
of the scandalous way his women auditors, sometimes, rushed up and
kissed him. No. She remembered him because... Oh, well, it would have
been hard to explain concretely, even to herself; but that one second,
when she was taking her turn shaking hands with him after the lecture,
there was something in his dark bright eyes as they looked deeply into
her own, something that made her wish--made her wish--

It was all very vague, very indefinite. If only Cherryvale afforded a
chance to know people like Ridgeley Holman Dobson! Unprosaic people,
really interesting people. People who had travelled in far lands; who
had seen unusual sights, plumbed the world's possibilities, done heroic
deeds, laid hands on large affairs.

But what chance for this in poky Cherryvale?

This tranquil June morning, as Missy sat in the summerhouse with the
latest Ladies' Home Messenger in her lap, the dissatisfied feeling had
got deeper hold of her than usual. It was not acute discontent--the
kind that sticks into you like a sharp splinter; it was something more
subtle; a kind of dull hopelessness all over you. The feeling was not
at all in accord with the scene around her. For the sun was shining
gloriously; Locust Avenue lay wonderfully serene under the sunlight;
the iceman's horses were pulling their enormous wagon as if it were not
heavy; the big, perspiring iceman whistled as if those huge, dripping
blocks were featherweight; and, in like manner, everybody passing along
the street seemed contented and happy. Missy could remember the time
when such a morning as this, such a scene of peaceful beauty, would have
made her feel contented, too.

Now she sighed, and cast a furtive glance through the leafage toward the
house, a glance which reflected an inner uneasiness because she feared
her mother might discover she hadn't dusted the parlours; mother
would accuse her of "dawdling." Sighing again for grown-ups who seldom
understand, Missy turned to the Messenger in her lap.

Here was a double-page of "Women Who Are Achieving"--the reason for the
periodical's presenc