first. She was just walking along,
in time to that inner song:

"Cosmos--cosmos--cosmos--cosmos--"

And then she noticed she was walking with even, regular steps, stepping
on every third crack in the board sidewalk, and that each of these
cracks she stepped on ran, like a long punctuation, right through the
middle of "cosmos." So that she saw in her mind this picture: |Cos|mos|
|cos|mos| |cos|mos| |cos|mos|

It was fascinating, watching the third cracks punctuate her thoughts
that way. Then it came to her that it was a childish sort of game--she
was seventeen, now. So she avoided watching the cracks. But "Cosmos"
went on singing through her head and soul.

She came to Main Street and, ignoring the turn eastward which led to the
Public Library, faced deliberately in the opposite direction.

She was, in fact, bound for the office of the Beacon--the local weekly.
And thoughts of what tremendous possibilities might be stretching out
from this very hour, and of what she would say to Ed Martin, the editor,
made her feet now skim along impatiently, and now slow down with sudden,
self-conscious shyness.

For Missy, even when there was no steadily nearing imminence of having
to reveal her soul, on general principles was a little in awe of Ed
Martin and his genial ironies. Ed Martin was not only a local celebrity.
His articles were published in the big Eastern magazines. He went "back
East" once a year, and it was said that on one occasion he had dined
with the President himself. Of course that was only a rumour; but
Cherryvale had its own eyes for witness that certain persons had stopped
off in town expressly to see Ed Martin--personages whose names made you
take notice!

Missy, her feet terribly reluctant now, her soul's song barely a
whisper, found Ed Martin shirt-sleeved in his littered little sanctum at
the back of the Beacon office.

"Why, hello, Missy!" he greeted, swinging round leisurely in his
revolving-chair. Ed Martin was always so leisurely in his movements that
the marvel was how he got so much accomplished. Local dignitaries of the
most admired kind, perhaps, wear their distinction as a kind of toga;
but Ed was plump and short, with his scant, fair hair always rumpled,
and a manner as friendly as a child's.

"Haven't got another Valedictory for us to print, have you?" he went on
genially.

Missy blushed. "I just dropped in for a minute," she began uneasily. "I
was just thinking--" She hesitated and pa