ining-table, there were no embarrassing
comments, and she was left alone with her thrills and puzzlements.

Among the books were Stevenson's "Some Technical Considerations of
Style," George Eliot's "Romola" and Carlyle's "Sartor Resartus"; the
latter two being of the kind that especially lifted you to a mood of
aching to express things beautifully. Missy liked books that lifted you
up. She loved the long-drawn introspections of George Eliot and Augusta
J. Evans; the tender whimsy of Barrie as she'd met him through "Margaret
Ogilvie" and "Sentimental Tommy"; the fascinating mysteries of Marie
Corelli; the colourful appeal of "To Have and To Hold" and the other
"historical romances" which were having a vogue in that era; and
Kipling's India!--that was almost best of all. She had outgrown most
of her earlier loves--Miss Alcott whom she'd once known intimately, and
"Little Lord Fauntleroy" and "The Birds' Christmas Carol" had survived,
too, her brief illicit passion for the exotic product of "The Duchess."
And she didn't respond keenly to many of the "best sellers" which were
then in their spectacular, flamboyantly advertised heyday; somehow
they failed to stimulate the mind, stir the imagination, excite the
emotions--didn't lift you up. Yet she could find plenty of books in the
Library which satisfied.

Now she sat, reading the introspections of "Romola" till she felt her
own soul stretching out--up and beyond the gas table-lamp glowing there
in such lovely serenity through its gold-glass shade; felt it aching to
express something, she knew not what.

Some day, perhaps, after she had written intellectual essays about
Politics and such things, she might write about Life. About Life itself!
And the Cosmos!

Her chin sank to rest upon her palm. How beautiful were those pink roses
in their leaf-green bowl--like a soft piece of music or a gently
flowing poem. Maybe Mrs. Brooks would have floral decorations at her
bridge-party. She hoped so--then she could write a really satisfying
kind of paragraph--flowers were always so inspiring. Those pink petals
were just about to fall. Yet, somehow, that made them seem all the
lovelier. She could almost write a poem about that idea! Would Mr.
Martin mind if, now and then, she worked in a little verse or two? It
would make Society reporting more interesting. For, she had to admit,
Society Life in Cherryvale wasn't thrilling. Just lawn-festivals and
club meetings and picnics at the Wate