ling!"

Poppy was stirred to such depths that mere eye-blinking could not
express her emotion. She opened her mouth, so as to expose completely
her tiny red tongue, and then, without lingual endeavour, began to hum a
gentle, crooning rumble down somewhere near her stomach. Yes; Poppy was
happy.

The spirit of thanksgiving glamorously enwrapped these two all the time
Missy was dressing. Like the efficient big girl of twelve that she was,
Missy drew her own bath and, later, braided her own hair neatly. As she
tied the ribbons on those braids, now crossed in a "coronet" over her
head, she gave the ghost of a sigh. This morning she didn't want to wear
her every-day bows; but dutifully she tied them on, a big brown cabbage
above each ear. When she had scrambled into her checked gingham "sailor
suit," all spick and span, Missy stood eying herself in the mirror for a
wistful moment, wishing her tight braids might metamorphose into
lovely, hanging curls like Kitty Allen's. They come often to a "strange
child"--these moments of vague longing to overhear one's self termed a
"pretty child"--especially on the eve of an important occasion.

But thoughts of that important occasion speedily chased away
consciousness of self. And downstairs in the cheerful dining room, with
the family all gathered round the table, Missy, her cheeks glowing pink
and her big grey eyes ashine, found it difficult to eat her oatmeal, for
very rapture. In the bay window, the geraniums on the sill nodded
their great, biossomy heads at her knowingly. Beyond, the big maple
was stirring its leaves, silver side up, like music in the breeze. Away
across the yard, somewhere, Jeff was making those busy, restful sounds
with the lawn-mower. These alluring things, and others stretching out
to vast mental distances, quite deadened, for Missy, the family's talk
close at hand.

"When I ran over to the Greenleaf's to borrow the sugar," Aunt Nettie
was saying, "May White was there, and she and Helen hurried out of the
dining room when they saw me. I'm sure they'd been crying, and--"

"S-sh!" warned Mrs. Merriam, with a glance toward Missy. Then, in a
louder tone: "Eat your cereal, Missy. Why are you letting it get cold?"

Missy brought her eyes back from space with an answering smile. "I was
thinking," she explained.

"What of, Missy?" This, encouragingly, from father.

"Oh, my dream, last night."

"What did you dream about?"

"Oh--mountains," replied Missy, som