e there
seemed to be something wrong with Mr. Hackett--even though everybody
did talk about what a wonderful match he was. Then they talked about
invitations and things as though old Mrs. Greenleaf thought those things
counted for more than the bridegroom. Old Mrs. Greenleaf, Missy was
sure, loved Miss Princess better than anything else in the world: then
how could she, even if she was "proud," twist things so foolishly?

She had brought with her the blue-bound Anthology and a writing-pad and
pencil. First she read a little--"Lochinvar" it was she opened to. Then
she meditated. Poor Young Doc! The whole unhappy situation was like
poetry. (So much in life she was finding, these days, like poetry.) This
would make a very sad, but effective poem: the faithful, unhappy lover,
the lovely, unhappy bride, the mother keeping them asunder who, though
stern, was herself unhappy, and the craven bridegroom who--she hoped it,
anyway!--was unhappy also.

In all this unhappiness, though she didn't suspect it, Missy revelled--a
peculiar kind of melancholy tuned to the golden day. She detected a
subtle restlessness in the shimmering leaves about her; the scent of
the June roses caught at something elusively sad in her. Without knowing
why, her eyes filled with tears.

She drew the writing-pad to her; conjured the vision of nice Doc and of
Miss Princess, and, immersed in a sea of feeling, sought for words and
rhyme:

O, young Doctor Al is the pride of the West, Than big flashy autos his
Ford is the best; Ah! courtly that lover and faithful and true. And
fair, wondrous fair, the maiden was, too. But O--dire the day! when from
Cleveland afar--

A long pause here: "car," "scar," "jar,"--all tried and discarded.
Finally sense, rhyme and meter were attuned:

--afar, A dastard she met, their sweet idyl to mar.

He won her away with his glitter and plume And citified ways, while the
lover did fume. O, fair dawned the Wedding Day, pink in the East,
And folk from all quarters did come for the feast; Gay banners from
turrets--

"Missy!"

The poet, head bent, absorbed in creation, did not hear.

"Missy! Where are you? Me-lis-sa!"

This time the voice cleaved into the mood of inspiration. With a sigh
Missy put the pad and pencil in the Anthology, laid the whole on the
bench, and obediently went to mind the Baby. But, as she wheeled the
perambulator up and down the front walk, her mind liltingly repeated the
words she had written