prayer was said, she stayed
awhile on her knees and put the whole of her seething dilemma before
God. "Dear God," she said, "you know how unhappy Miss Princess is and
young Doc, too. Please make them both happy, God. And please help me not
feel sorry about the Pink Dress. For I just can't help feeling sorry.
Please help us all, dear God, and I'll be such a good girl, God."

Perhaps it is the biggest gift in the world, to be able to pray. And, by
prayer, is not meant the saying over of a formal code, but the simple,
direct speaking with God. It is so simple in the doing, so marvellous
in its reaction, that the strange thing is that it is not more generally
practiced. But there is where the gift comes in: a supreme essence
of spirit which must, if the prayer is to achieve its end, be first
possessed-a thing possessed by all children not yet quite rid of the
glamour of immortality and by some, older, who contrive to hold enough
glamour to be as children throughout life. Some call this thing Faith,
but there are other names just as good; and the essence lives on
forever.

These reflections are not Missy's. She knelt there, without
consciousness of any motive or analysis. She only knew she was telling
it all to God. And presently, in her heart, in whispers fainter than
the stir of the slumbering leaves outside, she heard His answer. God had
heard; she knew it by the peace He laid upon her tumultuous heart.

Steeped in faith, she fell asleep. But not a dreamless sleep. Missy
always dreamed, these nights: wonderful dreams--magical, splendid,
sometimes vaguely terrifying, often remotely tied up with some event
of the day, but always wonderful. And the last dream she dreamed, this
eventful night, was marvellous indeed. For it was a replica of the one
she had dreamed the night before.

It was an omen of divine portent. No one could have doubted it. Missy,
waking from its subtle glamour to the full sunlight streaming across
her pillow, hugged Poppylinda, crooned over her and, though preparing to
sacrifice that golden something whose prospect had gilded her life, sang
her way through the duties of her toilet.

That accomplished, she lifted out her Poem, and wrote at the bottom:
"Your true friend, MELISSA M."

Then she tucked the two sheets in her blouse, and scrambled downstairs
to be chided again for not eating her breakfast.

After the last spoonful, obligatory and arduous, had been disposed of,
she loitered near the hal