sheets; the sound of the brass band practicing at night, blaring but
unspeakably sad through the distance; the divine mystery of faint-
tinted rainbows; trees in moonlight turned into great drifts of
fairy-white blossoms.

And she loved shining ripples of golden hair; and great blue eyes
that laughed in a sidewise glance and then turned softly pensive in
a second; and a sweet high voice now vivacious and now falling into
hushed cadences; and delicate white hands always restlessly
fluttering; and, a drifting, elusive fragrance, as of wind-swept
petals. . .

All of which meant that she loved Aunt Isabel very much; especially
in the frilly, pastel-flowered organdy she was wearing to-day--an
"extravagant" dress, doubtless, but lovely enough to justify that.
Naturally such a person as Aunt Isabel would make her home a
beautiful place. It was a "bungalow." Missy had often regretted that
her own home had been built before the vogue of the bungalow. And
now, when she beheld Aunt Isabel's enchanting house, the solid,
substantial furnishings left behind in Cherryvale lost all their
savour for her, even the old-fashioned "quaintness" of grandma's
house.

For Aunt Isabel's house was what Pleasanton termed "artistic." It
had white-painted woodwork, and built-in bookshelves instead of
ordinary bookcases, and lots of window-seats, and chintz draperies
which trailed flowers or birds or peacocks, which were like a
combination of both, and big wicker chairs with deep cushions--all
very bright and cosy and beautiful. In the living-room were some
Chinese embroideries which Missy liked, especially when the sun came