to spin out its whole time in such a gossamer, irradiant sheen as
this--a sort of moon-haunted night-without-end, keeping you tingling
with beautiful, blurred, indescribable feelings.

But to-night, for the first time, Missy felt skeptical as to that
earlier desire. She still found the night beautiful--oh,
inexpressibly beautiful!--but moonlight nights were what made lovers
want to look into each other's eyes, and sing each other love songs
"with expression." To be sure, she had formerly considered this very
tendency an elysian feature of such nights; but that was when she
thought that love always was right for its own sake, that true
lovers never should be thwarted. She still held by that belief; and
yet--she visioned Uncle Charlie, dear Uncle Charlie, so fond of
buying Aunt Isabel extravagant organdies and slippers to match; so
like grandpa and father--and King Mark!

Missy had always hated King Mark, the lawful husband, the enemy of
true love. But Romance gets terribly complicated when it threatens
to leave the Middle Ages, pop right in on you when you are visiting
in Pleasanton; and when the lawful husband is your own Uncle
Charlie--poor Uncle Charlie!--lying in there suffering with his
broken--well there was no denying it was his big toe.

Missy didn't know that her eyes had filled--tears sometimes came so
unexpectedly nowadays--till a big drop splashed down on her hand.

She felt very, very sad. Often she didn't mind being sad. Sometimes
she even enjoyed it in a peculiar way on moonlit nights; found a
certain pleasant poignancy of exaltation in the feeling. But there
are different kinds of sadness. To-night she didn't like it. She