forsook the moonlit vista and crept into bed.

The next morning she overslept. Perhaps it was because she wasn't in
her own little east room at home, where the sun and Poppy, her cat,
vied to waken her; or perhaps because it had turned intensely hot
and sultry during the night--the air seemed to glue down her eyelids
so as to make waking up all the harder.

It was Sunday, and, when she finally got dressed and downstairs, the
house was still unusually quiet. But she found Uncle Charlie in his
"den" with the papers. He said Aunt Isabel was staying in bed with a
headache; and he himself hobbled into the dining room with Missy,
and sat with her while the maid (Aunt Isabel called her hired girl a
"maid") gave her breakfast.

Uncle Charlie seemed cheerful despite his--his trouble. And
everything seemed so peaceful and beautiful that Missy could hardly
realize that ever Tragedy might come to this house. Somewhere in the
distance church bells were tranquilly sounding. Out in the kitchen
could be heard the ordinary clatter of dishes. And in the dining
room it was very, very sweet. The sun filtered through the gently
swaying curtains, touching vividly the sweet peas on the breakfast-
table. The sweet peas were arranged to stand upright in a round,
shallow bowl, just as if they were growing up out of a little pool--
a marvellously artistic effect. The china was very artistic, too,
Japanese, with curious-looking dragons in soft old-blue. And, after
the orange, she had a finger-bowl with a little sprig of rose-
geranium she could crunch between her fingers till it sent out a
heavenly odour. It was just like Aunt Isabel to have rose-geranium
in her finger-bowls!