That evening at the supper-table marked the beginning of a phase in
Missy's life which was to cause her family bewilderment, secret
surmise, amusement and some anxiety.

During the meal she talked very little. She had learned long ago to
keep her thoughts to herself, because old people seldom understand
you. Often they ask embarrassing questions and, even if they don't
laugh at you, you have the feeling they may be laughing inside. Her
present thoughts were so delectable and engrossing that Missy did
not always hear when she was spoken to. Toward the end of the meal,
just as she caught herself in the nick of time about to pour vinegar
instead of cream over her berries, mother said:

"Well, Missy, what's the day-dream this time?"

Missy felt her cheeks "crimson with confusion." Yesterday, at such a
question, she would have made an evasive answer; but now, so much
was she one with the charming creature of her thoughts, she forgot
to be cautious. She cast her mother a pensive glance from her great
grey eyes.

"I don't know--I just feel sort of triste."

"Tristy?" repeated her astonished parent, using Missy's
pronunciation. "Yes--sad, you know."

"My goodness! What makes you sad?"

But Missy couldn't answer that. Unexpected questions often bring
unexpected answers, and not till after she'd made use of the