suddenly wretched; he was even worse than mother.

"Who is he, anyway?" he exploded further.

Missy's lips were twitching inexplicably; she feared to essay
speech, but it was mother who answered.

"He's that red-headed boy who clerks in Pieker's grocery."

"Arthur's a nice boy," Missy then attempted courageously. "I don't
think he ought to be blamed just because he's poor and--"

Her defence ended ignominiously in a choking sound. She wasn't one
who cried easily and this unexpected outburst amazed herself; she
could not, to have saved her life, have told why she cried.

Her father reached over and patted her hand.

"I'm not blaming him because he's poor, daughter. It's just that I
don't want you to start thinking about the boys for a long while
yet. Not about Arthur or any other boy. You're just a little girl."

Missy knew very well that she was not "just a little girl," but she
knew, too, that parents nourish many absurd ideas. And though father
was now absurd, she couldn't help feeling tender toward him when he
called her "daughter" in that gentle tone. So, sighing a secret
little sigh, she smiled back at him a misty smile which he took for
comprehension and a promise. The subject of white fox furs seemed
closed; Missy was reluctant to re-open it because, in some
intangible way, it seemed bound up with the rather awkward subject