brandishing boughs, to the summerhouse so like something in a
picture. And, as her soul stretched out to the beauty and grandeur
and mystery of it all, there came over her a feeling of indefinable
ecstasy, a vague, keen yearning to be really good in every way. Good
to her Lord, to her father and mother and Aunt Nettie and little
brother, to the Reverend MacGill with his fascinating smile and good
works, to everybody--the whole town--the whole world. Even to
Genevieve Hicks, though she seemed so self-satisfied with her white
fox furs and giggling ways and utter worldliness--yet, there were
many things likeable about Genevieve if you didn't let yourself get
prejudiced. And Missy didn't ever want to let herself get
prejudiced--narrow and harsh and bigoted like so many Christians.
No; she wanted to be a sweet, loving, generous, helpful kind of
Christian. And to Arthur, too, of course. There must be SOME way of
helping Arthur.

She found herself, half-pondering, half-praying:

"How can I help Arthur, dear Jesus? Please help

me find some way--so that he won't go on being light-minded and
liking light-mindedness. How can I save him from his ways--maybe he
IS dissipated. Maybe he smokes cigarettes! Why does he fall for
light-mindedness? Why doesn't he feel the real beauty of services?--
the rumbling throb of the organ, and the thrill of hearing your own
voice singing sublime hymns, and the inspired swell of Reverend
MacGill's voice when he prays with such expression? It is real
ecstasy when you get the right kind of feeling--you're almost
willing to renounce earthly vanities. But Arthur doesn't realize
what it MEANS. How can I show him, dear Jesus? Because they've