Later, too, up in her room, slowly undressing in the moonlight, she
let herself yield to the sweeter spell. She loved her room,
especially when but dimly lit by soft white strips of the moon
through the window. She loved the dotted Swiss curtains blowing, and
the white-valanced little bed, and the white-valanced little
dressing-table all dim and misty save where a broad shaft of light
gave a divine patch of illumination to undress by. She said her
prayers on her knees by the window, where she could keep open but
unsacrilegious eyes on God's handiwork outside--the divine miracle
of everyday things transformed into shimmering glory.

A soft brushing against her ankles told her that Poppylinda, her
cat, had come to say good night. She lifted her pet up to the sill.

"See the beautiful night, Poppy," she said. "See!--it's just like a
great, soft, lovely, blue-silver bed!"

Poppy gave a gentle purr of acquiescence. Missy was sure it was
acquiescence. She was convinced that Poppy had a fine, appreciative,
discriminating mind. Aunt Nettie scouted at this; she denied that
she disliked Poppy, but said she "liked cats in their place." Missy
knew this meant, of course, that inwardly she loathed cats; that she
regarded them merely as something which musses up counterpanes and
keeps outlandish hours. Aunt Nettie was perpetually finding fault
with Poppy; but Missy had noted that Aunt Nettie and all the others
who emphasized Poppy's imperfections were people whom Poppy, in her
turn, for some reason could not endure. This point she tried to make
once when Poppy had been convicted of a felonious scratch, but of
course the grown-ups couldn't follow her reasoning. Long since she'd