per se, that irritated; it was the fact that her old-fogyishness had
made her "call down" Missy--in front of the minister. Just as if
Missy were a child. Fifteen is not a child, to itself. And it can
rankle and burn, when a pair of admired dark eyes are included in
the situation, just as torturesomely as can twice fifteen.

The Reverend MacGill was destined to play another unwitting part in
Missy's athletic drama which was so jumbled with ecstasies and
discomfitures. A few days later he was invited to the Merriams' for
supper. Missy heard of his coming with mingled emotions. Of course
she thrilled at the prospect of eating at the same table with him--
listening to a person at table, and watching him eat, gives you a
singular sense of intimacy. But there was that riding astride
episode. Would he, maybe, mention it and cause mother to ask
questions? Maybe not, for he was, as Tess had said, a "good sport."
But all the same he'd probably be thinking of it; if he should look
at her again with that amused twinkle, she felt she would die of
shame.

That afternoon she had been out on Gypsy and, chancing to ride by
home on her way back to the sanitarium barn, was hailed by her
mother.

"Missy! I want you to gather some peaches!"

"Well, I'll have to take Gypsy home first."

"No, you won't have time--it's after five already, and I want to
make a deep-dish peach pie. I hear Rev. MacGill's especially fond of
it. You can take Gypsy home after supper. Now hurry up!--I'm