church steeple, and things like that. Now and then he caught Missy's
eye, but his expression for her was exactly the same as for the
others--no one could suspect there was any secret between them. He
WAS a good sport!

Once a shadow passed outside the window. Gypsy! Missy saw that he
saw, and, as his glance came back to rest upon herself, for a second
her heart surged. But something in his eyes--she couldn't define
exactly what it was save that it was neither censorious nor
quizzical--subtly gave her reassurance. It was as if he had told her
in so many words that everything was all right, for her not to worry
the least little bit. All of a sudden she felt blissfully at peace.
She smiled at him for no reason at all, and he smiled back--a nice,
not at all amused kind of smile. Oh, he was a perfect brick! And
what glorious eyes he had! And that fascinating habit of flinging
his hair back with a quick toss of the head. How gracefully he used
his hands. And what lovely, distinguished table manners--she must
practice that trick of lifting your napkin, delicately and swiftly,
so as to barely touch your lips. She ate her own food in a kind of
trance, unaware of what she was eating; yet it was like eating
supper in heaven.

And then, at the very end, something terrible happened. Marguerite
had brought in the pie'ce de re'sistance, the climactic dish toward
which mother had built the whole meal--the deep-dish peach pie,
sugar-coated, fragrant and savory--and placed it on the serving-
table near the open window. There was a bit, of wire loose at the
lower end of the screen, and, in the one second Marguerite's back
was turned--just one second, but just long enough--Missy saw a
velvety nose fumble with the loose wire, saw a sleek neck wedge