As soon as her routine of duties was finished she gained permission
to go to the Library. As she walked slowly, musingly, down Maple
Avenue, her emotions were fallow ground for every touch of Nature:
the slick greensward of all the lawns, glistening under the torrid
azure of the great arched sky, made walking along the shady sidewalk
inexpressibly sweet; the many-hued flowers in all the flowerbeds
seemed to sing out their vying colours; the strong hard wind passed
almost visible fingers through the thick, rustling mane of the
trees. Oh, she hoped she would find the right kind of book!

Mother, back on the porch, looked up from her sewing to watch the
disappearing figure, and smiled.

"We have our little girl back again," she observed to Aunt Nettie.

"I wish that O'Neill girl'd move away," Aunt Nettie said. "Missy's a
regular chameleon."

It's a pity Missy couldn't hear her new classification; it would
have interested her tremendously; she was always interested in the
perplexing vagaries of her own nature. However, at the Library, she
was quite happy: for she found two books, each the right kind,
though different. One was called "Famous Heroines of Medieval
Legend." They all had names of strange beauty and splendour--
Guinevere--Elaine--Vivien--names which softly rustled in syllables
of silken brocade. The other book was no less satisfying. It was a
book of poems--wonderful poems, by a man named Swinburne--lilting,
haunting things of beauty which washed through her soul like the
waves of a sun-bejewelled sea. She read the choicest verses over and
over till she knew them by heart: