there, dying of shame, till she did die of shame--yet the sudden
solution of her dilemma made her feel in another way absurd.

But there was little room for such a paltry emotion as absurdity.
Rev. MacGill volunteered to deliver Gypsy to her stall--oh, he was
wonderful, though she almost wished he'd have to leave town
unexpectedly; she didn't see how she'd ever face him again--but she
knew there was a reckoning waiting at home.

It was a painful and unforgettable scene. Mother had heard already;
father had telephoned from the office. Missy supposed all Cherryvale
was telephoning but she deferred thoughts of her wider disgrace; at
present mother was enough. Mother was fearfully angry--Missy knew
she would never understand. She said harsher things than she'd ever
said before. Making such a spectacle of herself!--her own daughter,
whom she'd tried to train to be a lady! This feature of the
situation seemed to stir mother almost more violently than the
flagrant disobedience.

"It's all that O'Neill girl," said Aunt Nettie. "Ever since she came
here to live, Missy's been up to just one craziness after another."

Mother looked out the window and sighed. Missy was suddenly
conscious that she loved her mother very much; despite the fact that
mother had just said harsh things, that she was going to punish her,
that she never understood. A longing welled up in her to fling her
arms round mother's neck and assure her that she never MEANT to be a
spectacle, that she had only--

But what was the use of trying to explain? Mother wouldn't