express her emotion. She opened her mouth, so as to expose
completely her tiny red tongue, and then, without lingual endeavour,
began to hum a gentle, crooning rumble down somewhere near her
stomach. Yes; Poppy was happy.

The spirit of thanksgiving glamorously enwrapped these two all the
time Missy was dressing. Like the efficient big girl of twelve that
she was, Missy drew her own bath and, later, braided her own hair
neatly. As she tied the ribbons on those braids, now crossed in a
"coronet" over her head, she gave the ghost of a sigh. This morning
she didn't want to wear her every-day bows; but dutifully she tied
them on, a big brown cabbage above each ear. When she had scrambled
into her checked gingham "sailor suit," all spick and span, Missy
stood eying herself in the mirror for a wistful moment, wishing her
tight braids might metamorphose into lovely, hanging curls like
Kitty Allen's. They come often to a "strange child"--these moments
of vague longing to overhear one's self termed a "pretty child"--
especially on the eve of an important occasion.

But thoughts of that important occasion speedily chased away
consciousness of self. And downstairs in the cheerful dining room,
with the family all gathered round the table, Missy, her cheeks
glowing pink and her big grey eyes ashine, found it difficult to eat
her oatmeal, for very rapture. In the bay window, the geraniums on
the sill nodded their great, biossomy heads at her knowingly.
Beyond, the big maple was stirring its leaves, silver side up, like
music in the breeze. Away across the yard, somewhere, Jeff was
making those busy, restful sounds with the lawn-mower. These
alluring things, and others stretching out to vast mental distances,
quite deadened, for Missy, the family's talk close at hand.