Presently into this Elysium floated her mother's voice, summoning
her to the house. Rounding the corner of the back walk with the
perambulator, she collided with the grocer-boy. He was a nice-
mannered boy, picking up the Anthology and Baby's doll from the
ground, and handing them to her with a charming smile. Besides, he
had very bright, sparkling eyes. Missy fancied he must be some lost
Prince, and inwardly resolved to make up, as soon as alone, a story
to this effect.

In the house, mother told her it was time to go to Miss Martin's to
try on the Pink Dress.

Down the street, she encountered Mr. Hackett, the rich bridegroom
come out of the East, a striking figure, on that quiet street, in
the natty white flannels suggesting Cleveland, Atlantic City, and
other foreign places.

"Well, if here isn't Sappho!" he greeted her gaily. Missy blushed.
Not for worlds had she suspected he was hearing her, that unlucky
morning in the grape-arbour, when she recited her latest Poem to
Miss Princess. Now she smiled perfunctorily, and started to pass
him.

But Mr. Hackett, swinging his stick, stood with his feet wide apart
and looked down at her.

"How's the priestess of song, this fine morning?" he persisted.

"All-right," stammered Missy.