from her errand to turn about for a run up "The Boulevard," Missy
acquiesced. She regretted she hadn't worn her shirred mull hat. But
she decided not to worry about that. After all, her appearance, at
the present moment, didn't so much matter. What did matter was the
way she was going to look next Wednesday--and she excitedly began
telling young Doc about her coming magnificence, "It's silk
organdie," she said in a reverent tone, "and has garlands of
rosebuds." She went on and told him of the big leghorn hat to be
filled with flowers, of the Pink Stockings--best of all, silk!--
waiting, in tissue-paper, in the high-boy drawer.

"Oh, I can hardly wait!" she concluded rapturously.

Young Doc, guiding the car around the street-sprinkling wagon, did
not answer. Beyond the wagon, Mr. Hackett, whom the Ford had
overtaken, was swinging along. Missy turned to young Doc with a
slight grimace.

"'The poor craven bridegroom said never a word,'" she quoted.

Young Doc permitted himself to smile--not too much. "Why don't you
like him, Missy?"

Missy shook her head, without other reply. It would have been
difficult for her to express why she didn't like stylish Mr.
Hackett.

"I wish," she said suddenly, "that you were going to be the
bridegroom, Doc."