the one she had dreamed the night before.

It was an omen of divine portent. No one could have doubted it.
Missy, waking from its subtle glamour to the full sunlight streaming
across her pillow, hugged Poppylinda, crooned over her and, though
preparing to sacrifice that golden something whose prospect had
gilded her life, sang her way through the duties of her toilet.

That accomplished, she lifted out her Poem, and wrote at the bottom:
"Your true friend, MELISSA M."

Then she tucked the two sheets in her blouse, and scrambled
downstairs to be chided again for not eating her breakfast.

After the last spoonful, obligatory and arduous, had been disposed
of, she loitered near the hall telephone until there was a clear
field, then called Young Doc's number. What a relief to find he had
not yet gone out! Could he stop by her house, pretty soon? Why, what
was the matter--Doc's voice was alarmed--someone sick?

"No, but it's something very important, Doc."

Missy's manner was hurried and impressive.

"Won't it wait?"

"It's terribly important."

"What is it? Can't you tell me now, Missy?"