from mother, she excused herself to answer it. From outside the door
she heard father's friend say: "What beautiful eyes!" Could he be
speaking of her?

The evening, as the afternoon had been, was divine. When Missy was
getting ready for bed she leaned out of the window to look at the
night, and the fabric of her soul seemed to stretch out and mingle
with all that dark, luminous loveliness. It seemed that she herself
was a part of the silver moon high up there, a part of the white,
shining radiance which spread down and over leaves and grass
everywhere. The strong, damp scent of the ramblers on the porch
seemed to be her own fragrant breath, and the black shadows pointing
out from the pine trees were her own blots of sadness--sadness vague
and mysterious, with more of pleasure in it than pain.

She could hardly bear to leave this mysterious, fascinating night;
to leave off thinking the big, vague thoughts the night always
called forth; but she had to light the gas and set about the
business of undressing.

But, first, she paused to gaze at herself in the looking-glass. For
the millionth time she wished she were pretty like Kitty Allen. And
Kitty would wear her pink dotted mull to the party. Missy sighed.

Then meditatively she unbraided her long, mouse-coloured braids;
twisted them into tentative loops over her ears; earnestly studied
the effect. No; her hair was too straight and heavy. She tried to
imagine undulating waves across her forehead-if only mother would
let her use crimpers! Perhaps she would! And then, perhaps, she
wouldn't look so plain. She wished she were not so plain; the