silver-tinged air. You touch the clouds with your magic wand, and
from them fall shimmering jewels.

Missy was fourteen, going on fifteen, but she could still play being
a fairy.

But to-night, though the fairy path stretched invitingly to her very
bed, she did not ride out upon it. She shut her eyes, though she
felt wide-awake. She shut her eyes so as to see better the pictures
that came before them.

With her eyes shut she could see herself quite plainly at the party.
She looked like herself, only much prettier. Yes, and a little
older, perhaps. Her pink dotted mull was easily recognizable, though
it had taken on a certain ethereally chic quality--as if a rosy
cloud had been manipulated by French fingers. Her hair was a soft,
bright, curling triumph. And when she moved she was graceful as a
swaying flower stem.

As Missy watched this radiant being which was herself she could see
that she was as gracious and sweet-mannered as she was beautiful;
perhaps a bit dignified and reserved, but that is always fitting.

No wonder the other girls and the boys gathered round her,
captivated. All the boys were eager to dance with her, and when she
danced she reminded you of a swaying lily. Most often her partner
was Raymond himself. Raymond danced well too. And he was the
handsomest boy at his party. He had blonde hair and deep, soft black
eyes like his father, who was the handsomest as well as the richest
man in Cherryvale. And he liked her, for last year, their first year