"Well," defended Missy, timid and puzzled, but wounded to unwonted
bravery, "isn't it proper to feel like that on the Sabbath?"

Pete shouted again.

"Peter--stop that! You should be ashamed of yourself!" It was his
grandfather this time. Grandpa moved over to the piano and removed
the rag-time from off the hymnal, pausing to pat Missy on the head.

But Peter was not the age to be easily squelched.

"What does it feel like, Missy--the religious feeling?"

Missy, her eyes bright behind their blur, didn't answer. Indeed, she
could not have defined that sweetly sad glow, now so cruelly
crushed, even had she wanted to.

Missy didn't enjoy her dinner as much as she usually did the midday
Sunday feasts when grandpa and grandma came to eat with them. She
felt embarrassed and shy. Of course she had to answer when asked why
she wasn't eating her drumstick, and whether the green apples in
grandma's orchard had given her an "upset," and other direct
questions; but when she could, she kept silent. She was glad Pete
didn't talk to her much. Yet, now and then, she caught his eyes upon
her in a look of sardonic enquiry, and quickly averted her own.

Her unhappiness lasted till the visitors had departed. Then, after
aimlessly wandering about, she took her Holy Bible out to the
summerhouse. She was contemplating a surprise for grandpa and