summerhouse, she took a book up to her own room. It was a book of
poems from the Public Library.

The first poem she opened to was one of the most marvellous things
she had ever read--almost as wonderful as "The Blessed Damozel." She
was glad she had chanced upon it on a rainy day, and when she felt
like this. It was called "A Birthday," and it went:

My heart is like a singing bird Whose nest is in a watered shoot; My
heart is like an apple tree Whose boughs are bent with thickset
fruit; My heart is like a rainbow shell That paddles in a halcyon
sea; My heart is gladder than all these, Because my love is come to
me.

Raise me a dais of silk and down; Hang it with vair and purple dyes;
Carve it with doves and pomegranates, And peacocks with a hundred
eyes; Work in it gold and silver grapes, In leaves and silver
fleurs-de-lys, Because the birthday of my life Is come; my love is
come to me.

The poem expressed beautifully what she might have answered when
Aunt Nettie asked why she smiled. Only, even though she herself
could have expressed it so beautifully then, it was not the kind of
answer you'd dream of making to Aunt Nettie.

Thp next morning Missy awoke to find the rain gone and warm, golden
sunshine filtering through the lace curtains. She dressed herself
quickly, while the sunshine smiled and watched her toilet. After
breakfast, at the piano, her fingers found the scales tiresome. Of
themselves they wandered off into unexpected rhythms which seemed to