Missy

CHAPTER III. LIKE A SINGING BIRD

She was fourteen, going on fifteen; and the world was a fascinating place. There were people who found Cherryvale a dull, poky little town to live in, but not Melissa. Not even in winter, when school and lessons took up so much time that it almost shut out reading and the wonderful dreams which reading is bound to bring you. Yet even school-especially high school the first year-was interesting. The more so when there was a teacher like Miss Smith, who looked too pretty to know so much about algebra and who was said to get a letter every day from a lieutenant-in the Philippines! Then there was ancient history, full of things fascinating enough to make up for algebra and physics. But even physics becomes suddenly thrilling at times. And always literature! Of course “grades” were bothersome, and sometimes you hated to show your monthly report to your parents, who seemed to set so much store by it; and sometimes you almost envied Beulah Crosswhite, who always got an A and who could ask questions which disconcerted even the teachers.

Yes, even school was interesting. However, summertime was best, although then you must practice your music lesson two hours instead of one a day, dust the sitting room, and mind the baby. But you could spend long, long hours in the summerhouse, reading poetry out of the big Anthology and-this a secret-writing poetry yourself! It was heavenly to write poetry. Something soft and warm seemed to ooze through your being as you sat out there and watched the sorrow of a drab, drab sky; or else, on a bright day, a big shining cloud aloft like some silver-gold fairy palace and, down below, the smell of warm, new-cut grass, and whispers of little live things everywhere! It was then that you felt you'd have died if you couldn't have written poetry!

It was on such a lilting day of June, and Melissa's whole being in tune with it, that she was called in to the midday dinner-and received the invitation.

Father had brought it from the post office and handed it to her with exaggerated solemnity. “For Miss Melissa Merriam,” he announced.

Yes! there was her name on the tiny envelope.

And, on the tiny card within, written in a painstaking, cramped hand:

Mr. Raymond Bonner At Home Wednesday June Tenth R.S.V.P. 8 P.M.

With her whole soul in her mouth, which made it quite impossible to speak, she passed the card to her mother and waited. “Oh,” said mother, “an evening party.”

Melissa's soul dropped a trifle: it still clogged her throat, but she was able to form words.

“Oh, mother!”

“You KNOW you're not to ask to go to evening parties, Missy.” Mother's tone was as firm as doom.

Missy turned her eyes to father.

“Don't look at me with those big saucers!” he smiled. “Mother's the judge.”

So Missy turned her eyes back again. “Mother, PLEASE-”

But mother shook her head. “You're too young to begin such things, Missy. I don't know what this town's coming to—mere babies running round at night, playing cards and dancing!”

“But, mother—”

“Don't start teasing, Missy. It won't do any good.”

So Missy didn't start teasing, but her soul remained choking in her throat. It made it difficult for her to swallow, and nothing tasted good, though they had lamb chops, which she adored.

“Eat your meat, Missy,” adjured mother. Missy tried to obey and felt that she was swallowing lumps of lead.

But in the afternoon everything miraculously changed. Kitty Allen and her mother came to call. Kitty was her chum, and lived in the next block, up the hill. Kitty was beautiful, with long curls which showed golden glints in the sun. She had a whim that she and Missy, sometimes, should have dresses made exactly alike-for instance, this summer, their best dresses of pink dotted mull. Missy tried to enjoy the whim with Kitty, but she couldn't help feeling sad at seeing how much prettier Kitty could look in the same dress. If only she had gold-threaded curls!

During the call the party at the Bonners' was mentioned. Mrs. Allen was going to “assist” Mrs. Bonner. She suggested that Missy might accompany Kitty and herself.

“I hadn't thought of letting Missy go,” said Mrs. Merriam. “She seems so young to start going out evenings that way.”

“I know just how you feel,” replied Mrs. Allen. “I feel just the same way. But as long as I've got to assist, I'm willing Kitty should go this time; and I thought you mightn't object to Missy's going along with us.”

“Oh, mother!” Missy's tone was a prayer.

And her mother, smiling toward her a charming, tolerant smile as if to say: “Well, what can one do in the face of those eyes?” finally assented.

After that the afternoon went rushing by on wings of joy. When the visitors departed Missy had many duties to perform, but they were not dull, ordinary duties; they were all tinted over with rainbow colours. She stemmed strawberries in the kitchen where Marguerite, the hired girl, was putting up fruit, and she loved the pinkish-red and grey-green of the berries against the deep yellow of the bowl. She loved, too, the colour of the geraniums against the green-painted sill just beside her. And the sunlight making leafwork brocade on the grass out the window! There were times when combinations of colour seemed the most beautiful thing in the world.

Then she had to mind the baby for a while, and she took him out on the side lawn and pretended to play croquet with him. The baby wasn't quite three, and it was delicious to see him, with mallet and ball before a wicket, trying to mimic the actions of his elders. Poppylinda, Missy's big black cat, wanted to play too, and succeeded in getting between the baby's legs and upsetting him. But the baby was under a charm; he only picked himself up and laughed. And Missy was sure that black Poppy also laughed.

That night at supper she didn't have much chance to talk to father about the big event, for he had brought an old friend home to supper. Missy was rather left out of the conversation. She felt glad for that; it is hard to talk to old people; it is hard to express to them the thoughts and feelings that possess you. Besides, to-night she didn't want to talk to anyone, nor to listen. She only wanted to sit immersed in that soft, warm, fluttering deliciousness.

Just as the meal was over the hall telephone rang and, at a sign 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 longing to be pretty made her fairly ache.

Then slowly the words of that man crept across her memory: “What beautiful eyes!” Could he have meant her? She stared at the eyes which stared back from the looking-glass till she had the odd sensation that they were something quite strange and Allen to her: big, dark, deep, and grave eyes, peering out from some unknown consciousness. And they were beautiful eyes!

Suddenly she was awakened from her dreams by a voice at the door: “Missy, why in the world haven't you gone to bed?”

Missy started and blushed as though discovered in mischief.

“What have you been doing with your hair?”

“Oh, just experimenting. Mother, may I have it crimped for the party?”

“I don't know—we'll see. Now hurry and jump into bed.”

After mother had kissed her good night and gone, and after the light had been turned out, Missy lay awake for a long time.

Through the lace window curtains shone the moonlight, a gleaming path along which Missy had often flown out to be a fairy. It is quite easy to be a fairy. You lie perfectly still, your arms stretched out like wings. Then you fix your eyes on the moonlight and imagine you feel your wings stir. And the first thing you know you feel yourself being wafted through the window, up through the 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 in high school, he used to study the Latin lesson with her and wait for her after school and carry her books home for her. He had done that although Kitty Allen was much prettier than she and though Beulah Crosswhite was much, much smarter. The other girls had teased her about him, and the boys must have teased Raymond, for after a while he had stopped walking home with her. She didn't know whether she was gladder or sorrier for that. But she knew that she was glad he did not ignore that radiant, pink-swathed guest who, in her beautiful vision, was having such a glorious time at his party.

Next morning she awoke to find a soft, misty rain greying the world outside her window. Missy did not mind that; she loved rainy days—they made you feel so pleasantly sad. For a time she lay quiet, watching the slant, silvery threads and feeling mysteriously, fascinatingly, at peace. Then Poppy, who always slept at the foot of her bed, awoke with a tremendous yawning and stretching—exactly the kind of “exercises” that young Doc Alison prescribed for father, who hated to get up in the mornings!

Then Poppy, her exercises done, majestically trod the coverlet to salute her mistress with the accustomed matinal salutation which Missy called a kiss. Mother did not approve of Poppy's “kisses,” but Missy argued to herself that the morning one, dependable as an alarm clock, kept her from oversleeping.

She hugged Poppy, jumped out of bed, and began dressing. When she got downstairs breakfast was ready and the house all sweetly diffused with the dreamy shadows that come with a rainy day.

Father had heard the great news and bantered her: “So we've got a society queen in our midst!”

“I think,” put in Aunt Nettie, “that it's disgraceful the way they put children forward these days.”

“I wouldn't let Missy go if Mrs. Allen wasn't going to be there to look after her,” said mother.

“Mother, may I have the hem of my pink dress let down?” asked Missy.

At that father laughed, and Aunt Nettie might just as well have said: “I told you so!” as put on that expression.

“It's my first real party,” Missy went on, “and I'd like to look as pretty as I can.”

Something prompted father, as he rose from the table, to pause and lay his hand on Missy's shoulder.

“Can't you get her a new ribbon or something, mother?” he asked.

“Maybe a new sash,” answered mother reflectively. “They've got some pretty brocaded pink ribbon at Bonner's.”

After which Missy finished her breakfast in a rapture. It is queer how you can eat, and like what you eat very much, and yet scarcely taste it at all.

When the two hours of practicing were over, mother sent her down town to buy the ribbon for the sash—a pleasant errand. She changed the black tie on her middy blouse to a scarlet one and let the ends fly out of her grey waterproof cape. Why is it that red is such a divine colour on a rainy day?

Upon her return there was still an hour before dinner, and she sat by the dining-room window with Aunt Nettie, to darn stockings.

“Well, Missy,” said Aunt Nettie presently, “a penny for your thoughts.”

Missy looked up vaguely, at a loss. “I wasn't thinking of anything exactly,” she said.

“What were you smiling about?”

“Was I smiling?”

Just then mother entered and Aunt Nettie said: “Missy smiles, and doesn't know it. Party!”

But Missy knew it wasn't the party entirely. Nor was it entirely the sound of the rain swishing, nor the look of the trees quietly weeping, nor of the vivid red patches of geranium beds. Everything could have been quite different, and still she'd have felt happy. Her feeling, mysteriously, was as much from things INSIDE her as from things outside.

After dinner was over and the baby minded for an hour, mother made the pink-brocaded sash. It was very lovely. Then she had an hour to herself, and since the rain wouldn't permit her to spend it in the 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.

The 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 sing aloud: Work it in gold and silver grapes, In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys... Raise me a dais of silk and down; Hang it with vair and purple dyes...

She was idly wondering what a “vair” might be when her dreams were crashed into by mother's reproving voice: “Missy, what are you doing? If you don't get right down to practicing, there'll be no more parties!”

Abashed, Missy made her fingers behave, but not her heart. It was singing a tune far out of harmony with chromatic exercises, and she was glad her mother could not hear.

The tune kept right on throughout dinner. During the meal she was called to the telephone, and at the other end was Raymond; he wanted her to save him the first dance that evening. What rapture—this was what happened to the beautiful belles you read about!

After dinner mother and Aunt Nettie went to call upon some ladies they hoped wouldn't be at home—what funny things grown-ups do! The baby was taking his nap, and Missy had a delicious long time ahead in which to be utterly alone.

She took the library book of poems and a book of her father's out to the summerhouse. First she opened the book of her father's. It was a translation of a Russian book, very deep and moving and sad and incomprehensible. A perfectly fascinating book! It always filled her with vague, undefinable emotions. She read: “O youth, youth! Thou carest for nothing: thou possessest, as it were, all the treasures of the universe; even sorrow comforts thee, even melancholy becomes thee; thou art self-confident and audacious; thou sayest: 'I alone live—behold!' But the days speed on and vanish without a trace and without reckoning, and everything vanishes in thee, like wax in the sun, like snow...”

Missy felt sublime sadness resounding through her soul. It was intolerable that days should speed by irrevocably and vanish, like wax in the sun, like snow. She sighed. But even as she sighed the feeling of sadness began to slip away. So she turned to the poem discovered last night, and read it over happily.

The title, “A Birthday,” made her feel that Raymond Bonner was somehow connected with it. This was his birthday—and that brought her thoughts back definitely to the party. Mother had said that presents were not expected, that they were getting too big to exchange little presents, yet she would have liked to carry him some little token. The ramblers and honeysuckle above her head sniffed at her in fragrant suggestion—why couldn't she just take him some flowers?

Acting on the impulse, Missy jumped up and began breaking off the loveliest blooms. But after she had gathered a big bunch a swift wave of self-consciousness swept over her. What would they say at the house? Would they let her take them? Would they understand? And a strong distaste for their inevitable questions, for the explanations which she could not explain definitely even to herself, prompted her not to carry the bouquet to the house. Instead she ran, got a pitcher of water, carried it back to the summerhouse and left the flowers temporarily there, hoping to figure out ways and means later.

At the house she discovered that the baby was awake, so she had to hurry back to take care of him. She always loved to do that; she didn't mind that a desire to dress up in her party attire had just struck her, for the baby always entered into the spirit of her performances. While she was fastening up the pink dotted mull, Poppy walked inquisitively in and sat down to oversee this special, important event. Missy succeeded with the greatest difficulty in adjusting the brocaded sash to her satisfaction. She regretted her unwaved hair, but mother was going to crimp it herself in the evening. The straight, everyday coiffure marred the picture in the mirror, yet, aided by her imagination, it was pleasing. She stood with arms extended in a languid, graceful pose, her head thrown back, gazing with half-closed eyes at something far, far beyond her own eyes in the glass.

Then suddenly she began to dance. She danced with her feet, her arms, her hands, her soul. She felt within her the grace of stately beauties, the heartbeat of dew-jewelled fairies, the longings of untrammelled butterflies—dancing, she could have flown up to heaven at that moment! A gurgle of sound interrupted her; it was the baby. “Do you like me, baby?” she cried. “Am I beautiful, baby?”

Baby, now, could talk quite presentably in the language of grown-ups. But in addition he knew all kinds of wise, unintelligible words. Missy knew that they were wise, even though she could not understand their meaning, and she was glad the baby chose, this time, to answer in that secret jargon.

She kissed the baby and, in return, the baby smiled his secret smile. Missy was sure that Poppy then smiled too, a secret smile; so she kissed Poppy also. How wonderful, how mysterious, were the smiles of baby and Poppy! What unknown thoughts produced them?

At this point her cogitations were interrupted and her playacting spoiled by the unexpected return of mother and Aunt Nettie. It seemed that certain of the ladies had obligingly been “out.”

“What in the world are you doing, Missy?” asked mother.

Missy suddenly felt herself a very foolish-appearing object in her party finery. She tried to make an answer, but the right words were difficult to find.

“Party!” said Aunt Nettie significantly.

Missy, still standing in mute embarrassment, couldn't have explained how it was not the party entirely.

Mother did not scold her for dressing up.

“Better get those things off, dear,” she said kindly, “and come in and let me curl your hair. I'd better do it before supper, before the baby gets cross.” The crimped coiffure was an immense success; even in her middy blouse Missy felt transformed. She could have kissed herself in the glass!

“Do you think I look pretty, mother?” she asked. “You mustn't think of such things, dear.” But, as mother stooped to readjust a waving lock, her fingers felt marvellously tender to Missy's forehead.

Evening arrived with a sunset of grandeur and glory. It made everything look as beautiful as it should look on the occasion of a festival. The beautiful and festive aspect of the world without, and of, her heart within, made it difficult to eat supper. And after supper it was hard to breathe naturally, to control her nervous fingers as she dressed.

At last, with the help of mother and Aunt Nettie, her toilet was finished: the pink-silk stockings and slippers shimmering beneath the lengthened pink mull; the brocaded pink ribbon now become a huge, pink-winged butterfly; and, mother's last touch, a pink rosebud holding a tendril—a curling tendril—artfully above the left ear! Missy felt a stranger to herself as, like some gracious belle and fairy princess and airy butterfly all compounded into one, she walked—no, floated down the stairs.

“Well!” exclaimed father, “behold the Queen of the Ball!” But Missy did not mind his bantering tone. The expression of his eyes told her that he thought she looked pretty.

Presently Mrs. Allen and Kitty, in the Allens' surrey, stopped by for her. With them was a boy she had never seen before, a tall, dark boy in a blue-grey braided coat and white duck trousers—a military cadet!

He was introduced as Kitty's cousin, Jim Henley. Missy had heard about this Cousin Jim who was going to visit Cherryvale some time during the summer; he had arrived rather unexpectedly that day.

Kitty herself—in pink dotted mull, of course—was looking rather wan. Mrs. Allen explained she had eaten too much of the candy Cousin Jim had brought her.

Cousin Jim, with creaking new shoes, leaped down to help Missy in. She had received her mother's last admonition, her father's last banter, Aunt Nettie's last anxious peck at her sash, and was just lifting her foot to the surrey step when suddenly she said: “Oh!”

“What is it?” asked mother. “Forgotten something?”

Missy had forgotten something. But how, with mother's inquiring eyes upon her, and father's and Aunt Nettie's and Mrs. Allen's and Kitty's and Cousin Jim's inquiring eyes upon her, could she mention Raymond's bouquet in the summerhouse? How could she get them? What should she say? And what would they think? “No,” she answered hesitantly. “I guess not.” But the bright shining of her pleasure was a little dimmed. She could not forget those flowers waiting, waiting there in the summerhouse. She worried more about them, so pitifully abandoned, than she did about Raymond's having to go without a remembrance.

Missy sat in the back seat with Mrs. Allen, Kitty in front with her cousin. Now and then he threw a remark over his shoulder, and smiled. He had beautiful white teeth which gleamed out of his dark-skinned face, and he seemed very nice. But he wasn't as handsome as Raymond, nor as nice—even if he did wear a uniform.

When they reached the Bonners they saw it all illumined for the party. The Bonners' house was big and square with a porch running round three sides, the most imposing house in Cherryvale. Already strings of lanterns were lighted on the lawn, blue and red and yellow orbs. The lights made the trees and shrubs seem shadowy and remote, mysterious creatures a-whisper over their own business.

Not yet had many guests arrived, but almost immediately they appeared in such droves that it seemed they must have come up miraculously through the floor. The folding camp chairs which lined the parlours and porches (the rented chairs always seen at Cherryvale parties and funerals) were one moment starkly exposed and the next moment hidden by light-hued skirts and by stiffly held, Sunday-trousered dark legs. For a while that stiffness which inevitably introduces a formal gathering of youngsters held them unnaturally bound. But just as inevitably it wore away, and by the time the folding chairs were drawn up round the little table where “hearts” were to be played, voices were babbling, and laughter was to be heard everywhere for no reason at all.

At Missy's table sat Raymond Bonner, looking handsomer than ever with his golden hair and his eyes like black velvet pansies. There was another boy who didn't count; and then there was the most striking creature Missy had ever seen. She was a city girl visiting in town, an older, tall, red-haired girl, with languishing, long-lashed eyes. She wore a red chiffon dress, lower cut than was worn in Cherryvale, which looked like a picture in a fashion magazine. But it was not her chic alone that made her so striking. It was her manner. Missy was, not sure that she knew what “sophisticated” meant, but she decided that the visiting girl's air of self-possession, of calm, almost superior assurance, denoted sophistication. How eloquent was that languid way of using her fan!

In this languishing-eyed presence she herself did not feel at her best; nor was she made happier by the way Raymond couldn't keep his eyes off the visitor. She played her hand badly, so that Raymond and his alluring partner “progressed” to the higher table while she remained with the boy who didn't count. But, as luck would have it, to take the empty places, from the head table, vanquished, came Cousin Jim and his partner. Jim now played opposite her, and laughed over his “dumbness” at the game.

“I feel sorry for you!” he told Missy. “I'm a regular dub at this game!”

“I guess I'm a 'dub' too.” It was impossible not to smile back at that engaging flash of white teeth in the dark face.

This time, however, neither of them proved “dubs.” Together they “progressed” to the next higher table. Cousin Jim assured her it was all due to her skill. She almost thought that, perhaps, she was skillful at “hearts,” and for the first time she liked the silly game.

Eventually came time for the prizes—and then dancing. Dancing Missy liked tremendously. Raymond claimed her for the first waltz. Missy wondered, a little wistfully, whether now he mightn't be regretting that pre-engagement, whether he wouldn't rather dance it with the languishing-eyed girl he was following about.

But as soon as the violin and piano, back near the library window, began to play, Raymond came straight to Missy and made his charming bow. They danced through the two parlours and then out to the porch and round its full length; the music carried beautifully through the open windows; it was heavenly dancing outdoors like that. Too soon it was over.

“Will you excuse me?” Raymond asked in his polite way. “Mother wants to see me about something. I hate to run away, but—”

Scarcely had he gone when Mrs. Allen, with Jim in tow, came hurrying up.

“Oh, Missy! I've been looking for you everywhere. Kitty's awfully sick. She was helping with the refreshments and got hold of some pickles. And on top of all that candy—”

“Oh!” commiserated Missy.

“I've got to get her home at once,” Mrs. Allen went on. “I hate to take you away just when your good time's beginning, but—”

“Why does she have to go?” Jim broke in. “I can take you and Kitty home, and then come back, and take her home after the party's over.” He gave a little laugh. “You see that gives me an excuse to see the party through myself!”

Mrs. Allen eyed Missy a little dubiously.

“Oh, Mrs. Allen, couldn't I?”

“I don't know—I said I'd bring you home myself.”

“Oh, Mrs. Allen! Please!” Missy's eyes pleaded even more than her voice.

“Well, I don't see why not,” decided Kitty's mother, anxious to return to her own daughter. “Jim will take good care of you, and Mrs. Bonner will send you all home early.”

When Mrs. Allen, accompanied by her nephew, had hurried away, Missy had an impulse to wander alone, for a moment, out into the deliciously alluring night. She loved the night always, but just now it looked indescribably beautiful. The grounds were deserted, but the lanterns, quivering in the breeze, seemed to be huge live glow-worms suspended up there in the dark. It was enchantment. Stepping lightly, holding her breath, sniffing at unseen scents, hearing laughter and dance music from far away as if in another world, she penetrated farther and farther into the shadows. An orange-coloured moon was pushing its way over the horizon, so close she could surely reach out her hands and touch it!

And then, too near to belong to any other world, and quite distinctly, she heard a voice beyond the rose arbour:

“Oh, yes! Words sound well! But the fact remains you didn't ask me for the first dance.”

Missy knew that drawling yet strangely assured voice. Almost, with its tones, she could see the languorously uplifted eyes, the provoking little gesture of fan at lips. Before she could move, whether to advance or to flee, Raymond replied:

“I wanted to ask you—you know I wanted to ask you!”

“Oh, yes, you did!” replied the visiting girl ironically.

“I did!” protested Raymond.

“Well, why didn't you then?”

“I'd already asked somebody else. I couldn't!”

And then the visiting girl laughed strangely. Missy knew she knew with whom Raymond had danced that first dance. Why did she laugh? And Raymond—oh, oh! She had seemed to grow rooted to the ground, unable to get away; her heart, her breathing, seemed to petrify too; they hurt her. Why had Raymond danced with her if he didn't want to? And why, why did that girl laugh? She suddenly felt that she must let them know that she heard them, that she must ask why! And, in order not to exclaim the question against her will, she covered her mouth with both hands, and crept silently away from the rose arbour.

Without any definite purpose, borne along by an inner whirlwind of suppressed sobs and utter despair, Missy finally found herself nearer the entrance gate, Fortunately there was nobody to see her; everyone—except those two—was back up there in the glare and noise, laughing and dancing. Laughing and dancing—oh, oh! What ages ago it seemed when she too had laughed and danced!

Oh, why hadn't she gone home with Mrs. Allen and Kitty before her silly pleasure had turned to anguish? But, of course, that was what life was: pain crowding elbows with pleasure always—she had read that somewhere. She was just inevitably living Life.

Consoled a trifle by this reflection and by a certain note of sublimity in her experience, Missy leaned against the gatepost upon which a lantern was blinking its last shred of life, and gazed at the slow-rising, splendid moon.

She was still there when Cousin Jim, walking quickly and his shoes creaking loudly, returned. “Hello!” he said. “What're you doing out here?”

“Oh, just watching the moon.”

“You're a funny girl,” he laughed.

“Why am I funny?” Her tone was a little wistful. “Why, moon-gazing instead of dancing, and everything.”

“But I like to dance too,” emphasized Missy, as if to defend herself against a charge.

“I'll take you up on that. Come straight in and dance the next dance with me!”

Missy obeyed. And then she knew that she had met the Dancer of the World. At first she was pleased that her steps fitted his so well, and then she forgot all about steps and just floated along, on invisible gauzy wings, unconscious of her will of direction, of his will of direction. There was nothing in the world but invisible gauzy wings, which were herself and Jim and the music. And they were a part of the music and the music was a part of them. It was divine.

“Say, you can dance!” said Jim admiringly when the music stopped.

“I love to dance.”

“I should say you might! You dance better than any girl I ever danced with!”

This, from a military uniform, was praise indeed. Missy blushed and was moved to hide her exaltation under modesty.

“I guess the reason is because I love it so much. I feel as if it's the music dancing—not me. Do you feel it that way?” “Never thought of it that way,” answered Jim. “But I don't know but what you're right. Say, you ARE a funny girl, aren't you?”

But Missy knew that whatever he meant by her being a “funny girl” he didn't dislike her for it, because he rushed on: “You must let me have a lot of dances—every one you can spare.”

After that everything was rapture. All the boys liked to dance with Missy because she was such a good dancer, and Jim kept wanting to cut in to get an extra dance with her himself. Somehow even the sting of the visiting girl's laugh and of Raymond's defection seemed to have subsided into triviality. And when Raymond came up to ask for a dance she experienced a new and pleasurable thrill in telling him she was already engaged. That thrill disturbed her a little. Was it possible that she was vindictive, wicked? But when she saw Jim approaching while Raymond was receiving his conge, she thrilled again, simultaneously wondering whether she was, after all, but a heartless coquette.

Jim had just been dancing with the visiting girl, so she asked: “Is Miss Slade a good dancer?”

“Oh, fair. Not in it with you though.”

Missy thrilled again, and felt wicked again—alas, how pleasant is wickedness! “She's awfully pretty,” vouchsafed Missy.

“Oh, I guess so”—indifferently.

Yet another thrill.

They took refreshments together, Jim going to get her a second glass of lemonade and waiting upon her with devotion. Then came the time to go home. Missy could not hold back a certain sense of triumph as, after thanking Raymond for a glorious time, she started off, under his inquisitive eye, arm in arm with Jim.

That unwonted arm-in-arm business confused Missy a good deal. She had an idea it was the proper thing when one is being escorted home, and had put her arm in his as a matter of course, but before they had reached the gate she was acutely conscious of the touch of her arm on his. To make matters worse, a curious wave of embarrassment was creeping over her; she couldn't think of anything to say, and they had walked nearly a block down moon-flooded Silver Street, with no sound but Jim's creaking shoes, before she got out: “How do you like Cherry vale, Mr. Henley?”

“Looks good to me,” he responded.

Then silence again, save for Jim's shoes. Missy racked her brains. What do you say to boys who don't know the same people and affairs you do? Back there at the party things had gone easily, but they were playing cards or dancing or eating; there had been no need for tete-a-tete conversation. How do you talk to people you don't know?

She liked Jim, but the need to make talk was spoiling everything. She moved along beside his creaking shoes as in a nightmare, and, as she felt every atom of her freezing to stupidity, she desperately forced her voice: “What a beautiful night it is!”

“Yes, it's great.”

Missy sent him a sidelong glance. He didn't look exactly happy either. Did he feel awkward too?

Creak! creak! creak! said the shoes.

“Listen to those shoes—never heard 'em squeak like that before,” he muttered apologetically.

Missy, striving for a proper answer and finding none, kept on moving through that feeling of nightmare. What was the matter with her tongue, her brain? Was it because she didn't know Jim well enough to talk to him? Surely not, for she had met strange boys before and not felt like this. Was it because it was night? Did you always feel like this when you were all dressed up and going home from an evening party?

Creak! creak! said the shoes.

Another block lay behind them.

Missy, fighting that sensation of stupidity, in anguished resolution spoke again: “Just look at the moon—how big it is!” Jim followed her upward glance. “Yes, it's great,” he agreed.

Creak! creak! said the shoes.

A heavy, regularly punctuated pause. “Don't you love moonlight nights?” persisted Missy.

“Yes—when my shoes don't squeak.” He tried to laugh.

Missy tried to laugh too. Creak! creak! said the shoes.

Another block lay behind them.

“Moonlight always makes me feel—”

She paused. What was it moonlight always made her feel? Hardly hearing what she was saying, she made herself reiterate banalities about the moon. Her mind flew upward to the moon—Jim's downward to his squeaking shoes. She lived at the other end of town from Raymond Bonner's house, and the long walk was made up of endless intermittent perorations on the moon, on squeaking shoes. But the song of the shoes never ceased. Louder and louder it waxed. It crashed into the innermost fibres of her frame, completely deafened her mental processes. Never would she forget it: creak-creak-creak-creak!

And the moon, usually so kind and gentle, grinned down derisively.

At last, after eons, they reached the corner of her own yard. How unchanged, how natural everything looked here! Over there, across the stretch of white moonlight, sat the summerhouse, symbol of peace and every day, cloaked in its fragrant ramblers.

Ramblers! A sudden remembrance darted through Missy's perturbed brain. Her poor flowers—were they still out there? She must carry them into the house with her! On the impulse, without pausing to reflect that her action might look queer, she exclaimed: “Wait a minute!” and ran fleetly across the moonlit yard. In a second she had the bouquet out of the pitcher and was back again beside him, breathless.

“I left them out there,” she said. “I—I forgot them. And I didn't want to leave them out there all night.”

Jim bent down and sniffed at the roses. “They smell awfully sweet, don't they?” he said.

Suddenly, without premeditation, Missy extended them to him. “You may have them,” she offered.

“I?” He received them awkwardly. “That's awfully sweet of you. Say, you are sweet, aren't you?”

“You may have them if you want them,” she repeated.

Jim, still holding the bunch awkwardly, had an inspiration.

“I do want them. And now, if they're really mine, I want to do with them what I'd like most to do with them. May I?”

“Why, of course.”

“I'd like to give them to the girl who ought to have flowers more than any girl I know. I'd like to give them to you!”

He smiled at her daringly.

“Oh!” breathed Missy. How poetical he was!

“But,” he stipulated, “on one condition. I demand one rose for myself. And you must put it in my buttonhole for me.”

With trembling fingers Missy fixed the rose in place.

They walked on up to the gate. Jim said: “In our school town the girls are all crazy for brass buttons. They make hatpins and things. If you'd like a button, I'd like to give you one—off my sleeve.”

“Wouldn't it spoil your sleeve?” she asked tremulously.

“Oh, I can get more”—somewhat airily. “Of course we have to do extra guard mount and things for punishment. But that's part of the game, and no fellow minds if he's giving buttons to somebody he likes.”

Missy wasn't exactly sure she knew what “subtle” meant, but she felt that Jim was being subtle. Oh, the romance of it! To give her a brass button he was willing to suffer punishment. He was like a knight of old!

As Jim was severing the button with his penknife, Missy, chancing to glance upward, noted that the curtain of an upstairs window was being held back by an invisible hand. That was her mother's window.

“I must go in now,” she said hurriedly. “Mother's waiting up for me.”

“Well I guess I'll see you soon. You're up at Kitty's a lot, aren't you?”

“Yes,” she murmured, one eye on the upstairs window. So many things she had to say now. A little while ago she hadn't been able to talk. Now, for no apparent reason, there was much to say, yet no time to say it. How queer Life was!

“To-morrow, I expect,” she hurried on. “Good night, Mr. Henley.” “Good night—Missy.” With his daring, gleaming smile.

Inside the hall door, mother, wrapper-clad, met her disapprovingly. “Missy, where in the world did you get all those flowers?”

“Ji—Kitty's cousin gave them to me.”

“For the land's sake!” It required a moment for mother to find further words. Then she continued accusingly: “I thought you were to come home with Mrs. Allen and Kitty.”

“Kitty got sick, and her mother had to take her home.”

“Why didn't you come with them?”

“Oh, mother! I was having such a good time!” For the minute Missy had forgotten there had been a shred of anything but “good time” in the whole glorious evening. “And Mrs. Allen said I might stay and come home with Jim and—”

“That will do,” cut in mother severely. “You've taken advantage of me, Missy. And don't let me hear evening party from you again this summer!”

The import of this dreadful dictum did not penetrate fully to Missy's consciousness. She was too confused in her emotions, just then, to think clearly of anything.

“Go up to bed,” said mother.

“May I put my flowers in water first?”

“Yes, but be quick about it.”

Missy would have liked to carry the flowers up to her own room, to sleep there beside her while she slept, but mother wouldn't understand and there would be questions which she didn't know how to answer.

Mother was offended with her. Dimly she felt unhappy about that, but she was too happy to be definitely unhappy. Anyway, mother followed to unfasten her dress, to help take down her hair, to plait the mouse-coloured braids. She wanted to be alone, yet she liked the touch of mother's hands, unusually gentle and tender. Why was mother gentle and tender with her when she was offended?

At last mother kissed her good night, and she was alone in her little bed. It was hard to get to sleep. What an eventful party it had been! Since supper time she seemed to have lived years and years. She had been a success even though Raymond Bonner had said—that. Anyway, Jim was a better dancer than Raymond, and handsomer and nicer—besides the uniform. He was more poetical too—much more. What was it he had said about liking her?... better dancer than any other... Funny she should feel so happy after Raymond... Maybe she was just a vain, inconstant, coquettish...

She strove to focus on the possibility of her frailty. She turned her face to the window. Through the lace curtains shone the moonlight, the gleaming path along which she had so often flown out to be a fairy. But to-night she didn't wish to be a fairy; just to be herself...

The moonlight flowed in and engulfed her, a great, eternal, golden-white mystery. And its mystery became her mystery. She was the mystery of the moon, of the universe, of Life. And the tune in her heart, which could take on so many bewildering variations, became the Chant of Mystery. How interesting, how tremendously, ineffably interesting was Life! She slept.