Naturally such a person as Aunt Isabel would make her home a beautiful place. It was a "bungalow." Missy had often regretted that her own home had been built before the vogue of the bungalow. And now, when she beheld Aunt Isabel's enchanting house, the solid, substantial furnishings left behind in Cherryvale lost all their savour for her, even the old-fashioned "quaintness" of grandma's house.

For Aunt Isabel's house was what Pleasanton termed "artistic." It had white-painted woodwork, and built-in bookshelves instead of ordinary bookcases, and lots of window-seats, and chintz draperies which trailed flowers or birds or peac.o.c.ks, which were like a combination of both, and big wicker chairs with deep cushions--all very bright and cosy and beautiful. In the living-room were some Chinese embroideries which Missy liked, especially when the sun came in and shone upon their soft, rich colours; she had never before seen Chinese embroideries and, thus, encountered a brand-new love. Then Aunt Isabel was the kind of woman who keeps big bowls of fresh flowers sitting around in all the rooms, even if there's no party--a delightful habit. Missy was going to adore watching Aunt Isabel's pretty, restless hands flutter about as, each morning, she arranged the fresh flowers in their bowls.

Even in Missy's room there was a little bowl of jade-green pottery, a colour which harmonized admirably with sweet peas, late roses, nasturtiums, or what-not. And all the furniture in that room was painted white, while the chintz bloomed with delicate little nosegays.

The one inharmonious element was that of Uncle Charlie's indisposition--not only the fact that he was suffering, but also the nature of his ailment. For Uncle Charlie, it developed, had been helping move a barrel of mixed-pickles in the grocery department of his store, and the barrel had fallen full-weight upon his foot and broken his big toe. Missy realized that, of course, a tournament with a sword-thrust in the heart, or some catastrophe like that, would have meant a more dangerous injury; but--a barrel of pickles! And his big toe! Any toe was unromantic. But the BIG toe! That was somehow the worst of all.

Uncle Charlie, however, spoke quite openly of the cause of his trouble.

Also of its locale. Indeed, he could hardly have concealed the latter, as his whole foot was bandaged up, and he had to hobble about, very awkwardly, with the aid of a cane.

Uncle Charlie's indisposition kept him from accompanying Missy and Aunt Isabel to an ice-cream festival which was held on the Congregational church lawn that first night. Aunt Isabel was a Congregationalist; and, as mother was a Presbyterian and grandma a Methodist, Missy was beginning to feel a certain kinship with all religions.

This festival proved to be a sort of social gathering, because the Congregational church in Pleasanton was attended by the town's "best"

people. The women were as stylishly dressed as though they were at a bridge party--or a tournament. The church lawn looked very picturesque with red, blue and yellow lanterns--truly a fair lawn and "well victualled" with its ice-cream tables in the open. Large numbers of people strolled about, and ate, and chatted and laughed. The floating voices of people you couldn't see, the flickering light of the lanterns, the shadows just beyond their swaying range, all made it seem gay and alluring, so that you almost forgot that it was only a church festival.

A big moon rose up from behind the church-tower, a beautiful and medieval-looking combination. Missy thought of those olden-time feasts "unto kings and dukes," when there was revel and play, and "all manner of n.o.blesse." And, though none but her suspected it, the little white-covered tables became long, rough-hewn boards, and the Congregational ladies' loaned china became antique-looking pewter, and the tumblers of water were golden flaskets of n.o.ble wine. Missy, who was helping Aunt Isabel serve at one of the tables, attended her worshipful patrons with all manner of n.o.blesse. She was glad she was wearing her best pink mull with the brocaded sash.

Aunt Isabel's table was well patronized. It seemed to Missy that most of the men present tried to get "served" here. Perhaps it was because they admired Aunt Isabel. Missy couldn't have blamed them for that, because none of the other Congregational ladies was half as pretty. To-night Aunt Isabel had on a billowy pale-blue organdy, and she looked more like an angel than ever. An ethereally radiant, laughing, vivacious angel.

And whenever she moved near you, you caught a ghostly whiff of that delicious perfume. (Missy now knows Aunt Isabel got it from little sachet bags, tucked away with her clothes, and from an "atomizer" which showered a delicate, fairy-like spray of fragrance upon her hair.) There was one young man, who was handsome in a dark, imperious way, who hung about and ate so much ice-cream that Missy feared lest he should have an "upset" to-morrow.

Also, there was another persevering patron for whom she surmised, with modest palpitation, Aunt Isabel might not be the chief attraction. The joy of being a visiting girl was begun! This individual was a talkative, self-confident youth named Raleigh Peters. She loved the name Raleigh--though for the Peters part she didn't care so much. And albeit, with the dignity which became her advancing years, she addressed him as "Mr. Peters," in her mind she preferred to think of him as "Raleigh."

Raleigh, she learned (from himself), was the only son of a widowed mother and, though but little older than Missy, had already started making his own way by clerking in Uncle Charlie's store. He clerked in the grocery department, the prosperity of which, she gathered, was largely due to his own connection with it. Some day, he admitted, he was going to own the biggest grocery store in the State. He was thrillingly independent and ambitious and a.s.sured. All that seemed admirable, but--if only he hadn't decided on groceries! "Peters' Grocery Store!"

Missy thought of jousting, of hawking, of harping, customs which n.o.ble gentlemen used to follow, and sighed.

But Raleigh, unaware that his suit had been lost before it started, accompanied them all home. "All" because the dark and imperiously handsome young man went along, too. His name was Mr. Saunders, and Missy had now learned he was a "travelling man" who came to Pleasanton to sell Uncle Charlie merchandise; he was also quite a friend of the family's, she gathered, and visited them at the house.

When they reached home, Mr. Saunders suggested stopping in a minute to see how Uncle Charlie was. However, Uncle Charlie, it turned out, was already in bed.

"But you needn't go yet, anyway," said Aunt Isabel. "It's heavenly out here on the porch."

"Doesn't the hour wax late?" demurred Mr. Saunders. "Wax late!"--What quaint, delightful language he used!

"Oh, it's still early. Stay a while, and help shake off the atmosphere of the festival--those festivals bore me to death!"

Odd how women can act one way while they're feeling another way!

Missy had supposed, at the festival, that Aunt Isabel was having a particularly enjoyable time.

"Stay and let's have some music," Aunt Isabel went on. "You left your ukelele here last week."

So the handsome Mr. Saunders played the ukelele!--How wonderfully that suited his type. And it was just the kind of moonlight night for music.

Missy rejoiced when Mr. Saunders decided to stay, and Aunt Isabel went in the house for the ukelele. It was heavenly when Mr. Saunders began to play and sing. The others had seated themselves in porch chairs, but he chose a place on the top step, his head thrown back against a pillar, and the moon shining full on his dark, imperious face. His bold eyes now gazed dreamily into distance as, in a golden tenor that seemed to melt into the moonlight itself, he sang:

"They plucked the stars out of the blue, dear, Gave them to you, dear, For eyes... "

The ukelele under his fingers thrummed out a soft, vibrant, melancholy accompaniment. It was divine! Here surely was a "harper pa.s.sing all other!" Mr. Saunders looked something like a knight, too--all but his costume. He was so tall and dark and handsome; and his dark eyes were bold, though now so soft from his own music.

The music stopped. Aunt Isabel jumped up from her porch chair, left the shadows, and seated herself beside him on the moonlit top.

"That looks easy," she said. "Show me how to do it."

She took the ukelele from him. He showed her how to place her fingers--their fingers got tangled up--they laughed.

Missy started to laugh, too, but stopped right in the middle of it. A sudden thought had struck her, remembrance of another beauteous lady who had been "learned" to harp. She gazed down on Aunt Isabel--how beautiful there in the white moonlight! So fair and slight, the scarf-thing around her shoulders like a shroud of mist, hair like unto gold, eyes like the stars of heaven. Her eyes were now lifted laughingly to Mr. Saunders'.

She was so close he must catch that faintly sweetness of her hair. He returned the look and started to sing again; while La Beale--no, Aunt Isabel--

Even the names were alike!

Missy drew in a quick, sharp breath. Mr. Saunders, now smiling straight at Aunt Isabel as she tried to pick the chords, went on:

"They plucked the stars out of the blue, dear, Gave them to you, dear, For eyes..."

How expressively he sang those words! Missy became troubled. Of course Romance was beautiful but those things belonged in ancient times. You wouldn't want things like that right in your own family, especially when Uncle Charlie already had a broken big toe...

She forgot that the music was beautiful, the night bewitching; she even forgot to listen to what Raleigh was saying, till he leaned forward and demanded irately:

"Say! you haven't gone to sleep, have you?"

Missy gave a start, blinked, and looked self-conscious.

"Oh, excuse me," she murmured. "I guess I was sort of dreaming."

Mr. Saunders, overhearing, glanced up at her.

"The spell of moon and music, fair maid?" he asked. And, though he smiled, she didn't feel that he was making fun of her.

Again that quaint language! A knight of old might have talked that way!

But Missy, just now, was doubtful as to whether a knight in the flesh was entirely desirable.

It was with rather confused emotions that, after the visitors had departed and she had told Aunt Isabel good night, Missy went up to the little white-painted, cretonne-draped room. Life was interesting, but sometimes it got very queer.

After she had undressed and snapped off the light, she leaned out of the window and looked at the night for a long time. Missy loved the night; the hordes of friendly little stars which nodded and whispered to one another; the round silver moon, up there at some enigmatic distance yet able to transfigure the whole world with fairy-whiteness--turning the dew on the gra.s.s into pearls, the leaves on the trees into trembling silver b.u.t.terflies, and the dusty street into a breadth of shimmering silk. At night, too, the very flowers seemed to give out a sweeter odour; perhaps that was because you couldn't see them.

Missy leaned farther out the window to sniff in that damp, sweet scent of unseen flowers, to feel the white moonlight on her hand. She had often wished that, by some magic, the world might be enabled to spin out its whole time in such a gossamer, irradiant sheen as this--a sort of moon-haunted night-without-end, keeping you tingling with beautiful, blurred, indescribable feelings.

But to-night, for the first time, Missy felt skeptical as to that earlier desire. She still found the night beautiful--oh, inexpressibly beautiful!--but moonlight nights were what made lovers want to look into each other's eyes, and sing each other love songs "with expression."

To be sure, she had formerly considered this very tendency an elysian feature of such nights; but that was when she thought that love always was right for its own sake, that true lovers never should be thwarted.

She still held by that belief; and yet--she visioned Uncle Charlie, dear Uncle Charlie, so fond of buying Aunt Isabel extravagant organdies and slippers to match; so like grandpa and father--and King Mark!

Missy had always hated King Mark, the lawful husband, the enemy of true love. But Romance gets terribly complicated when it threatens to leave the Middle Ages, pop right in on you when you are visiting in Pleasanton; and when the lawful husband is your own Uncle Charlie--poor Uncle Charlie!--lying in there suffering with his broken--well there was no denying it was his big toe.

Missy didn't know that her eyes had filled--tears sometimes came so unexpectedly nowadays--till a big drop splashed down on her hand.

She felt very, very sad. Often she didn't mind being sad. Sometimes she even enjoyed it in a peculiar way on moonlit nights; found a certain pleasant poignancy of exaltation in the feeling. But there are different kinds of sadness. To-night she didn't like it. She forsook the moonlit vista and crept into bed.

The next morning she overslept. Perhaps it was because she wasn't in her own little east room at home, where the sun and Poppy, her cat, vied to waken her; or perhaps because it had turned intensely hot and sultry during the night--the air seemed to glue down her eyelids so as to make waking up all the harder.

It was Sunday, and, when she finally got dressed and downstairs, the house was still unusually quiet. But she found Uncle Charlie in his "den" with the papers. He said Aunt Isabel was staying in bed with a headache; and he himself hobbled into the dining room with Missy, and sat with her while the maid (Aunt Isabel called her hired girl a "maid") gave her breakfast.

Uncle Charlie seemed cheerful despite his--his trouble. And everything seemed so peaceful and beautiful that Missy could hardly realize that ever Tragedy might come to this house. Somewhere in the distance church bells were tranquilly sounding. Out in the kitchen could be heard the ordinary clatter of dishes. And in the dining room it was very, very sweet. The sun filtered through the gently swaying curtains, touching vividly the sweet peas on the breakfast-table. The sweet peas were arranged to stand upright in a round, shallow bowl, just as if they were growing up out of a little pool--a marvellously artistic effect. The china was very artistic, too, j.a.panese, with curious-looking dragons in soft old-blue. And, after the orange, she had a finger-bowl with a little sprig of rose-geranium she could crunch between her fingers till it sent out a heavenly odour. It was just like Aunt Isabel to have rose-geranium in her finger-bowls!