"Broad oak staircase"--"drawing-room"--"large, dull, handsome apartment"--oh, wonderful!

Then on to the description of the alluring heroine:

... the face is more than pretty, it is lovely--the fair, sweet, childish face, framed in by its yellow hair; her great velvety eyes, now misty through vain longing, are blue as the skies above her; her nose is pure Greek; her forehead low, but broad, is partly shrouded by little wandering threads of gold that every now and then break loose from bondage, while her lashes, long and dark, curl upward from her eyes, as though hating to conceal the beauty of the exquisite azure within...

There is a certain haughtiness about her that contrasts curiously but pleasantly with her youthful expression and laughing, kissable mouth.

She is straight and lissome as a young ash tree; her hands and feet are small and well-shaped; in a word, she is chic from the crown of her fair head down to her little arched instep...

Missy sighed; how wonderful it must be to be a creature so endowed by the G.o.ds!

Missy--Melissa--now, at the advanced age of fifteen, had supposed she knew all the wonders of books. She had learned to read the Book of Life: its enchantments, so many and so varied in Cherryvale, had kept her big grey eyes wide with smiles or wonder or, just occasionally, darkened with the mystery of sorrow. There was the reiterant magic of greening spring; and the long, leisurely days of delicious summer; the companionship of a quaint and infinitely interesting baby brother, and of her own cat--majesty incarnate on four black legs; and then, just lately, this exciting new "best friend," Tess O'Neill. Tess had recently moved to Cherryvale, and was "different"--different even from Kitty Allen, though Missy had suffered twinges about letting anyone displace Kitty. But--

And, now, here it was in Tess's adorable attic (full of treasures discarded by departed tenants of the old Smith place) that Missy turned one of Life's milestones and met "the d.u.c.h.ess."

Missy had loved to read the Bible (good stories there, and beautiful words that made you tingle solemnly); and fairy tales never old; and, almost best of all, the Anthology, full of poetry, that made you feel a strange live spirit back of the wind and a world of mysteries beyond the curtain of the sky.

But this--

The lure of letters was turned loud and seductive as the Blue Danube played on a golden flute by a boy king with his crown on!

Tess glanced up from her reading.

"How's your book?" she enquired.

"Oh, it's wonderful," breathed Missy.

"Mine, too. Here's a description that reminds me a little of you."

"Me?" incredulously.

"Yes. It's about the heroine--Phyllis. She's not pretty, but she's got a strange, underlying charm."

Missy held her breath. She was ashamed to ask Tess to read the description of the strangely charming heroine, but Tess knew what friendship demanded, and read:

"'I am something over five-feet-two, with brown hair that hangs in rich chestnut tresses far below my waist.'"

"Oh," put in Missy modestly, while her heart palpitated, "my hair is just mouse-coloured."

"No," denied Tess authoritatively, "you've got nut-brown locks. And your eyes, too, are something like Phyllis's eyes--great grey eyes with subtle depths. Only yours haven't got saucy hints in them."

Missy wished her eyes included the saucy hints. However, she was enthralled by Tess's comparison, though incomplete. Was it possible Tess was right?

Missy wasn't vain, but she'd heard before that she had "beautiful eyes."

Perhaps Tess WAS right. Missy blushed and was silent. Just then, even had she known the proper reply to make, she couldn't have voiced it.

As "the d.u.c.h.ess" might have phrased it, she was "naturally covered with confusion."

But already Tess had flitted from the delightfully embarra.s.sing theme of her friend's looks.

"Wouldn't it be grand," she murmured dreamily, "to live in England?"

"Yes--grand," murmured Missy in response.

"Everything's so--so baronial over there."

Baronial!--as always, Tess had hit upon the exact word. Missy sighed again. She had always loved Cherryvale, always been loyal to it; but no one could accuse Cherryvale of being "baronial."

That evening, when Missy went upstairs to smooth her "nut-brown locks"

before supper, she gazed about her room with an expression of faint dissatisfaction. It was an adequate, even pretty room, with its flowered wall-paper and lace curtains and bird's-eye maple "set"; and, by the window, a little drop-front desk where she could sit and write at the times when feeling welled in her till it demanded an outlet.

But, now, she had an inner confused vision of "lounging-chairs" covered with pale-blue satin; of velvet, spindle-legged tables hung with priceless lace and bearing Dresden baskets smothered in flowers. Oh, beautiful! If only to her, Missy, such habitation might ever befall!

However, when she started to "brush up" her hair, she eyed it with a regard more favourable than usual. "Rich chestnut tresses!" She lingered to contemplate, in the mirror, the great grey eyes which looked back at her from their subtle depths. She had a suspicion the act was silly, but it was satisfying.

That evening at the supper-table marked the beginning of a phase in Missy's life which was to cause her family bewilderment, secret surmise, amus.e.m.e.nt and some anxiety.

During the meal she talked very little. She had learned long ago to keep her thoughts to herself, because old people seldom understand you. Often they ask embarra.s.sing questions and, even if they don't laugh at you, you have the feeling they may be laughing inside. Her present thoughts were so delectable and engrossing that Missy did not always hear when she was spoken to. Toward the end of the meal, just as she caught herself in the nick of time about to pour vinegar instead of cream over her berries, mother said:

"Well, Missy, what's the day-dream this time?"

Missy felt her cheeks "crimson with confusion." Yesterday, at such a question, she would have made an evasive answer; but now, so much was she one with the charming creature of her thoughts, she forgot to be cautious. She cast her mother a pensive glance from her great grey eyes.

"I don't know--I just feel sort of triste."

"Tristy?" repeated her astonished parent, using Missy's p.r.o.nunciation.

"Yes--sad, you know."

"My goodness! What makes you sad?"

But Missy couldn't answer that. Unexpected questions often bring unexpected answers, and not till after she'd made use of the effective new word, did Missy pause to ponder whether she was really sad or not.

But, now, she couldn't very well admit her lack of the emotion, so she repeated the pensive glance.

"Does one ever know why one's sad?" she asked in a bewitchingly appealing tone..

"Well, I imagine that sometimes one dees," put in Aunt Nettie, drily.

Missy ignored Aunt Nettie; often it was best to ignore Aunt Nettie--she was mother's old-maid sister, and she "understood" even less than mother did.

Luckily just then, Marguerite, the coloured hired girl, came to clear off the table. Missy regarded her capable but undistinguished figure.

"I wish they had butlers in Cherryvale," she observed, incautious again.

"Butlers!--for mercy's sake!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Aunt Nettie.

"What books have you got out from the library now, Missy?" asked father.

It was an abrupt change of topic, but Missy was glad of the chance to turn from Aunt Nettie's derisive smile.

"Why--let me see. 'David Harum' and 'The History of Ancient Greece'-that's all I think. And oh, yes--I got a French dictionary on my way home this afternoon."

"Oh! A French dictionary!" commented father.