Her dream might have ended there, nothing more than a fleeting phantasm, had not Tess, the following week, come into possession of Gypsy.

Gypsy was a black pony with a white star on her forehead and a long wavy tail. She was a pony with a personality--from the start Missy recognized the pony as a person just as she recognized Poppy as a person. When Gypsy gazed at you out of those soft, bright eyes, or when she p.r.i.c.ked up her ears with an alert listening gesture, or when she turned her head and switched her tail with nonchalant unconcern--oh, it is impossible to describe the charm of Gypsy. That was it--"charm"; and the minute Missy laid eyes on the darling she succ.u.mbed to it. She had thought herself absurdly but deep-rootedly afraid of all horseflesh, but Gypsy didn't seem a mere horse. She was pert, coquettish, coy, loving, inquisitive, naughty; both Tess and Missy declared she had really human intelligence.

She began to manifest this the very day of her arrival. After Tess had ridden round the town and shown off properly, she left the pony in the sideyard of the sanitarium while she and Missy slipped off to the summerhouse to enjoy a few stolen chapters from "The d.u.c.h.ess." There was high need for secrecy for, most unreasonably, "The d.u.c.h.ess" had been put under a parental ban; moreover Tess feared there were stockings waiting to be darned.

Presently they heard Mrs. O'Neill calling, but they just sat still, stifling their giggles. Gypsy, who had sauntered up to the summerhouse door, poked in an inquisitive nose. Mrs. O'Neill didn't call again, so Tess whispered: "She thinks we've gone over to your house--we can go on reading."

After a while Missy glanced up and nudged Tess. "Gypsy's still there--just standing and looking at us! See her bright eyes--the darling!"

"Yes, isn't she cute?" agreed Tess.

But, just at that, a second shadow fell athwart the sunny sward, a hand pushed Gypsy's head from the opening, and Mrs. O'Neill's voice said:

"If you girls don't want your whereabouts given away, you'd better teach that pony not to stand with her head poked in the door for a half-hour without budging!"

The ensuing scolding wasn't pleasant, but neither of the miscreants had the heart to blame Gypsy. She was so cute.

She certainly was cute.

The second day of her ownership Tess judged it necessary to give Gypsy a switching; Gypsy declined to be saddled and went circling round and round the yard in an abandon of playfulness. So Tess snapped off a peach-tree switch and, finally cornering the pony, proceeded to use it. Missy pleaded, but Tess stood firm for discipline. However Gypsy revenged herself; for two hours she wouldn't let Tess come near her--she'd sidle up and lay her velvet nose against Missy's shoulder until Tess was within an arm's length, and then, tossing her head spitefully, caper away.

No wonder the girls e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed at her smartness.

Finally she turned gentle as a lamb, soft as silk, and let Tess adjust the saddle; but scarcely had Tess ridden a block before--wrench!--something happened to the saddle, and Tess was left seated by the roadside while Gypsy vanished in a cloud of dust. The imp had deliberately swelled herself out so that the girth would be loose!

Every day brought new revelations of Gypsy's intelligence. Missy took to spending every spare minute at Tess's. Under this new captivation her own pet, Poppy, was thoughtlessly neglected. And duties such as practicing, dusting and darning were deliberately shirked. Even reading had lost much of its wonted charm: the haunting, soul-swelling rhythms of poetry, or the oddly phrased medieval romances which somehow carried you back through the centuries--into the very presence of those queenly heroines who trail their robes down the golden stairways of legend. But Missy's feet seemed to have forgotten the familiar route to the Public Library and, instead, ever turned eagerly toward the O'Neills'--that is, toward the O'Neills' barn.

And, if she had admired Tess before, she worshipped her now for so generously permitting another to share the wonderful pony--it was like being a half owner. And the odd thing was that, though Gypsy had undeniable streaks of wildness, Missy never felt a tremor while on her.

On Gypsy she cantered, she trotted, she galloped, just as naturally and enjoyably as though she had been born on horseback. Then one epochal day, emulating Tess's example, she essayed to ride astride. It was wonderful. She could imagine herself a Centaur princess. And, curiously, she felt not at all embarra.s.sed. Yet she was glad that, back there in the lot, she was screened by the big barn from probably critical eyes.

But Gypsy made an unexpected dart into the barn-door, through the barn, and out into the yard, before Missy realized the capricious creature's intent. And, as luck would have it, the Reverend MacGill was sitting on the porch, calling on Grandma Shears. If only it had been anybody but Rev. MacGill! Missy cherished a secret but profound admiration for Rev. MacGill; he had come recently to Cherryvale and was younger than ministers usually are and, though not exactly handsome, had fascinating dark glowing eyes. Now, as his eyes turned toward her, she suddenly p.r.i.c.kled with embarra.s.sment--her legs were showing to her knees! She tried vainly to pull down her skirt, then tried to head Gypsy toward the barn. But Grandma Shears, in scandalized tones, called out:

"Why, Melissa Merriam! Get down off that horse immediately!"

Shamefacedly Missy obeyed, but none too gracefully since her legs were not yet accustomed to that straddling position.

"What in the world will you girls be up to next?" Grandma Shears went on, looking like an outraged Queen Victoria. "I don't know what this generation's coming to," she lamented, turning to the minister. "Young girls try to act like hoodlums--deliberately TRY! In my day girls were trained to be--and desired to be--little ladies."

Little ladies!--in the minister's presence, the phrase didn't fall pleasantly on Missy's ear.

"Oh, they don't mean any harm," he replied. "Just a little innocent frolic."

There was a ghost of a twinkle in his eyes. Missy didn't know whether to be grateful for his tolerance or only more chagrined because he was laughing at her. She stood, feeling red as a beet, while Grandma Shears retorted:

"Innocent frolic--nonsense! I'll speak to my daughter!" Then, to Missy: "Now take that pony back to the lot, please, and let's see no more such disgraceful exhibitions!"

Missy felt as though she'd been whipped. She felt cold all over and shivered, as she led Gypsy back, though she knew she was blushing furiously. Concealed behind the barn door, peeping through a crack, was Tess.

"It was awful!" moaned Missy. "I can never face Rev. MacGill again!"

"Oh, he's a good sport," said Tess.

"She gave me an awful calling down."

"Oh, grandma's an old fogy." Missy had heard Tess thus pigeonhole her grandmother often before, but now, for the first time, she didn't feel a little secret repugnance for the rude cla.s.sification.

Grandma Shears WAS old-fogyish. But it wasn't her old-fogyishness, per se, that irritated; it was the fact that her old-fogyishness had made her "call down" Missy--in front of the minister. Just as if Missy were a child. Fifteen is not a child, to itself. And it can rankle and burn, when a pair of admired dark eyes are included in the situation, just as torturesomely as can twice fifteen.

The Reverend MacGill was destined to play another unwitting part in Missy's athletic drama which was so jumbled with ecstasies and discomfitures. A few days later he was invited to the Merriams' for supper. Missy heard of his coming with mingled emotions. Of course she thrilled at the prospect of eating at the same table with him--listening to a person at table, and watching him eat, gives you a singular sense of intimacy. But there was that riding astride episode. Would he, maybe, mention it and cause mother to ask questions? Maybe not, for he was, as Tess had said, a "good sport." But all the same he'd probably be thinking of it; if he should look at her again with that amused twinkle, she felt she would die of shame.

That afternoon she had been out on Gypsy and, chancing to ride by home on her way back to the sanitarium barn, was hailed by her mother.

"Missy! I want you to gather some peaches!"

"Well, I'll have to take Gypsy home first."

"No, you won't have time--it's after five already, and I want to make a deep-dish peach pie. I hear Rev. MacGill's especially fond of it.

You can take Gypsy home after supper. Now hurry up!--I'm behindhand already."

So Missy led Gypsy into the yard and took the pail her mother brought out to her.

"The peaches aren't quite ripe," said mother, with a little worried pucker, "but they'll have to do. They have some lovely peaches at Picker's, but papa won't hear of my trading at Picker's any more."

Missy thought it silly of her father to have curtailed trading at Picker's--she missed Arthur's daily visit to the kitchen door with the delivery-basket--merely because Mr. Picker had beaten father for election on the Board of Aldermen. Father explained it was a larger issue than party politics; even had Picker been a Republican he'd have fought him, he said, for everyone knew Picker was abetting the Waterworks graft. But Missy didn't see why that should keep him from buying things from Picker's which mother really needed; mother said it was "cutting off your nose to spite your face."

Philosophizing on the irrationality of old people, she proceeded to get enough scarcely-ripe peaches for a deep-dish pie. Being horribly afraid of climbing, she used the simple expedient of grasping the lower limbs of the tree and shaking down the fruit.

"Missy!" called mother's voice from the dining room window. "That horse is s...o...b..ring all over the peaches!" "I can't help it--she follows me every place."

"Then you'll have to tie her up!"

"Tess never ties her up in THEIR yard!"

"Well, I won't have him s...o...b..ring over the fruit," repeated mother firmly.

"I'll--climb the tree," said Missy desperately.

And she did. She was in mortal terror--every second she was sure she was going to fall--but she couldn't bear the vision of Gypsy's reproachful eyes above a strangling halter; Gypsy shouldn't think her hostess, so to speak, less kind than her own mistress.

The peach pie came out beautifully and the supper promised to be a great success. Mother had zealously ascertained Rev. MacGill's favourite dishes, and was flushed but triumphant; she came of a devout family that loved to feed preachers well. And everyone was in fine spirits; only Missy, at the first, had a few bad moments. WOULD he mention it? He might think it his duty, think that mother should know. It was maybe his duty to tell. Preachers have a sterner creed of duty than other people, of course. She regarded him anxiously from under the veil of her lashes, wondering what would happen if he did tell. Mother would be horribly ashamed, and she herself would be all the more ashamed because mother was. Aunt Nettie would be satirically disapproving and say cutting things. Father would probably just laugh, but later he'd be serious and severe. And not one of them would ever, ever understand.

As the minutes went by, her strain of suspense gradually lessened. Rev.

MacGill was chatting away easily--about the delicious chicken-stuffing and quince jelly, and the election, and the repairs on the church steeple, and things like that. Now and then he caught Missy's eye, but his expression for her was exactly the same as for the others--no one could suspect there was any secret between them. He WAS a good sport!

Once a shadow pa.s.sed outside the window. Gypsy! Missy saw that he saw, and, as his glance came back to rest upon herself, for a second her heart surged. But something in his eyes--she couldn't define exactly what it was save that it was neither censorious nor quizzical--subtly gave her rea.s.surance. It was as if he had told her in so many words that everything was all right, for her not to worry the least little bit.

All of a sudden she felt blissfully at peace. She smiled at him for no reason at all, and he smiled back--a nice, not at all amused kind of smile. Oh, he was a perfect brick! And what glorious eyes he had! And that fascinating habit of flinging his hair back with a quick toss of the head. How gracefully he used his hands. And what lovely, distinguished table manners--she must practice that trick of lifting your napkin, delicately and swiftly, so as to barely touch your lips.

She ate her own food in a kind of trance, unaware of what she was eating; yet it was like eating supper in heaven.