One morning Missy awoke to a dawn of mildest sifted light and bediamonded dew upon the grass; soft plumes of silver, through the mist, seemed to trim the vines of the summerhouse and made her catch her breath in ecstasy. All of a sudden she wanted nothing so much as to get a book and steal off alone somewhere. The right kind of a book, of course--something sort of strange and sad that would make your strange, sad feelings mount up and up inside you till you could almost die of your beautiful sorrow. As soon as her routine of duties was finished she gained permission to go to the Library. As she walked slowly, musingly, down Maple Avenue, her emotions were fallow ground for every touch of Nature: the slick greensward of all the lawns, glistening under the torrid azure of the great arched sky, made walking along the shady sidewalk inexpressibly sweet; the many-hued flowers in all the flowerbeds seemed to sing out their vying colours; the strong hard wind passed almost visible fingers through the thick, rustling mane of the trees. Oh, she hoped she would find the right kind of book! Mother, back on the porch, looked up from her sewing to watch the disappearing figure, and smiled. “We have our little girl back again,” she observed to Aunt Nettie. “I wish that O'Neill girl'd move away,” Aunt Nettie said. “Missy's a regular chameleon.” It's a pity Missy couldn't hear her new classification; it would have interested her tremendously; she was always interested in the perplexing vagaries of her own nature. However, at the Library, she was quite happy: for she found two books, each the right kind, though different. One was called “Famous Heroines of Medieval Legend.” They all had names of strange beauty and splendour--Guinevere--Elaine--Vivien--names which softly rustled in syllables of silken brocade. The other book was no less satisfying. It was a book of poems--wonderful poems, by a man named Swinburne--lilting, haunting things of beauty which washed through her soul like the waves of a sun-bejewelled sea. She read the choicest verses over and over till she knew them by heart: Before the beginning of years, there came to the making of man Grief with her gift of tears, and Time with her glass that ran... and, equally lovely: From too much love of living, from hope and fear set free, We thank with brief thanksgiving whatever gods may be That no life lives forever; that dead men rise up never; That even the weariest river winds somewhere safe to sea... The verses brought her beautiful, stirring thoughts to weave into verses of her own when she should find a quiet hour in the summerhouse; or to incorporate into soul-soothing improvisings at the piano.