And presently, when she was summoned to supper, she felt no desire to talk; it was so pleasant just to listen to those phrases faintly and suggestively resounding. All the talk around her came dimly and, sometimes, so lost was she in hazy delight that she didn't hear a direct question. Finally father asked: “What's the day-dream, Missy?--thinking up a hat for me?” Missy started, and forgot to note that his enquiry was facetious. “No,” she answered quite seriously, “I haven't finished Marguerite's yet.” “Yes,” cut in mother, in the tone of reproach so often heard these days, “she's been frittering away the whole afternoon. And not a glimmer for the thesis yet!” At that Missy, without thinking, unwarily said: “Oh, yes, I have, mother.” “Oh,” said her mother interestedly. “What is it?” Missy suddenly remembered and blushed--grown-ups seldom understand unless you're definite. “Well,” she amended diffidently, “I've got the subject.” “What is it?” persisted mother. Everybody was looking at Missy. She poured the cream over her berries, took a mouthful; but they all kept looking at her, waiting. “'Ships That Pass in the Night,'” she had to answer. “For Heaven's sake!” ejaculated Aunt Nettie. “What're you going to write about that?” This was the question Missy had been dreading. She dreaded it because she herself didn't know just what she was going to write about it. Everything was still in the first vague, delightful state of just feeling it--without any words as yet; and grown-ups don't seem to understand about this. But they were all staring at her, so she must say something. “Well, I haven't worked it out exactly--it's just sort of pouring in over me.” “What's pouring over you?” demanded Aunt Nettie. “Why--the sea of Life,” replied Missy desperately. “For Heaven's sake!” commented Aunt Nettie again. “It sounds vague; very vague,” said father. Was he smiling or frowning?--he had such a queer look in his eyes. But, as he left the table, he paused behind her chair and laid a very gentle hand on her hair. “Like to go out for a spin in the car?” But mother declined for her swiftly. “No, Missy must work on her thesis this evening.” So, after supper, Missy took tablet and pencil once more to the summerhouse. It was unusually beautiful out there--just the kind of evening to harmonize with her uplifted mood. Day was ending in still and brilliant serenity. The western sky an immensity of benign light, and draped with clouds of faintly tinted gauze. “Another day is dying,” Missy began to write; then stopped. The sun sank lower and lower, a reddening ball of sacred fire and, as if to catch from it a spark, Missy sat gazing at it as she chewed her pencil; but no words came to be caught down in pencilled tangibility. Oh, it hurt!--all this aching sweetness in her, surging through and through, and not able to bring out one word! “Well?” enquired mother when, finally, she went back to the house.