At supper, while the talk pivoted inevitably round the departed Dobson, she sat immersed in preoccupation so deep as to be conspicuous even in Missy. Aunt Nettie, smiling, once started to make a comment but, unseen by his dreaming daughter, was silenced by Mr. Merriam. And immediately after the meal she'd eaten without seeing, the faithful tablet again in hand, Missy wandered back to the summer-house. It was simply heavenly out there now. The whole western sky clear to the zenith was laid over with a solid colour of opaque saffron rose; and, almost halfway up and a little to the left, in exactly the right place, of deepest turquoise blue, rested one mountain of cloud; it was the shape of Fujiyama, the sacred mount of Japan, which was pictured in Aunt Isabel's book of Japanese prints. Missy wished she might see Japan--Mr. Dobson had probably been there--lecturers usually were great travellers. He'd probably been everywhere--led a thrilling sort of life--the sort of life that makes one interesting. Oh, if only she could talk to him--just once. She sighed. Why didn't interesting people like that ever come to Cherryvale to live? Everybody in Cherryvale was so--so commonplace. Like Bill Cummings, the red-haired bank teller, who thought a trip to St. Louis an adventure to talk about for months! Or like old Mr. Siddons, or Professor Sutton, or the clerks in Mr. Bonner's store. In Cherryvale there was only this settled, humdrum kind of people. Of course there were the boys; Raymond was nice--but you can't expect mere boys to be interesting. She recalled that smiling, subtly intimate glance from Mr. Dobson's eyes. Oh, if he would stay in Cherryvale just a week! If only he'd come back just once! If only-- “Missy! The dew's falling! You'll catch your death of cold! Come in the house at once!” Bother! there was mother calling. But mothers must be obeyed, and Missy had to trudge dutifully indoors--with a tablet still blank. Next morning mother's warning about catching cold fulfilled itself. Missy awoke with a head that felt as big as a washtub, painfully laborious breath, and a wild impulse to sneeze every other minute. Mother, who was an ardent advocate of “taking things in time,” ordered a holiday from school and a footbath of hot mustard water. “This all comes from your mooning out there in the summerhouse so late,” she chided as, with one tentative finger, she made a final test of the water for her daughter's feet. She started to leave the room. “Oh, mother!” “Well?” Rather impatiently Mrs. Merriam turned in the doorway. “Would you mind handing me my tablet and pencil?” “What, there in the bath?” “I just thought”--Missy paused to sneeze--“maybe I might get an inspiration or something, and couldn't get out to write it down.”