That morning, for the first time in her life at grandma's house, Missy shirked her “chores.” She found paper and pencil, took a small Holy Bible, and stole back to the tool-house where grandpa kept his garden things and grandma her washtubs. For that which she now was to do, Missy would have preferred the more beautiful summerhouse at home; but grandma had no summerhouse, and this offered the only sure seclusion. She stayed out there a long time, seated on an upturned washtub; read the Holy Bible for awhile; then became absorbed in the ecstasies of composition. So engrossed was she that she didn't at first hear grandma calling her. Grandma was impatiently waiting on the back porch. “What in the world are you doing out there?” she demanded. Loath to lie, now, Missy made a compromise with her conscience. “I was reading the Holy Bible, grandma.” Grandma's expression softened; and all she said was: “Well, dinner's waiting, now.” Grandpa was staying down town and Pete was over at the Curriers', so there were only grandma and Missy at the table. Missy tried to attend to grandma's chatter and make the right answers in the right places. But her mind kept wandering; and once grandma caught her whispering. “What is the matter with you, Missy? What are you whispering about?” Guiltily Missy clapped her hand to her mouth. “Oh! was I whispering?” “Yes.” “I guess it was just a piece I'm learning.” “What piece?” “I--I--it's going to be a surprise.” “Oh, another surprise? Well, that'll be nice,” said grandma. Missy longed acutely to be alone. It was upsetting to have to carry on a conversation. That often throws you off of what's absorbing your thoughts. So she was glad when, after dinner, grandma said: “I think you'd better take a little nap, dear. You don't seem quite like yourself--perhaps you'd best not attempt the meeting to-night.” That last was a bomb-shell; but Missy decided not to worry about such a possible catastrophe till the time should come. She found a chance to slip out to the tool-house and rescue the Holy Bible and the sheet of paper, the latter now so scratched out and interlined as to be unintelligible to anyone save an author. When at last she was alone in her room, she jumped out of bed--religion, it seems, sometimes makes deception a necessity. For a time she worked on the paper, bending close over it, cheeks flushed, eyes shining, whispering as she scratched. At supper, Missy was glad to learn that Pete had planned to attend the meeting that evening. “Revivals” were not exactly in Pete's line; but as long as Polly Currier had to be there, he'd decided he might as well go to see her home. Moreover, he'd persuaded several others of “the crowd” to go along and make a sort of party of it. And Missy's strained ears caught no ominous suggestion as to her own staying at home.