“Very well, then,” granted mother. “But only the second-best ones.” Missy's face brightened and she made for the door. Before she got altogether out of earshot, Aunt Nettie began: “I don't know that it's wise to humour her in her notions. 'Feel like pink!'--what in the world does she mean by that?” Missy was glad the question had not been put to her; for, to have saved her life, she couldn't have answered it intelligibly. She was out of hearing too soon to catch her mother's answer: “She's just worked up over the wedding, and being a flower-girl and all.” “Well, I don't believe,” stated Aunt Nettie with the assurance that spinsters are wont to show in discussing such matters, “that it's good for children to let them work themselves up that way. She'll be as much upset as the bridegroom if Helen does back out.” “Oh, I don't think old Mrs. Greenleaf would ever let her break it off, now” said Mrs. Merriam, stooping to pick up the papers which her husband had left strewn over the floor. “She's hard as rocks,” agreed Aunt Nettie. “Though,” Mrs. Merriam went on, “when it's a question of her daughter's happiness--” “A little unhappiness would serve Helen Green leaf right,” commented the other tartly. “She's spoiled to death and a flirt. I think it was a lucky day for young Doc Alison when she jilted him.” “She's just young and vain,” championed Mrs. Merriam, carefully folding the papers and laying them in the rack. “Any pretty girl in Helen's position couldn't help being spoiled. And you must admit nothing's ever turned her head--Europe, or her visits to Cleveland, or anything.” “The Cleveland man is handsome,” said Aunt Nettie irrelevantly--the Cleveland man was the bridegroom-elect. “Yes, in a stylish, sporty kind of way. But I don't know--” She hesitated a moment, then concluded: “Missy doesn't like him.” At that Aunt Nettie laughed with genuine mirth. “What on earth do you think a child would know about it?” she ridiculed. Meanwhile the child, whose departure had thus loosed free speech, was leagues distant from the gossip and the unrest which was its source. Her pink hair bows, even the second-best ones, lifted her to a state which made it much pleasanter to idle in her window, sniffing at the honey-suckle, than to hurry down to the piano. She longed to make up something which, like a tune of water rippling over pink pebbles, was running through her head. But faithfully, at last, she toiled through her hour, and then was called on to mind the Baby.