Inside the little white cottage, however, in Miss Martin's sitting-room--so queer and fascinating with its “forms,” its samples and “trimmings” pinned to the curtains, its alluring display of fashion magazines and “charts,” and its eternal litter of varicoloured scraps over the floor--Missy's momentary dejection could but vanish. Finally, when in Miss Martin's artfully tilted cheval glass, she surveyed the pink vision which was herself, gone, for the time, was everything of sadness in the world. She turned her head this way and that, craning to get the effect from every angle-the bouffance of the skirt, the rosebuds wreathing the sides, the butterfly sash in the back. Adjured by Miss Martin to stand still, she stood vibrantly poised like a lily-stem waiting the breath of the wind; bade to “lift up your arms,” she obeyed and visioned winged fairies alert for flight. Even when Miss Martin, carried away by her zeal in fitting, stuck a pin through the pink tissue clear into the warmer, softer pink beneath, Missy scarcely felt the prick. But, at the midday dinner-table, that sympathetic uneasiness returned. Father, home from the office, was full of indignation over something “disgraceful” he had heard down town. Though the conversation was held tantalizingly above Missy's full comprehension, she could gather that the “disgrace” centred in the bachelor dinner which Mr. Hackett had given at the Commercial House the night before. Father evidently held no high opinion of the introduction of “rotten Cleveland performances” nor of the man who had introduced them. “What 'rotten Cleveland performances'?” asked Missy with lively curiosity. “Oh, just those late, indigestible suppers,” cut in mother quickly. “Rich food at that hour just kills your stomach. Here, don't you want another strawberry tart, Missy?” Missy didn't; but she affected a desire for it, and then a keen interest in its consumption. By this artifice, she hoped she might efface herself as a hindrance to continuation of the absorbing talk. But it is a trick of grown-ups to stop dead at the most thrilling points; though she consumed the last crumb of the tart, her ears gained no reward, until mother said: “As soon as you've finished dinner, Missy, I wish you'd run over to Greenleafs' and ask to borrow Miss Helen's new kimono pattern.” Missy brightened. The sight of old Mrs. Greenleaf and Miss Princess, bustling gaily about, would lift this strange cloud gathering so ominously. She asked permission to carry along a bunch of sweet peas, and gathered the kind Miss Princess liked best--pinkish lavender blossoms, a delicious colour like the very fringe of a rainbow. The Greenleafs' coloured maid let her in and showed her into the “den” back of the parlour. “I'll tell Mrs. Greenleaf,” she said. “They're all busy upstairs.” Very busy they must have been, for Missy had restlessly dangled her feet for what seemed hours, before she heard voices approaching the parlour.