During the call the party at the Bonners' was mentioned. Mrs. Allen was going to “assist” Mrs. Bonner. She suggested that Missy might accompany Kitty and herself. “I hadn't thought of letting Missy go,” said Mrs. Merriam. “She seems so young to start going out evenings that way.” “I know just how you feel,” replied Mrs. Allen. “I feel just the same way. But as long as I've got to assist, I'm willing Kitty should go this time; and I thought you mightn't object to Missy's going along with us.” “Oh, mother!” Missy's tone was a prayer. And her mother, smiling toward her a charming, tolerant smile as if to say: “Well, what can one do in the face of those eyes?” finally assented. After that the afternoon went rushing by on wings of joy. When the visitors departed Missy had many duties to perform, but they were not dull, ordinary duties; they were all tinted over with rainbow colours. She stemmed strawberries in the kitchen where Marguerite, the hired girl, was putting up fruit, and she loved the pinkish-red and grey-green of the berries against the deep yellow of the bowl. She loved, too, the colour of the geraniums against the green-painted sill just beside her. And the sunlight making leafwork brocade on the grass out the window! There were times when combinations of colour seemed the most beautiful thing in the world. Then she had to mind the baby for a while, and she took him out on the side lawn and pretended to play croquet with him. The baby wasn't quite three, and it was delicious to see him, with mallet and ball before a wicket, trying to mimic the actions of his elders. Poppylinda, Missy's big black cat, wanted to play too, and succeeded in getting between the baby's legs and upsetting him. But the baby was under a charm; he only picked himself up and laughed. And Missy was sure that black Poppy also laughed. That night at supper she didn't have much chance to talk to father about the big event, for he had brought an old friend home to supper. Missy was rather left out of the conversation. She felt glad for that; it is hard to talk to old people; it is hard to express to them the thoughts and feelings that possess you. Besides, to-night she didn't want to talk to anyone, nor to listen. She only wanted to sit immersed in that soft, warm, fluttering deliciousness. Just as the meal was over the hall telephone rang and, at a sign from mother, she excused herself to answer it. From outside the door she heard father's friend say: “What beautiful eyes!” Could he be speaking of her?