The evening, as the afternoon had been, was divine. When Missy was getting ready for bed she leaned out of the window to look at the night, and the fabric of her soul seemed to stretch out and mingle with all that dark, luminous loveliness. It seemed that she herself was a part of the silver moon high up there, a part of the white, shining radiance which spread down and over leaves and grass everywhere. The strong, damp scent of the ramblers on the porch seemed to be her own fragrant breath, and the black shadows pointing out from the pine trees were her own blots of sadness--sadness vague and mysterious, with more of pleasure in it than pain. She could hardly bear to leave this mysterious, fascinating night; to leave off thinking the big, vague thoughts the night always called forth; but she had to light the gas and set about the business of undressing. But, first, she paused to gaze at herself in the looking-glass. For the millionth time she wished she were pretty like Kitty Allen. And Kitty would wear her pink dotted mull to the party. Missy sighed. Then meditatively she unbraided her long, mouse-coloured braids; twisted them into tentative loops over her ears; earnestly studied the effect. No; her hair was too straight and heavy. She tried to imagine undulating waves across her forehead-if only mother would let her use crimpers! Perhaps she would! And then, perhaps, she wouldn't look so plain. She wished she were not so plain; the longing to be pretty made her fairly ache. Then slowly the words of that man crept across her memory: “What beautiful eyes!” Could he have meant her? She stared at the eyes which stared back from the looking-glass till she had the odd sensation that they were something quite strange and Allen to her: big, dark, deep, and grave eyes, peering out from some unknown consciousness. And they were beautiful eyes! Suddenly she was awakened from her dreams by a voice at the door: “Missy, why in the world haven't you gone to bed?” Missy started and blushed as though discovered in mischief. “What have you been doing with your hair?” “Oh, just experimenting. Mother, may I have it crimped for the party?” “I don't know--we'll see. Now hurry and jump into bed.” After mother had kissed her good night and gone, and after the light had been turned out, Missy lay awake for a long time. Through the lace window curtains shone the moonlight, a gleaming path along which Missy had often flown out to be a fairy. It is quite easy to be a fairy. You lie perfectly still, your arms stretched out like wings. Then you fix your eyes on the moonlight and imagine you feel your wings stir. And the first thing you know you feel yourself being wafted through the window, up through the silver-tinged air. You touch the clouds with your magic wand, and from them fall shimmering jewels. Missy was fourteen, going on fifteen, but she could still play being a fairy.