Missy hesitated, confused; the conversation was getting on dangerous ground. “Why, I guess they're the same type, don't you? I've often thought Aunt Isabel looks like La Beale Isoud.” Uncle Charlie smiled again at her--an altogether cheerful kind of smile; no, he didn't suspect any tragic undercurrent beneath this pleasant-sounding conversation. All he said was: “Aunt Isabel should feel flattered--but I hope she finds a happier lot.” Ah! “Yes, I hope so,” breathed Missy, rather weakly. Then Uncle Charlie at last closed the book. “Poor Tristram and Isolde,” he said, as if speaking an epitaph. But Missy caught her breath. Uncle Charlie felt sorry for the ill-fated lovers. Oh, if he only knew! At dinner time (on Sundays they had midday dinner here), Aunt Isabel came down to the table. She said her head was better, but she looked pale; and her blue eyes were just like the Blessed Damozel's, “deeper than the depth of waters stilled at even.” Yet, pale and quiet like this, she seemed even more beautiful than ever, especially in that adorable lavender negligee--with slippers to match. Missy regarded her with secret fascination. After dinner, complaining of the heat, Aunt Isabel retired to her room again. She suggested that Missy take a nap, also. Missy didn't think she was sleepy, but, desiring to be alone with her bewildered thoughts, she went upstairs and lay down. The better to think things over, she closed her eyes; and when she opened them to her amazement there was Aunt Isabel standing beside the bed--a radiant vision in pink organdy this time--and saying: “Wake up, sleepy-head! It's nearly six o'clock!” Aunt Isabel, her vivacious self once more, with gentle fingers (Oh, hard not to love Aunt Isabel!) helped Missy get dressed for supper. It was still so hot that, at supper, everyone drank a lot of ice-tea and ate a lot of ice-cream. Missy felt in a steam all over when they rose from the table and went out to sit on the porch. It was very serene, for all the sultriness, out on the porch; and Aunt Isabel was so sweet toward Uncle Charlie that Missy felt her gathering suspicions had something of the unreal quality of a nightmare. Aunt Isabel was reading aloud to Uncle Charlie out of the Sunday paper. Beautiful! The sunset was carrying away its gold like some bold knight with his captured, streaming-tressed lady. The fitful breeze whispered in the rhythm of olden ballads. Unseen church bells sent long-drawn cadences across the evening hush. And the little stars quivered into being, to peer at the young poignancy of feeling which cannot know what it contributes to the world... Everything was idyllic--that is, almost idyllic--till, suddenly Uncle Charlie spoke: “Isn't that Saunders coming up the street?” Why, oh why, did Mr. Saunders have to come and spoil everything?