But, now, she had an inner confused vision of “lounging-chairs” covered with pale-blue satin; of velvet, spindle-legged tables hung with priceless lace and bearing Dresden baskets smothered in flowers. Oh, beautiful! If only to her, Missy, such habitation might ever befall! However, when she started to “brush up” her hair, she eyed it with a regard more favourable than usual. “Rich chestnut tresses!” She lingered to contemplate, in the mirror, the great grey eyes which looked back at her from their subtle depths. She had a suspicion the act was silly, but it was satisfying. That evening at the supper-table marked the beginning of a phase in Missy's life which was to cause her family bewilderment, secret surmise, amusement and some anxiety. During the meal she talked very little. She had learned long ago to keep her thoughts to herself, because old people seldom understand you. Often they ask embarrassing questions and, even if they don't laugh at you, you have the feeling they may be laughing inside. Her present thoughts were so delectable and engrossing that Missy did not always hear when she was spoken to. Toward the end of the meal, just as she caught herself in the nick of time about to pour vinegar instead of cream over her berries, mother said: “Well, Missy, what's the day-dream this time?” Missy felt her cheeks “crimson with confusion.” Yesterday, at such a question, she would have made an evasive answer; but now, so much was she one with the charming creature of her thoughts, she forgot to be cautious. She cast her mother a pensive glance from her great grey eyes. “I don't know--I just feel sort of triste.” “Tristy?” repeated her astonished parent, using Missy's pronunciation. “Yes--sad, you know.” “My goodness! What makes you sad?” But Missy couldn't answer that. Unexpected questions often bring unexpected answers, and not till after she'd made use of the effective new word, did Missy pause to ponder whether she was really sad or not. But, now, she couldn't very well admit her lack of the emotion, so she repeated the pensive glance. “Does one ever know why one's sad?” she asked in a bewitchingly appealing tone.. “Well, I imagine that sometimes one dees,” put in Aunt Nettie, drily. Missy ignored Aunt Nettie; often it was best to ignore Aunt Nettie--she was mother's old-maid sister, and she “understood” even less than mother did. Luckily just then, Marguerite, the coloured hired girl, came to clear off the table. Missy regarded her capable but undistinguished figure. “I wish they had butlers in Cherryvale,” she observed, incautious again. “Butlers!--for mercy's sake!” ejaculated Aunt Nettie. “What books have you got out from the library now, Missy?” asked father. It was an abrupt change of topic, but Missy was glad of the chance to turn from Aunt Nettie's derisive smile.