Father's voice, usually so kind, had the doomsday quality that even mother used only on very rare occasions. It reverberated in the depths of Missy's being. They walked the last block in unbroken silence. As they passed through the gate, walked up the front path, shook the snow off their wraps on the porch, and entered the cosy-lighted precincts of home, Missy felt that she was the most wretched, lonely, misunderstood being in the world.
She said her good nights quickly and got off upstairs to her room. As she undressed she could hear the dim, faraway sound of her parents' voices. The sound irritated her. They pretended to love her, but they seemed to enjoy making things hard for her! Not only did they begrudge her a good time and white fox furs and everything, but they wouldn't let her try to be a good influence to the world! What was the use of renouncing earthly vanities for yourself if you couldn't help others to renounce them, too? Of course there was a certain pleasure, a kind of calm, peaceful satisfaction, an ecstasy even, in letting the religious, above-the-world feeling take possession of you. But it was selfish to keep it all to yourself. It was your duty to pass it on, to do good works—to throw out the life-line. And they begrudged her that—it wasn't right. Were all parents as hard and cruel as hers?
She felt like crying; but, just then, she heard them coming up the stairs. It would be difficult to explain her tears should one of them look into her room on some pretext; so she jumped quickly into bed. And, sure enough, she heard the door open. She shut her eyes. She heard her mother's voice: “Are you asleep, dear?” Impossible to divine that under that tender voice lay a stony heart! She emitted a little ghost of a snore; she heard the door close again, very softly.
For a while she lay quiet but she felt so unlike sleep that, finally, she crept out of bed, groped for her blanket wrapper, and went over to the window. It had stopped snowing and everything shone palely in ghostly white. The trees were white-armed, gleaming skeletons, the summerhouse an eerie pagoda or something, the scurrying clouds, breaking now and showing silver edges from an invisible moon, were at once grand and terrifying. It was all very beautiful and mysterious and stirring. And something in her stretched out, out, out—to the driving clouds, to the gleaming, brandishing boughs, to the summerhouse so like something in a picture. And, as her soul stretched out to the beauty and grandeur and mystery of it all, there came over her a feeling of indefinable ecstasy, a vague, keen yearning to be really good in every way. Good to her Lord, to her father and mother and Aunt Nettie and little brother, to the Reverend MacGill with his fascinating smile and good works, to everybody—the whole town—the whole world. Even to Genevieve Hicks, though she seemed so self-satisfied with her white fox furs and giggling ways and utter worldliness—yet, there were many things likeable about Genevieve if you didn't let yourself get prejudiced. And Missy didn't ever want to let herself get prejudiced—narrow and harsh and bigoted like so many Christians. No; she wanted to be a sweet, loving, generous, helpful kind of Christian. And to Arthur, too, of course. There must be SOME way of helping Arthur.
She found herself, half-pondering, half-praying:
“How can I help Arthur, dear Jesus? Please help me find some way—so that he won't go on being light-minded and liking light-mindedness. How can I save him from his ways—maybe he IS dissipated. Maybe he smokes cigarettes! Why does he fall for light-mindedness? Why doesn't he feel the real beauty of services?—the rumbling throb of the organ, and the thrill of hearing your own voice singing sublime hymns, and the inspired swell of Reverend MacGill's voice when he prays with such expression? It is real ecstasy when you get the right kind of feeling—you're almost willing to renounce earthly vanities. But Arthur doesn't realize what it MEANS. How can I show him, dear Jesus? Because they've forbidden me to have anything to do with him. Would it be right, for the sake of his soul, for me to disobey them—just a little bit? For the sake of his soul, you know. And he's really a nice boy at heart. THEY don't understand just how it is. But I don't think it would be VERY wrong if I talked to him just a little—do you?”
Gradually it came over her that she was chilly; she dragged a comforter from her bed and resumed her kneeling posture by the window and her communings with Jesus and her conscience. Then she discovered she was going off to sleep, so she sprang to her feet and jumped back into bed. A great change had come over her spirit; no longer was there any restlessness, bitterness, or ugly rebellion; no; nothing but peace ineffable. Smiling softly, she slept.
The next morning brought confusion to the Merriam household for father was catching the 8:37 to Macon City on a business trip, Aunt Nettie was going along with him to do some shopping, mother was in bed with one of her headaches, and Missy had an inexplicably sore throat. This last calamity was attributed, in a hurried conclave in mother's darkened room, to Missy's being out in the snow-storm the night before. Missy knew there was another contributory cause, but she couldn't easily have explained her vigil at the window.
“I didn't want her to go to church in the first place,” mother lamented.
“Well, she won't go any more,” said father darkly. Missy's heart sank; she looked at him with mutely pleading eyes.