“And you needn't look at me like that,” he added firmly. “It won't do you the least good.”
Missy's heart sank deeper. How could she hope to exert a proper religious influence if she didn't attend services regularly herself? But father looked terribly adamantine.
“I think you'd better stay home from school today,” he continued, “it's still pretty blustery.”
So Missy found herself spending the day comparatively alone in a preternaturally quiet house—noisy little brother off at school, Aunt Nettie's busy tongue absent, Marguerite, the hired girl, doing the laundry down in the basement. And mother's being sick, as always is the case when a mother is sick, seemed to add an extra heaviness to the pervasive stillness. The blustery day invited reading, but Missy couldn't find anything in the house she hadn't already read; and she couldn't go to the Public Library because of her throat. And couldn't practice because of mother's head. Time dragged on her hands, and Satan found the mischief—though Missy devoutly believed that it was the Lord answering her prayer.
She was idling at the front-parlour window when she saw Picker's delivery wagon stop at the gate. She hurried back to the kitchen, telling herself that Marguerite shouldn't be disturbed at her washtubs. So she herself let Arthur in. All sprinkled with snow and ruddy-cheeked and mischievous-eyed, he grinned at her as he emptied his basket on the kitchen table.
“Well,” he bantered, “did you pray for my sins last night?”
“You shouldn't make fun of things like that,” she said rebukingly.
Arthur chortled.
“Gee, Missy, but you're sure a scream when you get pious!” Then he sobered and, casually—a little too casually, enquired: “Say, I s'pose you're going again to-night?”
Missy regretfully shook her head. “No, I've got a. sore throat.” She didn't deem it necessary to say anything about parental objections. Arthur looked regretful, too.