But Pete, fortunately for his complacency, didn't suspect the reason for her concentrated though friendly gaze.
All in all, Missy felt quite at peace when she went upstairs. Grandma tucked her into bed—the big, extraordinarily soft feather-bed which was one of the outstanding features of grandma's fascinating house.
And there—wonder of wonders!—the moon, through grandma's window, found her out just as readily as though she'd been in her own little bed at home. Again it carried in the grace of God, to rest through the night on her pillow.
Next day was an extremely happy day. She had coffee for breakfast, and was permitted by Alma, the hired girl, to dry all the cups and saucers. Then she dusted the parlour, including all the bric-a-brac, which made dusting here an engrossing occupation. Later she helped grandpa hoe the cabbages, and afterward “puttered around” with grandma in the flower-garden. Then she and grandma listened, very quietly, through a crack in the nearly-closed door while grandpa conducted a hearing in the parlour. To tell the truth, Missy wasn't greatly interested in whether Mrs. Brenning's chickens had scratched up Mrs. Jones's tomato-vines, hut she pretended to be interested because grandma was.
And then, after the hearing was over, and the Justice-of-the-Peace had become just grandpa again, Missy went into the parlour and played hymns. Then came dinner, a splendid and heavy repast which constrained her to take a nap. After the nap she felt better, and sat out on the front porch to learn crocheting from grandma.
For a while Pete sat with them, and Polly Currier from next door came over, too. She looked awfully pretty all in white—white shirtwaist and white duck skirt and white canvas oxfords. Presently Pete suggested that Polly go into the parlour with him to look at some college snapshots. Missy wondered why he didn't bring them out to the porch where it was cooler, but she was too polite to ask.
They stayed in there a long time—what were they doing? For long spaces she couldn't even hear their voices. Grandma chattered away with her usual vivacity; presently she suggested that they leave off crocheting and work on paper-flowers a while. What a delight! Missy was just learning the intricacies of peonies, and adored to squeeze the rosy tissue-paper over the head of a hat-pin and observe the amazing result.
“Run up to my room, dear,” said grandma. “You'll find the box on the closet shelf.”
Missy knew the “paper-flower box.” It was a big hat-box, appropriately covered with pink-posied paper—a quaintly beautiful box.
In the house, passing the parlour door, she tip-toed, scarcely knowing why. There was now utter silence in the parlour—why were they so still? Perhaps they had gone out somewhere. Without any definite plan, but still tip-toeing in the manner she and grandma had approached to overhear the law-suit, she moved toward the partly-closed door. Through the crevice they were out of vision, but she could hear a subdued murmur—they were in there after all! Missy, too interested to be really conscious of her act, strained her ears.