Before the beginning of years, there came to the making of man Grief with her gift of tears, and Time with her glass that ran...
and, equally lovely:
From too much love of living, from hope and fear set free, We thank with brief thanksgiving whatever gods may be That no life lives forever; that dead men rise up never; That even the weariest river winds somewhere safe to sea...
The verses brought her beautiful, stirring thoughts to weave into verses of her own when she should find a quiet hour in the summerhouse; or to incorporate into soul-soothing improvisings at the piano.
Next morning, after her hour's stint at finger exercises, she improvised and it went beautifully. She knew it was a success both because of her exalted feelings and because Poppy meowed out in discordant disapproval only once; the rest of the time Poppy purred as appreciatively as for “The Maiden's Prayer.” Dear Poppy! Missy felt suddenly contrite for her defection from faithful Poppy. And Poppy was getting old—Aunt Nettie said she'd already lived much longer than most cats. She might die soon. Through a swift blur of tears Missy looked out toward the summerhouse where, beneath the ramblers, she decided Poppy should be buried. Poor Poppy! The tears came so fast she couldn't wipe them away. She didn't dream that Swinburne was primarily responsible for those tears.
Yet even her sadness held a strange, poignant element of bliss. It struck her, oddly, that she was almost enjoying her week of punishment—that she WAS enjoying it. Why was she enjoying it, since, when mother first banned athletic pursuits, she had felt like a martyr? It was queer. She pondered the mysterious complexity of her nature.
There passed two more days of this inexplicable content. Then came the thunder-storm. It was, perhaps, the thunder-storm that really deserves the blame for Missy's climactic athletic catastrophe. No lightning-bolt struck, yet that thunder-storm indubitably played its part in Missy's athletic destiny. It was the causation of renewed turmoil after time of peace.
Tess had telephoned that morning and asked Missy to accompany her to the Library. But Missy had to practice. In her heart she didn't really care to go, for, after her stint was finished, she was contemplating some new improvisings. However, the morning didn't go well. It was close and sultry and, though she tried to make her fingers march and trot and gallop as the exercises dictated, something in the oppressive air set her nerves to tingling. Besides it grew so dark she couldn't see the notes distinctly. Finally she abandoned her lesson; but even improvising failed of its wonted charm. Her fingers kept striking the wrong keys. Then a sudden, ear-splitting thunder-clap hurled her onto a shrieking discord.
She jumped up from the piano; she was horribly afraid of thunder-storms—mother wouldn't mind if she stopped till the storm was over. She longed to go and sit close to mother, to feel the protection of her presence; but, despite the general softening of her mood, she had maintained a certain stiffness toward the family. So she crouched on a sofa in the darkest corner of the room, hiding her eyes, stopping her ears.
Then a sudden thought brought her bolt upright. Gypsy! Tess had said Gypsy was afraid of thunder-storms—awfully afraid. And Gypsy was all alone in that big, gloomy barn—Tess blocks away at the Library.