She was engaged in parting her hair in the centre and rolling it back in simple but aristocratic-looking “puffs” on either side—she did look the least bit like Lady Sylvia!—when she heard her mother's voice calling:
“Missy! haven't you gone to bed yet?”
“No, mother,” she answered meekly, laying down the brush very quietly.
“What on earth are you doing?”
“Nothing—I'm going to bed right now,” she answered, more meekly yet. “You'd better,” came the unseen voice. “You've got to get up early if you're going to the picnic.”
The picnic—oh, bother! Missy had forgotten the picnic. If it had been a picnic of her own “crowd” she would not have forgotten it, but she was attending this function because of duty instead of pleasure.
And it isn't especially interesting to tag along with a lot of children and their Sunday-school teachers.
She wondered if, maybe, she could manage to get her “report” without actually going.
But she'd already forgotten the picnic by the time she crept into her little bed, across which the moon, through the window, spread a shining breadth of silver. She looked at the strip of moonlight drowsily—how beautiful moonlight was! And when it gleamed down on dewy grass... everything outdoors white and magical... and dancing on the porch... he must be a wonderful dancer—those college boys always were... music... the scent of flowers.. . “the prettiest girl I've seen in this town”...
Yes; the bothersome picnic was forgotten; and the Beacon, alluring stepping-stone to achievements untold; yes, even Ridgeley Holman Dobson himself.