The moon, moving its gleaming way slowly up the coverlet, touched tenderly the face of the sleeper, kissed the lips curved into a soft, dreaming smile. Missy went to the picnic next day, for her mother was unsympathetic toward the suggestion of contriving a “report.” “Now, Missy, don't begin that again! You're always starting out to ride some enthusiasm hard, and then letting it die down. You must learn to see things through. Now, go and get your lunch ready.”
Missy meekly obeyed. It wasn't the first time she'd been rebuked for her unstable temperament. She was meek and abashed; yet it is not uninteresting to know one possesses an unstable temperament which must be looked after lest it prove dangerous. The picnic was as dull as she had feared it would be. She usually liked children but, that day, the children at first were too riotously happy and then, as they tired themselves out, got cross and peevish. Especially the Smith children. One of the teachers said the oldest little Smith girl seemed to have fever; she was sick—as if that excused her acting like a little imp! She ought to have been kept at home—the whole possessed Smith tribe ought to have been kept at home!
Missy wished she herself were at home. She'd probably missed a telephone call from Mr. Briggs—he had said he might call up. She could hardly wait to reach home and find out.
Yes; he had telephoned. Also Mrs. Bonner, inviting Missy to a party on Saturday night. Missy brightened. She broached the subject of letting out a tuck. But mother said the pink organdie was long enough—too long, really. And Aunt Nettie chimed in:
“Why is it that girls can never get old quickly enough? The time'll come soon enough when they'll wish they could wear short dresses again!” Missy listened with inner rebellion. Why did old people always talk that way—that “you-don't-appreciate-you're-having-the-best-time-of-your life” sort of thing?
Next day was Friday—the day before the party.
It was also “cleaning day” at the Merriams' and, though Missy felt lassitudinous and headachy, she put extra vim into her share of the work; for she wished to coax from mother a new sash, at least.
But when Saturday came she didn't mention the sash; her headache had increased to such a persistent throbbing she didn't feel like going down to look over the Bonner Mercantile Co.'s stock of ribbons. She was having trouble enough concealing her physical distress. At dinner mother had noticed that she ate almost nothing; and at supper she said:
“Don't you feel well, Missy?”
“Oh, yes, I feel all right—fine!” replied Missy, trying to assume a sprightly air.