“For the land's sake!” exclaimed Aunt Nettie. “What ever put such a thing into her head? She never saw a mountain in her life!” Grown-ups have a disconcerting way of speaking of children, even when present, in the third person. But Aunt Nettie finally turned to Missy with a direct (and dreaded): “What did they look like, Missy?”
“Oh—mountains,” returned Missy, still vague.
At a sign from mother, the others did not press her further. When she had finished her breakfast, Missy approached her mother, and the latter, reading the question in her eyes, asked:
“Well, what is it, Missy?”
“I feel—like pink to-day,” faltered Missy, half-embarrassed.
But her mother did not ask for explanation. She only pondered a moment.
“You know,” reminded the supplicant, “I have to try on the Pink Dress this morning.”
“Very well, then,” granted mother. “But only the second-best ones.”
Missy's face brightened and she made for the door.
Before she got altogether out of earshot, Aunt Nettie began: “I don't know that it's wise to humour her in her notions. 'Feel like pink!'—what in the world does she mean by that?”