Next morning she awoke to find a soft, misty rain greying the world outside her window. Missy did not mind that; she loved rainy days—they made you feel so pleasantly sad. For a time she lay quiet, watching the slant, silvery threads and feeling mysteriously, fascinatingly, at peace. Then Poppy, who always slept at the foot of her bed, awoke with a tremendous yawning and stretching—exactly the kind of “exercises” that young Doc Alison prescribed for father, who hated to get up in the mornings!
Then Poppy, her exercises done, majestically trod the coverlet to salute her mistress with the accustomed matinal salutation which Missy called a kiss. Mother did not approve of Poppy's “kisses,” but Missy argued to herself that the morning one, dependable as an alarm clock, kept her from oversleeping.
She hugged Poppy, jumped out of bed, and began dressing. When she got downstairs breakfast was ready and the house all sweetly diffused with the dreamy shadows that come with a rainy day.
Father had heard the great news and bantered her: “So we've got a society queen in our midst!”
“I think,” put in Aunt Nettie, “that it's disgraceful the way they put children forward these days.”
“I wouldn't let Missy go if Mrs. Allen wasn't going to be there to look after her,” said mother.
“Mother, may I have the hem of my pink dress let down?” asked Missy.
At that father laughed, and Aunt Nettie might just as well have said: “I told you so!” as put on that expression.
“It's my first real party,” Missy went on, “and I'd like to look as pretty as I can.”
Something prompted father, as he rose from the table, to pause and lay his hand on Missy's shoulder.