As far back as Melissa Merriam could remember, she had lived with her family in the roomy, rambling, white-painted house on Locust Avenue. She knew intimately every detail of its being. She had, at various points in her childhood, personally supervised the addition of the ell and of the broad porch which ran round three sides of the house, the transformation of an upstairs bedroom into a regular bathroom with all the pleasing luxuries of modern plumbing, the installation of hardwood floors into the “front” and “back” parlours. She knew every mousehole in the cellar, every spider-web and cracked window-pane in the fascinating attic. And the yard without she also knew well: the friendly big elm which, whenever the wind blew, tapped soft leafy fingers against her own window; the slick green curves of the lawn; the trees best loved by the birds; the morning-glories on the porch which resembled fairy church bells ready for ringing, the mignonette in the flower-beds like fragrant fairy plumes, and the other flowers—all so clever at growing up into different shapes and colours when you considered they all came from little hard brown seeds. And she was familiar with the summerhouse back in the corner of the yard, so ineffably delicious in rambler-time, but so bleakly sad in winter; and the chicken-yard just beyond she knew, too—Missy loved that peculiar air of placidity which pervades even the most clucky and cackly of chicken-yards, and she loved the little downy chicks which were so adept at picking out their own mothers amongst those hens that looked all alike. When she was a little girl she used to wonder whether the mothers grieved when their children grew up and got killed and eaten and, for one whole summer, she wouldn't eat fried chicken though it was her favourite delectable.

All of which means that Missy, during the seventeen years of her life, had never found her homely environment dull or unpleasing. But, this summer, she found herself longing, with a strange, secret but burning desire, for something “different.”

The feeling had started that preceding May, about the time she made such an impression at Commencement with her Valedictory entitled “Ships That Pass in the Night.” The theme of this oration was the tremendous influence that can trail after the chancest and briefest encounter of two strangers. No one but herself (and her father, though Missy did not know it) connected Missy's eloquent handling of this subject with the fleeting appearance in Cherryvale of one Ridgeley Holman Dobson. Dobson had given a “Lyceum Course” lecture in the Opera House, but Missy remembered him not because of what he lectured about, nor because he was an outstanding hero of the recent Spanish-American war, nor even because of the scandalous way his women auditors, sometimes, rushed up and kissed him. No. She remembered him because... Oh, well, it would have been hard to explain concretely, even to herself; but that one second, when she was taking her turn shaking hands with him after the lecture, there was something in his dark bright eyes as they looked deeply into her own, something that made her wish—made her wish—

It was all very vague, very indefinite. If only Cherryvale afforded a chance to know people like Ridgeley Holman Dobson! Unprosaic people, really interesting people. People who had travelled in far lands; who had seen unusual sights, plumbed the world's possibilities, done heroic deeds, laid hands on large affairs.

But what chance for this in poky Cherryvale?

This tranquil June morning, as Missy sat in the summerhouse with the latest Ladies' Home Messenger in her lap, the dissatisfied feeling had got deeper hold of her than usual. It was not acute discontent—the kind that sticks into you like a sharp splinter; it was something more subtle; a kind of dull hopelessness all over you. The feeling was not at all in accord with the scene around her. For the sun was shining gloriously; Locust Avenue lay wonderfully serene under the sunlight; the iceman's horses were pulling their enormous wagon as if it were not heavy; the big, perspiring iceman whistled as if those huge, dripping blocks were featherweight; and, in like manner, everybody passing along the street seemed contented and happy. Missy could remember the time when such a morning as this, such a scene of peaceful beauty, would have made her feel contented, too.

Now she sighed, and cast a furtive glance through the leafage toward the house, a glance which reflected an inner uneasiness because she feared her mother might discover she hadn't dusted the parlours; mother would accuse her of “dawdling.” Sighing again for grown-ups who seldom understand, Missy turned to the Messenger in her lap.

Here was a double-page of “Women Who Are Achieving”—the reason for the periodical's presence in Missy's society. There was a half-tone of a lady who had climbed a high peak in the Canadian Rockies; Missy didn't much admire her unfeminine attire, yet it was something to get one's picture printed—in any garb. Then there was a Southern woman who had built up an industry manufacturing babies' shoes. This photograph, too, Missy studied without enthusiasm: the shoemaker was undeniably middle-aged and matronly in appearance; nor did the metier of her achievement appeal. Making babies' shoes, somehow, savoured too much of darning stockings. (Oh, bother! there was that basket of stockings mother had said positively mustn't go another day.)

Missy's glance hurried to the next picture. It presented the only lady Sheriff in the state of Colorado. Missy pondered. Politics—Ridgeley Holman Dobson was interested in politics; his lecture had been about something-or-other political—she wished, now, she'd paid more attention to what he'd talked about. Politics, it seemed, was a promising field in the broadening life of women. And they always had a Sheriff in Cherryvale. Just what were a Sheriff's duties? And how old must one be to become a Sheriff? This Colorado woman certainly didn't look young. She wasn't pretty, either—her nose was too long and her lips too thin and her hair too tight; perhaps lady Sheriffs had to look severe so as to enforce the law.

Missy sighed once more. It would have been pleasant to feel she was working in the same field with Ridgeley Holman Dobson.

Then, suddenly, she let her sigh die half-grown as her eye came to the portrait of another woman who had achieved. No one could claim this one wasn't attractive looking. She was young and she was beautiful, beautiful in a peculiarly perfected and aristocratic way; her hair lay in meticulously even waves, and her features looked as though they had been chiselled, and a long ear-ring dangled from each tiny ear. Missy wasn't surprised to read she was a noblewoman, her name was Lady Sylvia Southwoode—what an adorable name!

The caption underneath the picture read: “Lady Sylvia Southwoode, Who Readjusts—and Adorns—the Cosmos.”

Missy didn't catch the full editorial intent, perhaps, in that grouping of Lady Sylvia and the Cosmos; but she was pleased to come upon the word Cosmos. It was one of her pet words. It had struck her ear and imagination when she first encountered it, last spring, in Psychology IV-A. Cosmos—what an infinity of meaning lay behind the two-syllabled sound! And the sound of it, too, sung itself over in your mind, rhythmic and fascinating. There was such a difference in words; some were but poor, bald things, neither suggesting very much nor very beautiful to hear. Then there were words which were beautiful to hear, which had a rich sound—words like “mellifluous” and “brocade” and “Cleopatra.” But “Cosmos” was an absolutely fascinating word—perfectly round, without beginning or end. And it was the kind to delight in not only for its wealth, so to speak, for all it held and hinted, but also for itself alone; it was a word of sheer beauty.

She eagerly perused the paragraph which explained the manner in which Lady Sylvia was readjusting—and adorning—the Cosmos. Lady Sylvia made speeches in London's West End—wherever that was—and had a lot to do with bettering the Housing Problem—whatever that was—and was noted for the distinguished gatherings at her home. This alluring creature was evidently in politics, too!

Missy's eyes went dreamily out over the yard, but they didn't see the homely brick-edged flowerbeds nor the red lawn-swing nor the well-worn hammock nor the white picket fence in her direct line of vision. They were contemplating a slight girlish figure who was addressing a large audience, somewhere, speaking with swift, telling phrases that called forth continuous ripples of applause. It was all rather nebulous, save for the dominant girlish figure, which bore a definite resemblance to Melissa Merriam.

Then, with the sliding ease which obtains when fancy is the stage director, the scene shifted. Vast, elaborately beautiful grounds rolled majestically up to a large, ivy-draped house, which had turrets like a castle—very picturesque. At the entrance was a flight of wide stone steps, overlaid, now, with red carpet and canopied with a striped awning. For the mistress was entertaining some of the nation's notables. In the lofty hall and spacious rooms glided numberless men-servants in livery, taking the wraps of the guests, passing refreshments, and so forth. The guests were very distinguished-looking, all the men in dress suits and appearing just as much at home in them as Ridgeley Holman Dobson had, that night on the Opera House stage. Yes, and he was there, in Missy's vision, handsomer than ever with his easy smile and graceful gestures and that kind of intimate look in his dark eyes, as he lingered near the hostess whom he seemed to admire. All the women were in low-cut evening dresses of softly-tinted silk or satin, with their hair gleaming in sleek waves and long ear-rings dangling down. The young hostess wore ear-rings, also; deep-blue gems flashed out from them, to match her trailing deep blue velvet gown—Raymond Bonnet had once said Missy should always wear that special shade of deep blue.

Let us peep at the actual Missy as she sits there dreaming: she has neutral-tinted brown hair, very soft and fine, which encircles her head in two thick braids to meet at the back under a big black bow; that bow, whether primly-set or tremulously-askew, is a fair barometer of the wearer's mood. The hair is undeniably straight, a fact which has often caused Missy moments of concern. (She used to envy Kitty Allen her tangling, light-catching curls till Raymond Bonner chanced to remark he considered curly hair “messy looking”; but Raymond's approval, for some reason, doesn't seem to count for as much as it used to, and, anyway, he is spending the summer in Michigan.) However, just below that too-demure parting, the eyes are such as surely to give her no regret. Twin morning-glories, we would call them-grey morning-glories!—opening expectant and shining to the Sun which always shines on enchanted seventeen. And, like other morning-glories, Missy's eyes are the shyest of flowers, ready to droop sensitively at the first blight of misunderstanding. That is the chiefest trouble of seventeen: so few are there, especially among old people, who seem to “understand.” And that is why one must often retire to the summerhouse or other solitary places where one can without risk of ridicule let one's dreams out for air.

Presently she shook off her dreams and returned to the scarcely less thrilling periodical which had evoked them. Here was another photograph—though not nearly so alluring as that of the Lady Sylvia; a woman who had become an authoritative expounder of political and national issues—politics again! Missy proceeded to read, but her full interest wasn't deflected till her eyes came to some thought-compelling words:

“It was while yet a girl in her teens, in a little Western town (“Oh!” thought Missy), that Miss Carson mounted the first rung of the ladder she has climbed to such enviable heights. She had just graduated from the local high school (“Oh! oh!” thought Missy) and, already prodded by ambition, persuaded the editor of the weekly paper to give her a job...”

Once again Missy's eyes wandered dreamily out over the yard...

Presently a voice was wafted out from the sideporch:

“Missy!—oh, Missy! Where are you?”

There was mother calling—bother! Missy picked up the Ladies' Home Messenger and trudged back to bondage.

“What in the world do you mean, Missy? You could write your name all over the parlour furniture for dust! And then those stockings—”

Missy dutifully set about her tasks. Yet, ah! it certainly is hard to dust and darn while one's soul is seething within one, straining to fly out on some really high enterprise of life. However one can, if one's soul strains hard enough, dust and dream; darn and dream. Especially if one has a helpful lilt, rhythmic to dust-cloth's stroke or needle's swing, throbbing like a strain of music through one's head:

Cosmos—Cosmos!—Cosmos—Cosmos!

Missy was absent-eyed at the midday dinner, but no sooner was the meal over before she feverishly attacked the darning-basket again. Her energy may have been explained when, as soon as the stockings were done, she asked her mother if she might go down to the Library.

Mother and Aunt Nettie from their rocking-chairs on the side-porch watched the slim figure in its stiffly-starched white duck skirt and shirt-waist disappear down shady Locust Avenue.

“I wonder what Missy's up to, now?” observed Aunt Nettie.

“Up to?” murmured Mrs. Merriam.

“Yes. She hardly touched her chop at dinner and she's crazy about lamb chops. She's eaten almost nothing for days. And either shirking her work, else going at it in a perfect frenzy!”

“Growing girls get that way sometimes,” commented Missy's mother gently. (Could Missy have heard and interpreted that tone, she might have been less hard on grown-ups who “don't understand.”) “Missy's seventeen, you know.”

“H'm!” commented Aunt Nettie, as if to say, “What's THAT to do with it?” Somehow it seems more difficult for spinsters than for mothers to remember those swift, free flights of madness and sweetness which, like a troop of birds in the measurable heavens, sweep in joyous circles across the sky of youth.

Meanwhile Missy, the big ribbon index under her sailor-brim palpitantly askew, was progressing down Locust Avenue with a measured, accented gait that might have struck an observer as being peculiar. The fact was that the refrain vibrating through her soul had found its way to her feet. She'd hardly been conscious of it at first. She was just walking along, in time to that inner song:

“Cosmos—cosmos—cosmos—cosmos—”

And then she noticed she was walking with even, regular steps, stepping on every third crack in the board sidewalk, and that each of these cracks she stepped on ran, like a long punctuation, right through the middle of “cosmos.” So that she saw in her mind this picture: "Cos"mos" "cos"mos" "cos"mos" "cos"mos"

It was fascinating, watching the third cracks punctuate her thoughts that way. Then it came to her that it was a childish sort of game—she was seventeen, now. So she avoided watching the cracks. But “Cosmos” went on singing through her head and soul.

She came to Main Street and, ignoring the turn eastward which led to the Public Library, faced deliberately in the opposite direction.

She was, in fact, bound for the office of the Beacon—the local weekly. And thoughts of what tremendous possibilities might be stretching out from this very hour, and of what she would say to Ed Martin, the editor, made her feet now skim along impatiently, and now slow down with sudden, self-conscious shyness.

For Missy, even when there was no steadily nearing imminence of having to reveal her soul, on general principles was a little in awe of Ed Martin and his genial ironies. Ed Martin was not only a local celebrity. His articles were published in the big Eastern magazines. He went “back East” once a year, and it was said that on one occasion he had dined with the President himself. Of course that was only a rumour; but Cherryvale had its own eyes for witness that certain persons had stopped off in town expressly to see Ed Martin—personages whose names made you take notice!

Missy, her feet terribly reluctant now, her soul's song barely a whisper, found Ed Martin shirt-sleeved in his littered little sanctum at the back of the Beacon office.

“Why, hello, Missy!” he greeted, swinging round leisurely in his revolving-chair. Ed Martin was always so leisurely in his movements that the marvel was how he got so much accomplished. Local dignitaries of the most admired kind, perhaps, wear their distinction as a kind of toga; but Ed was plump and short, with his scant, fair hair always rumpled, and a manner as friendly as a child's.

“Haven't got another Valedictory for us to print, have you?” he went on genially.

Missy blushed. “I just dropped in for a minute,” she began uneasily. “I was just thinking—” She hesitated and paused.

“Yes,” said Ed Martin encouragingly.

“I was just thinking—that perhaps—” She clasped her hands tightly together and fixed her shining eyes on him in mute appeal. Then:

“You see, Mr. Martin, sometimes it comes over you—” She broke off again.

Ed Martin was regarding her out of friendly blue eyes.

“Maybe I can guess what sometimes comes over you. You want to write—is that it?”

His kindly voice and manner emboldened her.

“Yes—it's part that. And a feeling that—Oh, it's so hard to put into words, Mr. Martin!”

“I know; feelings are often hard to put into words. But they're usually the most worth while kind of feelings. And that's what words are for.”

“Well, I was just feeling that at my age—that I was letting my life slip away—accomplishing nothing really worth while. You know—?”

“Yes, we all feel like that sometimes, I guess.” Ed Martin nodded with profound solemnity.

Oh, Ed Martin was wonderful! He DID understand things! She went ahead less tremulously now.

“And I was feeling I wanted to get started at something. At something REALLY worth while, you know.”

Ed Martin nodded again.

“And I thought, maybe, you could help me get started—or something.” She gazed at him with open-eyed trust, as if she expected him with a word to solve her undefined problem.

“Get started?—at writing, you mean?”

Oh, how wonderfully Ed Martin understood!

He shuffled some papers on his desk. “Just what do you want to write, Missy?”

“I don't know, exactly. When I can, I'd like to write something sort of political—or cosmic.”

“Oh,” said Ed Martin, nodding. He shuffled the papers some more. Then: “Well, when that kind of a germ gets into the system, I guess the best thing to do is to get it out before it causes mischief. If it coagulates in the system, it can cause a lot of mischief.”

Just what did he mean?

“Yes, a devil of a lot of mischief,” he went on. “But the trouble is, Missy, we haven't got any job on politics or—or the cosmos open just now. But—”

He paused, gazing over her head. Missy felt her heart pause, too.

“Oh, anykind of a writing job,” she proffered quaveringly.

“I can't think of anything here that's not taken care of, except”—his glance fell on the ornate-looking “society page” of the Macon City Sunday Journal, spread out on his desk—“a society column.”

In her swift breath of ecstasy Missy forgot to note the twinkle in his eye.

“Oh, I'd love to write society things!” Ed Martin sat regarding her with a strange expression on his face.

“Well,” he said at last, as if to himself, “why not?” Then, addressing her directly: “You may consider yourself appointed official Society Editor of the Cherryvale Beacon.”

The title rolled with surpassing resonance on enchanted ears. She barely caught his next remark.

“And now about the matter of salary—”

Salary! Missy straightened up.

“What do you say to five dollars a week?” he asked.

Five dollars a week!—Five dollars every week! And earned by herself! Missy's eyes grew big as suns.

“Is that satisfactory?”

“Oh, YES!”

“Well, then,” he said, “I'll give you free rein. Just get your copy in by Wednesday night—we go to press Thursdays—and I promise to read every word of it myself.”

“Oh,” she said.

There were a thousand questions she'd have liked to ask, but Ed Martin, smiling a queer kind of smile, had turned to his papers as if anxious to get at them. No; she mustn't begin by bothering him with questions. He was a busy man, and he'd put this new, big responsibility on HER—“a free rein,” he had said. And she must live up to that trust; she must find her own way—study up the problem of society editing, which, even if not her ideal, yet was a wedge to who-knew-what? And meanwhile perhaps she could set a new standard for society columns—brilliant and clever...

Missy left the Beacon office, suffused with emotions no pen, not even her own, could ever have described.

Ed Martin, safely alone, allowed himself the luxury of an extensive grin. Then, even while he smiled, his eyes sobered.

“Poor young one.” He sighed and shook his head, then took up the editorial he was writing on the delinquencies of the local waterworks administration.

Meanwhile Missy, moving slowly back up Main Street, was walking on something much softer and springier than the board sidewalk under her feet.

She didn't notice even the cracks, now. The acquaintances who passed her, and the people sitting contentedly out on their shady porches, seemed in a different world from the one she was traversing.

She had never known this kind of happiness before—exploring a dream country which promised to become real. Now and then a tiny cloud shadowed the radiance of her emotions: just how would she begin?—what should she write about and how?—but swiftly her thoughts flitted back to that soft, warm, undefined deliciousness...

Society Editor!—she, Melissa Merriam! Her words would be immortalized in print! and she would soar up and up... Some day, in the big magazines... Everybody would read her name there—all Cherryvale—and, perhaps, Ridgeley Holman Dobson would chance a brilliant, authoritative article on some deep, vital subject and wish to meet the author.

She might even have to go to New York to live—New York! And associate with the interesting, delightful people there. Maybe he lived in New York, or, anyway, visited there, associating with celebrities.

She wished her skirts were long enough to hold up gracefully like Polly Currier walking over there across the street; she wished she had long, dangling ear-rings; she wished...

Dreamy-eyed, the Society Editor of the Cherryvale Beacon turned in at the Merriam gate to announce her estate to an amazed family circle.

Aunt Nettie, of course, ejaculated, “goodness gracious!” and laughed. But mother was altogether sweet and satisfying. She looked a little startled at first, but she came over and smoothed her daughter's hair while she listened, and, for some reason, was unusually tender all the afternoon.

That evening at supper-time, Missy noticed that mother walked down the block to meet father, and seemed to be talking earnestly with him on their way toward the house. Missy hadn't much dreaded father's opposition. He was an enormous, silent man and the young people stood in a certain awe of him, but Missy, somehow, felt closer to him than to most old people.

When he came up the steps to the porch where she waited, blushing and palpitant but withal feeling a sense of importance, he greeted her jovially. “Well, I hear we've got a full-fledged writer in our midst!”

Missy's blush deepened.

“What I want to know,” father continued, “is who's going to darn my socks? I'm afraid socks go to the dickens when genius flies in at the window.”

As Missy smiled back at him she resolved, despite everything, to keep father's socks in better order than ever before.

During supper the talk kept coming back to the theme of her Work, but in a friendly, unscoffing way so that Missy knew her parents were really pleased. Mother mentioned Mrs. Brooks's “bridge” Thursday afternoon—that might make a good write-up. And father said he'd get her a leather-bound notebook next day. And when, after supper, instead of joining them on the porch, she brought tablet and pencil and a pile of books and placed them on the dining-table, there were no embarrassing comments, and she was left alone with her thrills and puzzlements.

Among the books were Stevenson's “Some Technical Considerations of Style,” George Eliot's “Romola” and Carlyle's “Sartor Resartus”; the latter two being of the kind that especially lifted you to a mood of aching to express things beautifully. Missy liked books that lifted you up. She loved the long-drawn introspections of George Eliot and Augusta J. Evans; the tender whimsy of Barrie as she'd met him through “Margaret Ogilvie” and “Sentimental Tommy”; the fascinating mysteries of Marie Corelli; the colourful appeal of “To Have and To Hold” and the other “historical romances” which were having a vogue in that era; and Kipling's India!—that was almost best of all. She had outgrown most of her earlier loves—Miss Alcott whom she'd once known intimately, and “Little Lord Fauntleroy” and “The Birds' Christmas Carol” had survived, too, her brief illicit passion for the exotic product of “The Duchess.” And she didn't respond keenly to many of the “best sellers” which were then in their spectacular, flamboyantly advertised heyday; somehow they failed to stimulate the mind, stir the imagination, excite the emotions—didn't lift you up. Yet she could find plenty of books in the Library which satisfied.

Now she sat, reading the introspections of “Romola” till she felt her own soul stretching out—up and beyond the gas table-lamp glowing there in such lovely serenity through its gold-glass shade; felt it aching to express something, she knew not what.

Some day, perhaps, after she had written intellectual essays about Politics and such things, she might write about Life. About Life itself! And the Cosmos!

Her chin sank to rest upon her palm. How beautiful were those pink roses in their leaf-green bowl—like a soft piece of music or a gently flowing poem. Maybe Mrs. Brooks would have floral decorations at her bridge-party. She hoped so—then she could write a really satisfying kind of paragraph—flowers were always so inspiring. Those pink petals were just about to fall. Yet, somehow, that made them seem all the lovelier. She could almost write a poem about that idea! Would Mr. Martin mind if, now and then, she worked in a little verse or two? It would make Society reporting more interesting. For, she had to admit, Society Life in Cherryvale wasn't thrilling. Just lawn-festivals and club meetings and picnics at the Waterworks and occasional afternoon card-parties where the older women wore their Sunday silks and exchanged recipes and household gossip. If only there was something interesting—just a little dash of “atmosphere.” If only they drank afternoon tea, or talked about Higher Things, or smoked cigarettes, or wore long ear-rings! But, perhaps, some day—in New York...

Missy's head drooped; she felt deliciously drowsy. Into the silence of her dreams a cheerful voice intruded:

“Missy, dear, it's after ten o'clock and you're nodding! Oughtn't you go up to bed?”

“All right, mother.” Obediently she took her dreams upstairs with her, and into her little white bed.

Thursday afternoon, all shyness and importance strangely compounded, Missy carried a note-book to Mrs. Brooks's card-party. It was agreeable to hear Mrs. Brooks effusively explain: “Missy's working on the Beacon now, you know”; and to feel two dozen pairs of eyes upon her as she sat writing down the list of guests; and to be specially led out to view the refreshment-table. There was a profusion of flowers, but as Mrs. Brooks didn't have much “taste” Missy didn't catch the lilt of inspiration she had hoped for.

However, after she had worked her “write-up” over several times, she prefixed a paragraph on the decorations which she hoped would atone for the drab prosiness of the rest. It ran:

“Through the softly-parted portieres which separate Mrs. J. Barton Brooks's back-parlour from the dining room came a gracious emanation of scent and colour. I stopped for a moment in the doorway, and saw, abloom there before me, a magical maze of flowers. Flowers! Oh, multifold fragrance and tints divine which so ineffably enrich our lives! Does anyone know whence they come? Those fragile fairy creatures whose housetop is the sky; wakened by golden dawn; for whom the silver moon sings lullaby. Yes; sunlight it is, and blue sky and green earth, that endow them with their mysterious beauty; these, and the haze of rain that filters down when clouds rear their sullen heads. Sun and sky, and earth and rain; they alone may know—know the secrets of these fairy-folk who, from their slyly-opened petals, watch us at our hurrying business of life... We, mere humans, can never know. With us it must suffice to sweeten our hearts with the memory of fragrant flowers.”

She was proud of that opening paragraph. But Ed Martin blue-pencilled it.

“Short of space this week,” he said. “Either the flowers must go or 'those present.' It's always best to print names.” “Is the rest of it all right?” asked Missy, crest-fallen.

“Well,” returned Ed, with whom everything had gone wrong that day and who was too hurried to remember the fluttering pinions of Youth, “I guess it's printable, anyhow.”

It was “printable,” and it did come out in print—that was something! For months the printed account of Mrs. Brooks's “bridge” was treasured in the Merriam archives, to be brought out and passed among admiring relatives. Yes, that was something! But, as habitude does inevitably bring a certain staleness, so, as the pile of little clipped reports grew bigger Missy's first prideful swell in them grew less.

Perhaps it would have been different had not the items always been, perforce, so much the same.

There was so little chance to be “original”—one must use the same little forms and phrases over and over again: “A large gathering assembled on Monday night at the home of—” “Mrs. So-and-so, who has been here visiting Mrs. What's-her-name, has returned—” One must crowd as much as possible into as little space as possible. That was hard on Missy, who loved words and what words could do. She wasn't allowed much latitude with words even for “functions.” “Function” itself had turned out to be one of her most useful words since it got by Ed Martin and, at the same time, lent the reported affair a certain distinguished air.

It was at a function—an ice-cream festival given by the Presbyterian ladies on Mrs. Paul Bonner's lawn—that Missy met Archie Briggs.

She had experienced a curious, vague stir of emotions about going to the Bonner home that evening; it was the first time she'd ever gone there when Raymond Bonner wasn't present. Raymond was the handsomest and most popular boy in her “crowd,” and she used to be secretly pleased when he openly admired her more than he did the other girls—indeed, there had been certain almost sentimental passages between Raymond and Missy. Of course all that happened before her horizon had “broadened”—before she encountered a truly distinguished person like Ridgeley Holman Dobson.

Yet memories can linger to disturb, and Missy was accompanied by memories that moonlit Wednesday evening when, in her “best” dress of pale pink organdie, she carried her note-book to the Bonners' to report the lawn-festival.

She had hesitated over the pink organdie; not many of the “crowd” were going, and it was to be for her a professional rather than a social occasion. Perhaps it was sentiment that carried the day. Anyway, she was soon to be glad she'd worn the pink organdie.

Before she had a chance to get in any professional work, Mrs. Bonner bore down on her with a tall young man, a stranger.

“Oh, Missy! I want you to meet Raymond's cousin, Archie Briggs. Archie, this is one of Raymond's friends, Miss Merriam.” Missy was grateful for that “Miss Merriam.”

“Pleased to meet you, Miss Merriam,” said Mr. Briggs. He was dark and not very good-looking—not nearly so good-looking as Raymond—but there was something in his easy, self-assured manner that struck her as very distingue. She was impressed, too, by the negligent way in which he wore his clothes; not nearly so “dressed-up” looking as the Cherryvale boys, yet in some subtle way declassing them. She was pleased that he seemed to be pleased with her; he asked her to “imbibe” some ice-cream with him.

They sat at one of the little tables out on the edge of the crowd. From there the coloured paper lanterns, swaying on the porch and strung like fantastic necklaces across the lawn, were visible yet not too near; far enough away to make it all look like an unreal, colourful picture. And, above all, a round orange moon climbing up the sky, covering the scene with light as with golden water, and sending black shadows to crawl behind bushes and trees.

It was all very beautiful; and Mr. Briggs, though he didn't speak of the scene at all, made a peculiarly delightful companion for that setting. He was “interesting.”

He talked easily and in a way that put her at her ease. She learned that he and his sister, Louise, had stopped off in Cherryvale for a few days; they were on their way back to their home in Keokuk, Iowa, from a trip to California. Had Miss Merriam ever been in California? No; she'd never been in California. Missy hated to make the admission; but Mr. Briggs seemed the kind of youth not to hold it against a pretty girl to give him a chance to exploit his travels. She was a flattering listener. And when, after California had been disposed of, he made a wide sweep to “the East,” where, it developed, he attended college—had Miss Merriam ever been back East?

No; she'd never been back East. And then, with a big-eyed and appreciatively murmuring auditor, he dilated on the supreme qualities of that foreign spot, on the exotic delights of football and regattas and trips down to New York for the “shows.” Yes, he was “interesting”! Listening, Missy forgot even Mr. Ridgeley Holman Dobson. Here was one who had travelled far, who had seen the world, who had drunk deep of life, and who, furthermore, was near to her own age. And, other things being equal, nothing can call as youth calls youth. She wasn't conscious, at the time, that her idol was in danger of being replaced, that she was approaching something akin to faithlessness; but something came about soon which brought her a vague disturbance.

Missy, who had all but forgotten that she was here for a serious purpose, suddenly explained she had to get her “copy” into the office by ten o'clock; for the paper went to press next morning.

“I must go now and see some of the ladies,” she said reluctantly.

“Well, of course, if you'd rather talk to the ladies—” responded Mr. Briggs, banteringly. “Oh, it's not that!” She felt a sense of satisfaction, in her own importance as she went on to explain:

“I want to ask details and figures and so forth for my report in the paper—I'm society editor of the Beacon, you know.”

“Society editor!—you? For Pete's sake!”

At first Missy took his tone to denote surprised admiration, and her little thrill of pride intensified.

But he went on:

“What on earth are you wasting time on things like that for?”

“Wasting time—?” she repeated. Her voice wavered a little.

“I'd never have suspected you of being a highbrow,” Mr. Briggs continued.

Missy felt a surge akin to indignation—he didn't seem to appreciate her importance, after all. But resentment swiftly gave way to a kind of alarm: why didn't he appreciate it?

“Don't you like highbrows?” she asked, trying to smile.

“Oh, I suppose they're all right in their place,” said Mr. Briggs lightly. “But I never dreamed you were a highbrow.”

It was impossible not to gather that this poised young man of the world esteemed her more highly in his first conception of her. Impelled by the eternal feminine instinct to catch at possibly flattering personalities, Missy asked:

“What did you think I was?” “Well,” replied Mr. Briggs, smiling, “I thought you were a mighty pretty girl—the prettiest I've seen in this town.” (Missy couldn't hold down a fluttering thrill, even though she felt a premonition that certain lofty ideals were about to be assailed.)

“The kind of girl who likes to dance and play tennis and be a good sport, and all that.”

“But can't a—” Missy blushed; she'd almost said, “a pretty girl.” “Can't that kind of girl be—intellectual, too?”

“The saints forbid!” ejaculated Mr. Briggs with fervour.

“But don't you think that everyone ought to try—to enlarge one's field of vision?”

At that Mr. Briggs threw back his head and laughed a laugh of unrestrained delight.

“Oh, it's too funny!” he chortled. “That line of talk coming from a girl who looks like you do!”

Even at that disturbed moment, when she was hearing sacrilege aimed at her most cherished ideals—perilously swaying ideals, had she but realized it—Missy caught the pleasing significance of his last phrase, and blushed again. Still she tried to stand up for those imperilled ideals, forcing herself to ask:

“But surely you admire women who achieve—women like George Eliot and Frances Hodgson Burnett and all those?”

“I'd hate to have to take one of them to a dance,” said Mr. Briggs.

Missy turned thoughtful; there were sides to “achievement” she hadn't taken into consideration. “Speaking of dances,” Mr. Briggs was continuing, “my aunt's going to give Louise and me a party before we go—maybe Saturday night.”

A party! Missy felt a thrill that wasn't professional.

Mr. Briggs leaned closer, across the little table. “If you're not already booked up,” he said, “may I call for you Saturday night?”

Missy was still disturbed by some of the things Mr. Briggs had said. But it was certainly pleasant to have a visiting young man—a young man who lived in Keokuk and travelled in California and attended college in the East—choose her for his partner at his own party.

Later that night at the Beacon office, after she had turned in her report of the Presbyterian ladies' fete, she lingered at her desk. She was in the throes of artistic production:

“Mr. Archibald Briggs of Keokuk is visiting Mr. and Mrs. Paul Bonner.”

That was too bald; not rich enough. She tried again:

“Mr. Archibald Briggs of Keokuk, Iowa, is visiting at the residence of Mr. and Mrs. Paul Bonner on Maple Avenue.”

Even that didn't lift itself up enough out of the ordinary. Missy puckered her brows; a moist lock fell down and straggled across her forehead. With interlineations, she enlarged:

“Mr. Archibald Briggs, who has been travelling in California and the Far West, on his way to his home in Keokuk, Iowa, is visiting at the residence of Mr. and Mrs. Paul Bonner in Maple Avenue.”

An anxious scrutiny; and then “on his way” was amended to “en route.”

That would almost do. And then, as she regarded the finished item, a curious feeling crept over her: a sort of reluctance, distaste for having it printed—printing it herself, as it were. That seemed, somehow, too—too public. And then, as she sat in a maze of strange emotions, a sudden thought came to the rescue:

His sister—Louise! She'd forgotten to include Louise! How terrible if she'd left out his sister! And adding the second name would remove the personal note. She quickly interlined again, and the item stood complete:

“Mr. Archibald Briggs and Miss Louise Briggs, who have been travelling in California and the Far West, en route to their home in Keokuk, Iowa, are visiting at the residence of Mr. and Mrs. Paul Bonner in Maple Avenue.”

As her father entered the office to take her home, Missy gave a deep sigh, a sigh of mingled satisfaction and exhaustion such as seals a difficult task well done.

Late as it was when she reached home, Missy lingered long before her mirror. With the aid of a hand-glass she critically studied her pink organdie from every angle. She wished she had a new dress; a delicate wispy affair of cream net—the colour of moonlight—would be lovely and aristocratic-looking. And with some subtle but distinguished colour combination, like dull blue and lilac, for the girdle. That would be heavenly. But one can't have a new dress for every party. Missy sighed, and tilted back the dresser mirror so as to catch the swing of skirt about her shoe-tops. She wished the skirt was long and trailing; there was a cluster of tucks above the hem—maybe mother would allow her to let one out; she'd ask to-morrow.

Then she tilted the mirror back to its normal position; maybe mother would allow her to turn in the neck just a wee bit lower—like this. That glimpse of throat would be pretty, especially with some kind of necklace. She got out her string of coral. No. The jagged shape of coral was effective and the colour was effective, but it didn't “go” with pale pink. She held up her string of pearl beads. That was better. But ah! if only she had some long pearl pendants, to dangle down from each ear; she knew just how to arrange her hair—something like Lady Sylvia Southwoode's—so as to set them off.

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.

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.

“You look flushed to me. And sort of heavy around the eyes—don't you think so, papa?”

“She does look sort of peaked,” affirmed Mr. Merriam.

“She's been dragging around all day,” went on the mother. Missy tried harder than ever to “perk up”—if they found out about the headache, like as not they'd put a taboo on the party—grown-ups were so unreasonable. Parties were good for headaches.

“I heard over at Mrs. Allen's this afternoon,” Aunt Nettie put in, “that there's measles in town. All the Smith children are down with it.” Missy recalled the oldest little Smith girl, with the fever, at the picnic, but said nothing.

“I wonder if Missy could have run into it anywhere,” said mother anxiously.

“Me?” ejaculated the Society Editor, disdainfully.

“Children have measles!”

“Children! Listen to her!” jeered Aunt Nettie with delight.

“I've had the measles,” Missy went on. “And anyway I feel fine!” So saying, she set to to make herself eat the last mouthful of the blackberry cobbler she didn't want.

It was hard to concentrate on her toilette with the fastidious care she would have liked. Her arms were so heavy she could scarcely lift them to her head, and her head itself seemed to have jagged weights rolling inside at her slightest movement. She didn't feel up to experimenting with the new coiffure d'la Lady Sylvia Southwoode; even the exertion of putting up her hair the usual way made her uncomfortably conscious of the blackberry cobbler. She wasn't yet dressed when Mr. Briggs called for her. Mother came in to help.

“Sure you feel all right?” she enquired solicitously.

“Oh, yes—fine!” said Missy.

She was glad, on the rather long walk to the Bonners', that Mr. Briggs was so easy to talk to—which meant that Mr. Briggs did most of the talking. Even at that it was hard to concentrate on his conversation sufficiently to make the right answers in the occasional lulls.

And things grew harder, much harder, during the first dance. The guests danced through the big double parlours and out the side door on to the big, deep porch. It was inspiringly beautiful out there on the porch: the sweet odour of honeysuckle and wistaria and “mock orange” all commingled; and the lights shining yellow out of the windows, and the paler, glistening light of the moon spreading its fairy whiteness everywhere. It was inspiringly beautiful; and the music was divine—Charley Kelley's orchestra was playing; and Mr. Briggs was a wonderful dancer. But Missy couldn't forget the oppressive heat, or the stabbing weights in her head, or, worse yet, that blackberry cobbler.

As Mr. Briggs was clapping for a second encore, she said tremulously:

“Will you excuse me a minute?—I must run upstairs—I forgot my handkerchief.”

“Let me get it for you,” offered Mr. Briggs gallantly.

“No! oh, no!” Her tone was excited and, almost frantically, she turned and ran into the house and up the stairs.

Up there, in the bedroom which was temporarily the “ladies' cloak-room, prostrate on the bed, Mrs. Bonner found her later. Missy protested she was now feeling better, though she thought she'd just lie quiet awhile. She insisted that Mrs. Bonner make no fuss and go back down to her guests. Mrs. Bonner, after bringing a damp towel and some smelling-salts, left her. But presently Missy heard the sound of tip-toeing steps, and lifted a corner of the towel from off her eyes. There stood Mr. Briggs.

“Say, this is too bad!” he commiserated. “How's the head?”

“It's better,” smiled Missy wanly. It wasn't better, in fact, but a headache isn't without its advantages when it makes a young man forsake dancing to be solicitous.

“Sure it's better?”

“Sure,” replied Missy, her smile growing a shade more wan.

“Because if it isn't—” Mr. Briggs began to rub his palms together briskly—“I've got electricity in my hands, you know. Maybe I could rub it away.”

“Oh,” said Missy.

Her breathing quickened. The thought of his rubbing her headache away, his hands against her brow, was alarming yet exhilarating. She glanced up as she felt him removing the towel from her head, then quickly down again. She felt, even though her face was already fiery hot, that she was blushing. She was embarrassed, her head was racking, but on the whole she didn't dislike the situation. Mr. Briggs unlinked his cuffs, turned back his sleeves, laid his palms on her burning brow, and began a slow, pressing movement outward, in both directions, toward her temples.

“That feel good?” he asked. “Yes,” murmured Missy. She could scarcely voice the word; for, in fact, the pressure of his hands seemed to send those horrible weights joggling worse than ever, seemed to intensify the uneasiness in her throat—though she wouldn't for worlds let Mr. Briggs think her unappreciative of his kindness.

The too-kind hands stroked maddeningly on.

“Feel better now?”

“Yes,” she gasped.

Things, suddenly, seemed going black. If he'd only stop a minute! Wouldn't he ever stop? How could she make him stop? What could she do?

The whole world, just then, seemed to be composed of the increasing tumult in her throat, the piercing conflict in her head, and those maddening strokes—strokes—strokes—strokes. How long could she stand it?

Presently, after eons it seemed, she desperately evoked a small, jerky voice.

“I think—it must—be getting worse. Thanks, but—Oh, won't you—please—go away?”

She didn't open her eyes to see whether Mr. Briggs looked hurt, didn't open them to see him leave the room. She was past caring, now, whether he was hurt or not. She thought she must be dying. And she thought she must be dying, later, while Mrs. Bonner, aided by a fluttering, murmuring Louise, attended her with sympathetic ministrations; and again while she was being taken home by Mr. Bonner in the Bonner surrey—she had never dreamed a surrey could bump and lurch and jostle so. But people seldom die of measles; and that was what young Doc Alison, next morning, diagnosed her malady. It seemed that there is more than one kind of measles and that one can go on having one variety after another, ad nauseam, so to speak.

“The case is well developed—you should have called me yesterday,” said young Doc rebukingly.

“I knew you were sick yesterday!” chided mother. “And to think I let you go to that party!”

“Party?” queried young Doc. “What party?—when?”

Then he heard about the function at the Bonners', and Missy's debute.

“Well,” he commented, “I'll bet there'll be a fine little aftermath of measles among the young folks of this town.”

The doctor's prophecy was to fulfill itself. On her sick-bed Missy heard the reports of this one and that one who, in turn, were “taken down.”

For the others she was sorry, but when she learned Mr. Archibald Briggs had succumbed, she experienced poignant emotions. Her emotions were mingled: regret that she had so poorly repaid a deed of gallant service but, withal, a regret tempered by the thought they were now suffering together—he ill over there in Raymond Bonner's room, she over here in hers—enduring the same kind of pain, taking the same kind of medicine, eating the same uninteresting food. Yes, it was a bond. It even, at the time, seemed a romantic kind of bond.

Then, when days of convalescence arrived, she wrote a condoling note to the two patients at the Bonnets'—for Louise had duly “taken down,” also; and then, as her convalescence had a few days' priority over theirs, she was able to go over and visit them in person.

Friendships grow rapidly when people have just gone through the same sickness; people have so much in common to talk about, get to know one another so much more intimately—the real essence of one another. For instance Missy within a few days learned that Louise Briggs was an uncommonly nice, sweet, “cultured” girl. She enlarged on this point when she asked her mother to let her accept Louise's invitation to visit in Keokuk.

“She's the most refined girl I've ever met, mother—if you know what I mean.”

“Yes—?” said mother, as if inviting more.

“She's going to a boarding-school in Washington, D. C., this winter.”

“Yes—?” said mother again.

“And she's travelled a lot, but not a bit uppish. I think that kind of girl is a good influence to have, don't you?”

Mother, concentrated on an intricate place in her drawn-Yu-ork, didn't at once answer. Missy gazed at her eagerly. At last mother looked up.

“But what about your work on the Beacon?” she asked.

“Oh, I've thought about that,” Missy returned glibly. “And I really think a trip of this kind would do me more good than just hanging round a poky newspaper office. Travel, and a different sphere—Keokuk's a big town, and there seems to be a lot going on there. It's really a good chance to enlarge my field of vision—to broaden my horizon—don't you see, mother?”

Mother bent her head lower over her work.

“Are you sure the thought of parties and a lot going on and—” mother paused a second—“and Archie has nothing to do with it, dear?”

Missy didn't mind the teasing hint about Archie when mother said “dear” in that tone. It meant that mother was weakening.

Nor did thoughts of the abandoned Cosmos trouble her very much during the blissfully tumultuous days of refurbishing her wardrobe and packing her trunk. Nor when she wrote a last society item for Ed Martin to put in the Beacon:

“Miss Melissa Merriam of Locust Avenue has gone for a two weeks' visit at the home of Miss Louise Briggs in Keokuk, Iowa.”'

The little item held much in its few words. It was a swan-song.

As Ed Martin inelegantly put it, in speaking later with her father, Missy had “canned the Cosmos.”