Missy | Page 7

grass had assumed a peculiarly agreeable clatter. And though, at breakfast, father grumbled at his eggs being overdone, and though mother complained that the laundress hadn't come, and though Aunt Nettie's head was still aching, all these things, somehow, seemed trivial and of no importance.
Missy could scarcely wait to get her dusting and other little "chores" done, so that she might go to the piano.
However, she hadn't got half-way through "One Sweetly Solemn Thought" before her mother appeared.
"Missy! what in the world do you mean? I've told you often enough you must finish your practising before strumming at other things."
Strumming!
But Missy said nothing in defence. She only hung her head. Her mother went on:
"Now, I don't want to speak to you again about this. Get right to your exercises--I hope I won't have to hide that hymn-book!"
Mother's voice was stern. The laundress's defection and other domestic worries may have had something to do with it. But Missy couldn't consider that; she was too crushed. In stricken silence she attacked the "exercises."
Not once during that day had she a chance to let out, through music, any of her surcharged devotionalism. Mother kept piling on her one errand after another. Mother was in an unwonted flurry; for the next day was the one she and Aunt Nettie were going to Junction City and there were, as she put it, "a hundred and one things to do."
Through all those tribulations Missy reminded herself of "Thy rod and Thy staff." She didn't yet know just what these aids to comfort were; but the Psalmist had said of them, "they shall comfort me." And, somehow, she did find comfort. That is what Faith does.
And that night, after she had said her prayers and got into bed, once more the grace of God rode in on the moonlight to rest upon her pillow.
But the next afternoon, when she had to kiss mother good-bye, a great tide of loneliness rushed over Missy, and all but engulfed her. She had always known she loved mother tremendously, but till that moment she had forgotten how very much. She had to concentrate hard upon "Thy rod and Thy staff" before she was able to blink back her tears. And mother, noticing the act, commented on her little daughter's bravery, and blinked back some tears of her own.
In the excitement of packing up to go to grandma's house, Missy to a degree forgot her grief. She loved to go to grandma's house. She liked everything about that house: the tall lilac hedge that separated the yard from the Curriers' yard next door; the orchard out in back where grew the apples which sometimes gave her an "upset"; the garden where grandpa spent hours and hours "cultivating" his vegetables; and grandma's own particular garden, which was given over to tall gaudy hollyhocks, and prim rows of verbena, snap-dragon, phlox, spicy pinks, heliotrope, and other flowers such as all grandmothers ought to have.
And she liked the house itself, with its many unusual and delightful appurtenances: no piano--an organ in the parlour, the treadles of which you must remember to keep pumping, or the music would wheeze and stop; the "what-not" in the corner, its shelves filled with fascinating curios--shells of all kinds, especially a big conch shell which, held close to the ear, still sang a song of the sea; the marble-topped centre-table, and on it the interesting "album" of family photographs, and the mysterious contrivance which made so lifelike the double "views" you placed in the holder; and the lamp with its shade dripping crystal bangles, like huge raindrops off an umbrella; and the crocheted "tidies" on all the rocking-chairs, and the carpet-covered footstools sitting demurely round on the floor, and the fringed lambrequin on the mantel, and the enormous fan of peacock feathers spreading out on the wall--oh, yes, grandma's was a fascinating place!
Then besides, of course, she adored grandpa and grandma. They were charming and unlike other people, and very, very good. Grandpa was slow-moving, and tall and broad--even taller and broader than father; and he must be terribly wise because he was Justice-of-the- Peace, and because he didn't talk much. Other children thought him a person to be feared somewhat, but Missy liked to tuck her hand in his enormous one and talk to him about strange, mysterious things.
Grandma wasn't nearly so big--indeed she wasn't much taller than Missy herself; and she was proud of her activity--her "spryness," she called it. She boasted of her ability to stoop over and, without bending her knees, to lay both palms flat on the floor. Even Missy's mother couldn't do that, and sometimes she seemed to grow a little tired of being reminded of it. Grandma liked to talk as much as grandpa liked to keep silent; and always, to the running