y she unbraided her long, mouse-coloured braids; twisted
them into tentative loops over her ears; earnestly studied the effect.
No; her hair was too straight and heavy. She tried to imagine undulating
waves across her forehead-if only mother would let her use crimpers!
Perhaps she would! And then, perhaps, she wouldn't look so plain. She
wished she were not so plain; the longing to be pretty made her fairly
ache.

Then slowly the words of that man crept across her memory: "What
beautiful eyes!" Could he have meant her? She stared at the eyes which
stared back from the looking-glass till she had the odd sensation that
they were something quite strange and Allen to her: big, dark, deep, and
grave eyes, peering out from some unknown consciousness. And they were
beautiful eyes!

Suddenly she was awakened from her dreams by a voice at the door:
"Missy, why in the world haven't you gone to bed?"

Missy started and blushed as though discovered in mischief.

"What have you been doing with your hair?"

"Oh, just experimenting. Mother, may I have it crimped for the party?"

"I don't know--we'll see. Now hurry and jump into bed."

After mother had kissed her good night and gone, and after the light had
been turned out, Missy lay awake for a long time.

Through the lace window curtains shone the moonlight, a gleaming path
along which Missy had often flown out to be a fairy. It is quite easy to
be a fairy. You lie perfectly still, your arms stretched out like wings.
Then you fix your eyes on the moonlight and imagine you feel your
wings stir. And the first thing you know you feel yourself being wafted
through the window, up through the silver-tinged air. You touch the
clouds with your magic wand, and from them fall shimmering jewels.

Missy was fourteen, going on fifteen, but she could still play being a
fairy.

But to-night, though the fairy path stretched invitingly to her very
bed, she did not ride out upon it. She shut her eyes, though she felt
wide-awake. She shut her eyes so as to see better the pictures that came
before them.

With her eyes shut she could see herself quite plainly at the party.
She looked like herself, only much prettier. Yes, and a little older,
perhaps. Her pink dotted mull was easily recognizable, though it had
taken on a certain ethereally chic quality--as if a rosy cloud had been
manipulated by French fingers. Her hair was a soft, bright, curling
triumph. And when she moved she was graceful