that love-drink! Breathing
quickly, Missy read the fateful part:

"It happened so that they were thirsty, and it seemed by the colour and
the taste that it was a noble wine. When Sir Tristram took the flasket
in his hand, and said, 'Madam Isoud, here is the best drink that ever
ye drunk, that Dame Braguaine, your maiden, and Gouvernail, my servant,
have kept for themselves.' Then they laughed (laughed--think of it!)
and made good cheer, and either drank to other freely. And they thought
never drink that ever they drank was so sweet nor so good. But by that
drink was in their bodies, they loved either other so well that never
their love departed for weal neither for woe." (Think of that, too!)

Missy gazed at the accompanying illustration: La Beale Isoud slenderly
tall in her straight girdled gown of grey-green velvet, head thrown
back so that her filleted golden hair brushed her shoulders, violet eyes
half-closed, and an "antique"-looking metal goblet clasped in her two
slim hands; and Sir Tristram so imperiously dark and handsome in his
crimson, fur-trimmed doublet, his two hands stretched out and gripping
her two shoulders, his black eyes burning as if to look through her
closed lids. What a tremendous situation! Love that never would depart
for weal neither for woe!

Missy sighed. For she had read and re-read what was the fullness of
their woe. And she couldn't help hating King Mark, even if he was
Isoud's lawful lord, because he proved himself such a recreant and false
traitor to true love. Of course, he WAS Isoud's husband; and Missy lived
in Cherryvale, where conventions were not complicated and were strictly
adhered to; else scandal was the result. But she told herself that this
situation was different because it was an unusual kind of love. They
couldn't help themselves. It wasn't their fault. It was the love-drink
that did it. Besides, it happened in the Middle Ages...

Suddenly her reverie was blasted by a compelling disaster. The baby,
left to his own devices, had stuck a twig into his eye, and was uttering
loud cries for attention. Missy remorsefully hurried over and kissed his
hurt. As if healed thereby, the baby abruptly ceased crying; even sent
her a little wavering smile. Missy gazed at him and pondered: why do
babies cry over their tiny troubles, and so often laugh over their
bigger ones? She felt an immense yearning over babies--over all things
inexplicable.

That evening after supper, grandpa an