s in the
thick of things at the Country Club. It's depasse to ride side-saddle,
anyway."

Missy was silent; even when she felt herself misunderstood by her family
and maltreated, she had a bothersome conscience.

"There's no real class to riding horseback," Tess went on, "unless
you're up to date. You got to be up to date. Of course Cherryvale's
slow, but that's no reason we've got to be slow, is it?"

"No-o," agreed Missy hesitantly. But she was emboldened to mention her
father's discarded pepper-and-salt trousers. At the first she didn't
intend really to appropriate them, but Tess caught up the idea
enthusiastically. She immediately began making concrete plans and, soon,
Missy caught her fervour. That picture of herself as a dashing, fearless
horsewoman had come to life again.

When she got home, mother, looking worried, was waiting for her.

"Where on earth have you been? Look at that straggly hair! And that
dress, fresh just this morning--limp as a dish-rag!"

Missy tried to explain, but the anxiety between mother's eyes deepened
to lines of crossness.

"For heaven's sake! To go rushing off like that without a rain-coat or
even an umbrella! And you pretend to be afraid of thunder-storms! Now,
Missy, it isn't because you've ruined your dress or likely caught your
death of cold--but to think you'd wilfully disobey me! What on earth AM
I to do with you?"

She made Missy feel like an unregenerate sinner. And Missy liked her
stinging, smarting sensations no better because she felt she didn't
deserve them. That heavy sense of injustice somewhat deadened any pricks
of guilt when, later, she stealthily removed the pepper-and-salts from
the upstairs store-closet.

But Aunt Nettie's eagle eyes chanced to see her. She went to Mrs.
Merriam.

"What do you suppose Missy wants of those old pepper-and-salt pants?"

"I don't know, Nettie. Why?"

"She's just sneaked 'em off to her room. When she saw me coming up the
stairs, she scampered as if Satan was after her. What DO you suppose she
wants of them?"

"I can't imagine," repeated Mrs. Merriam. "Maybe she hardly knows
herself--girls that age are like a boiling tea-kettle; you know; their
imagination keeps bubbling up and spilling over, and then disappears
into vapour. I sometimes think we bother Missy too much with
questions--she doesn't know the answers herself."

Mrs. Merriam was probably feeling the compunctions mothers often feel
after they have scolded.

Au