erself. Then, quite naturally, this romance recalled to her the romance
next door, so deliciously absorbing her waking and dreaming hours--the
romance of her own Miss Princess. Miss Princess--Missy's more formal
adaptation of Young Doc's soubriquet for Helen Greenleaf in the days of
his romance--was the most beautiful heroine imaginable. And the Wedding
was next week, and Missy was to walk first of all the six flower-girls,
and the Pink Dress was all but done, and the Pink Stockings--silk!--were
upstairs in the third drawer of the high-boy! Oh, it was a golden
world, radiant with joy. Of course--it's only earth, after all, and not
heaven--she'd rather the bridegroom was going to be young Doc. But Miss
Princess had arranged it this other way--her bridegroom had come out of
the East. And the Wedding was almost here!... There never was morning so
fair, nor grass so vivid and shiny, nor air so soft. Above her head the
cherry-buds were swelling, almost ready to burst. From the open windows
of the house, down the street, sounds from a patient piano, flattered
by distance, betokened that Kitty Allen was struggling with
"Perpetual Motion"; Missy, who had finished her struggles with that
abomination-to-beginners a month previously felt her sense of beatitude
deepen.

Presently into this Elysium floated her mother's voice, summoning her to
the house. Rounding the corner of the back walk with the perambulator,
she collided with the grocer-boy. He was a nice-mannered boy, picking up
the Anthology and Baby's doll from the ground, and handing them to her
with a charming smile. Besides, he had very bright, sparkling eyes.
Missy fancied he must be some lost Prince, and inwardly resolved to make
up, as soon as alone, a story to this effect.

In the house, mother told her it was time to go to Miss Martin's to try
on the Pink Dress.

Down the street, she encountered Mr. Hackett, the rich bridegroom come
out of the East, a striking figure, on that quiet street, in the natty
white flannels suggesting Cleveland, Atlantic City, and other foreign
places.

"Well, if here isn't Sappho!" he greeted her gaily. Missy blushed. Not
for worlds had she suspected he was hearing her, that unlucky morning in
the grape-arbour, when she recited her latest Poem to Miss Princess. Now
she smiled perfunctorily, and started to pass him.

But Mr. Hackett, swinging his stick, stood with his feet wide apart and
looked down at her.

"How's the priestess of so