She only knew she was
telling it all to God. And presently, in her heart, in whispers
fainter than the stir of the slumbering leaves outside, she heard
His answer. God had heard; she knew it by the peace He laid upon her
tumultuous heart.
Steeped in faith, she fell asleep. But not a dreamless sleep. Missy
always dreamed, these nights: wonderful dreams--magical, splendid,
sometimes vaguely terrifying, often remotely tied up with some event
of the day, but always wonderful. And the last dream she dreamed,
this eventful night, was marvellous indeed. For it was a replica of
the one she had dreamed the night before.
It was an omen of divine portent. No one could have doubted it.
Missy, waking from its subtle glamour to the full sunlight streaming
across her pillow, hugged Poppylinda, crooned over her and, though
preparing to sacrifice that golden something whose prospect had
gilded her life, sang her way through the duties of her toilet.
That accomplished, she lifted out her Poem, and wrote at the bottom:
"Your true friend, MELISSA M."
Then she tucked the two sheets in her blouse, and scrambled
downstairs to be chided again for not eating her breakfast.
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