Kitty herself--in pink dotted mull, of course--was looking rather
wan. Mrs. Allen explained she had eaten too much of the candy Cousin
Jim had brought her.
Cousin Jim, with creaking new shoes, leaped down to help Missy in.
She had received her mother's last admonition, her father's last
banter, Aunt Nettie's last anxious peck at her sash, and was just
lifting her foot to the surrey step when suddenly she said: "Oh!"
"What is it?" asked mother. "Forgotten something?"
Missy had forgotten something. But how, with mother's inquiring eyes
upon her, and father's and Aunt Nettie's and Mrs. Allen's and
Kitty's and Cousin Jim's inquiring eyes upon her, could she mention
Raymond's bouquet in the summerhouse? How could she get them? What
should she say? And what would they think? "No," she answered
hesitantly. "I guess not." But the bright shining of her pleasure
was a little dimmed. She could not forget those flowers waiting,
waiting there in the summerhouse. She worried more about them, so
pitifully abandoned, than she did about Raymond's having to go
without a remembrance.
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