Missy slept.
When she awoke, the sun, which is so blithely indifferent to
sufferings of earth, was high up in a clear sky. The new-washed air
was cool and sparkling as a tonic. Missy's physical being felt more
refreshed than she cared to admit; for her turmoil of spirit had
awakened with her, and she felt her body should be in keeping.
By the time she got dressed and downstairs, Uncle Charlie had
breakfasted and was about to go down town. He said Aunt Isabel was
still in bed, but much better.
"She had no business to drink all those sodas," he said. "Her
stomach was already upset from all that ice-cream and cake the night
before--and the hot weather and all--"
Missy was scarcely listening to the last. One phrase had caught her
ear: "Her stomach upset!"--How could Uncle Charlie?
But when she went up to Aunt Isabel's room later, the latter
reiterated that unromantic diagnosis. But perhaps she was
pretending. That would be only natural.
Missy regarded the convalescent; she seemed quite cheerful now,
though wan. And not so lovely as she generally did. Missy couldn't
forbear a leading remark.
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