Soon she made an excuse to
get away.
Out in the summerhouse it was celestially beautiful and peaceful.
And, magically, all this peace and beauty seemed to penetrate into
her and become a part of herself. The glory of the pinkish-mauve
sunset stole in and delicately tinged her so; the scent of the
budding ramblers, and of the freshly-mowed lawn, became her own
fragrant odour; the soft song of the breeze rocking the leaves
became her own soul's lullaby. Oh, it was a heavenly world, and the
future bloomed with enchantments! She could stay in Cherryvale this
summer! Dear Cherryvale! Green prairies were so much nicer than
snow-covered mountains, and gently sloping hills than sharp-pointing
peaks; and much, much nicer than tempestuous waterfalls was the
sweet placidity of Swan Creek. Dear Swan Creek. . .
The idea of Raymond's trying to make her jealous! How simple-minded
boys are! But what a dear, true friend he was, and how much more is
friendship than mere pleasures like travel--or prominence or fine
grades or anything. . .
It was at this point in her cogitations that Missy, seeing her
Anthology--an intimate poetic companion--where she'd left it on a
bench, dreamily picked it up, turned a few pages, and then was moved
to write.
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