But that didn't spoil her enjoyment of the vision; it would all come
to her in time. Missy believed in Inspiration. Mother did not.
Mother had worried all through the four years of her daughter's high
school career--over "grades" or "exams" or "themes" or whatnot. She
had fretted and urged and made Missy get up early to study; had even
punished her. And, now, she was sure Missy would let time slide by
and never get the Valedictory written on time. The two had already
"had words" over it. Mother was dear and tender and sweet, and Missy
would rather have her for mother than any other woman in Cherryvale,
but now and then she was to be feared somewhat.
Sometimes she would utter an ugly, upsetting phrase:
"How can you dilly-dally so, Missy? You put everything off!--put
off--put off! Now, go and try to get that thesis started!"
There was nothing for Missy to do but go and try to obey. She took
tablet and pencil out to the summerhouse, where it was always
inspiringly quiet and beautiful; she also took along the big blue-
bound Anthology from the living-room table--an oft-tapped fount; but
even reading poetry didn't seem able to lift her to the creative
mood.
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