All the talk around her came dimly and,
sometimes, so lost was she in hazy delight that she didn't hear a
direct question.
Finally father asked:
"What's the day-dream, Missy?--thinking up a hat for me?"
Missy started, and forgot to note that his enquiry was facetious.
"No," she answered quite seriously, "I haven't finished Marguerite's
yet."
"Yes," cut in mother, in the tone of reproach so often heard these
days, "she's been frittering away the whole afternoon. And not a
glimmer for the thesis yet!"
At that Missy, without thinking, unwarily said:
"Oh, yes, I have, mother."
"Oh," said her mother interestedly. "What is it?"
Missy suddenly remembered and blushed--grown-ups seldom understand
unless you're definite.
"Well," she amended diffidently, "I've got the subject."
"What is it?" persisted mother.
Everybody was looking at Missy. She poured the cream over her
berries, took a mouthful; but they all kept looking at her, waiting.
"'Ships That Pass in the Night,'" she had to answer.
"For Heaven's sake!" ejaculated Aunt Nettie. "What're you going to
write about that?"
This was the question Missy had been dreading.
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