She must get at
that outline; she wanted to do it, and yet she shrank from
beginning. As often happens when the mind is restless, she had an
acute desire to do something with her hands. She wanted to go ahead
with Marguerite's hat, but mother, who had a headache and was cross,
put her foot down. "Not another minute of dawdling till you write
that thesis!" she said, and she might as well have been Gabriel--or
whoever it is who trumpets on the day of doom.
So Missy once more took up tablet and pencil. But what's the use
commanding your mind, "Now, write!" Your mind can't write, can it?--
till it knows what it's going to write about. No matter how much the
rest of you wants to write.
At supper-time Missy had no appetite. Mother was too ill to be at
the table, but father noticed it.
"Haven't caught mamma's headache, have you?" he asked solicitously.
Missy shook her head; she wished she could tell father it was her
soul that ached. Perhaps father sensed something of this for, after
glancing at her two or three times, he said:
"Tell you what!--Suppose you go to the lecture with me to-night.
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