But what chance for this in poky Cherryvale?
This tranquil June morning, as Missy sat in the summerhouse with the
latest Ladies' Home Messenger in her lap, the dissatisfied feeling
had got deeper hold of her than usual. It was not acute discontent--
the kind that sticks into you like a sharp splinter; it was
something more subtle; a kind of dull hopelessness all over you. The
feeling was not at all in accord with the scene around her. For the
sun was shining gloriously; Locust Avenue lay wonderfully serene
under the sunlight; the iceman's horses were pulling their enormous
wagon as if it were not heavy; the big, perspiring iceman whistled
as if those huge, dripping blocks were featherweight; and, in like
manner, everybody passing along the street seemed contented and
happy. Missy could remember the time when such a morning as this,
such a scene of peaceful beauty, would have made her feel contented,
too.
Now she sighed, and cast a furtive glance through the leafage toward
the house, a glance which reflected an inner uneasiness because she
feared her mother might discover she hadn't dusted the parlours;
mother would accuse her of "dawdling.
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