And it isn't especially interesting to tag along with a lot of
children and their Sunday-school teachers.
She wondered if, maybe, she could manage to get her "report" without
actually going.
But she'd already forgotten the picnic by the time she crept into
her little bed, across which the moon, through the window, spread a
shining breadth of silver. She looked at the strip of moonlight
drowsily--how beautiful moonlight was! And when it gleamed down on
dewy grass . . . everything outdoors white and magical . . . and
dancing on the porch . . . he must be a wonderful dancer--those
college boys always were . . . music . . . the scent of flowers . .
. "the prettiest girl I've seen in this town" . . .
Yes; the bothersome picnic was forgotten; and the Beacon, alluring
stepping-stone to achievements untold; yes, even Ridgeley Holman
Dobson himself.
The moon, moving its gleaming way slowly up the coverlet, touched
tenderly the face of the sleeper, kissed the lips curved into a
soft, dreaming smile. Missy went to the picnic next day, for her
mother was unsympathetic toward the suggestion of contriving a
"report.
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