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. And you have to be in the mood before you can create, don't you? Missy felt this necessity vaguely but strongly; but she couldn't get it across to mother.
And even worse than mother's reproaches was when father finally gave her a “talking to”; father was a big, wise, but usually silent man, so that when he did speak his words seemed to carry a double force. Missy's young friends were apt to show a little awe of father, but she knew he was enormously kind and sympathetic. Long ago--oh, years before--when she was a little girl, she used to find it easier to talk to him than to most grown-ups; about all kinds of unusual things--the strange, mysterious, fascinating thoughts that come to one. But lately, for some reason, she had felt more shy with father. There was much she feared he mightn't understand--or, perhaps, she feared he might understand.
So, in this rather unsympathetic domestic environment, the class Valedictorian, with the kindling of her soul all laid, so to speak, uneasily awaited the divine spark. It was hard to maintain an easy assumption that all was well; especially after the affair of the hats got under way.
