Mother, back on the porch, looked up from her sewing to watch the disappearing figure, and smiled.
“We have our little girl back again,” she observed to Aunt Nettie.
“I wish that O'Neill girl'd move away,” Aunt Nettie said. “Missy's a regular chameleon.”
It's a pity Missy couldn't hear her new classification; it would have interested her tremendously; she was always interested in the perplexing vagaries of her own nature. However, at the Library, she was quite happy: for she found two books, each the right kind, though different. One was called “Famous Heroines of Medieval Legend.” They all had names of strange beauty and splendour--Guinevere--Elaine--Vivien--names which softly rustled in syllables of silken brocade. The other book was no less satisfying. It was a book of poems--wonderful poems, by a man named Swinburne--lilting, haunting things of beauty which washed through her soul like the waves of a sun-bejewelled sea. She read the choicest verses over and over till she knew them by heart:
Before the beginning of years, there came to the making of man Grief with her gift of tears, and Time with her glass that ran...
From too much love of living, from hope and fear set free, We thank with brief thanksgiving whatever gods may be That no life lives forever; that dead men rise up never; That even the weariest river winds somewhere safe to sea...
The verses brought her beautiful, stirring thoughts to weave into verses of her own when she should find a quiet hour in the summerhouse; or to incorporate into soul-soothing improvisings at the piano.
Next morning, after her hour's stint at finger exercises, she improvised and it went beautifully. She knew it was a success both because of her exalted feelings and because Poppy meowed out in discordant disapproval only once; the rest of the time Poppy purred as appreciatively as for “The Maiden's Prayer.” Dear Poppy! Missy felt suddenly contrite for her defection from faithful Poppy. And Poppy was getting old--Aunt Nettie said she'd already lived much longer than most cats. She might die soon. Through a swift blur of tears Missy looked out toward the summerhouse where, beneath the ramblers, she decided Poppy should be buried. Poor Poppy! The tears came so fast she couldn't wipe them away. She didn't dream that Swinburne was primarily responsible for those tears.