What Two Children Did Part 7

A doctor from the hospital had sent down a wagon and goat team. There were bicycles and a hobby-horse, and boats safely fastened; so they rode, ran, trotted, or sat in the boats, all the happy day.

Two things were almost forgotten in all the excitement. One was, that this was Ethelwyn's birthday, and the other, that they had to go away the next day.

In the evening, however, there was a birthday cake, with eight candles on it. Then they had the fun of opening the box from j.a.pan.

There was a whole family of quaint dolls for Elizabeth, labeled by Dorothy's husband, "Heathen dolls: never baptized."

"Nor never will be, by Nan," said Elizabeth, fondly hugging them to her, and fixing guilty Nan with a steadfast glance.

There was the cunningest watch for Ethelwyn about the size of a quarter of a dollar.

"It's a live one, though," said its owner proudly, shaking it and holding it up to her ear.

There was a parasol and a sash for Nan, and three j.a.panese costumes complete for the "three little maids from school." These, they at once put on. Then they all went out on the lawn, and hung j.a.panese lanterns in the trees, and Nan's father set off the fireworks, which were also in the box; so the day closed in a blaze of glory.

At last they were in the sitting-room again.

The adopted children clean and dressed in white gowns were asleep in their dainty iron beds, and dreaming of happiness past, and to come.

Nan, her father, and mother, and Mrs. Stevens came in for a last word.

"I shall put on mourning to-morrow," announced Nan in a melancholy voice, "for I shall be a widow. What makes you go away, Mrs. Rayburn?"

"School and business call us to town, Nan, but we shall come every summer, and spend Christmas here, too, I hope."

"This has been the best birthday I ever spent or ever expect to," said Ethelwyn with the air of having spent at least fifty. "It is such a good idea to give things away instead of always getting them, but if you can do both, as happened this time, it covers everything."

Then they were all quiet for a little while, until Mrs. Rayburn went to the piano, and touching the keys, sang softly:

"And does thy day seem dark, All turned to rain?

Seek thou one out whose life Is filled with pain.

Put out a hand to help This greater need, And lo! within thy life The sun will s.h.i.+ne indeed."

_CHAPTER X_ _Beth's Birthday_

The s.p.a.ce between our birthdays seems to grow apace, When we're young they loiter; when we're old they race.

It began with a bad time; and so did the next day, as things sometimes do, even though they turn out all right at the end, like a rainy morning that clears off into a blue and gold afternoon. Ethelwyn and Beth did not fall out very often, but then they didn't have a birthday very often, nor Christmas, nor any other of the days when the land flows with ice cream and candy, and is bounded on the next day by crossness and pitfalls.

That was one reason.

That day early they had decided never to be bad again, never; "because,"

said Ethelwyn, "it is very troublesome getting good again, and makes mother feel bad."

"Uh huh," said Beth.

They were not up yet, and the door leading into their mother's room was open.

This was their "present" birthday, but they had not yet begun on their presents. For fear you shouldn't understand this, I will tell you Beth's way of explaining it.

"Sister and me is twin children two years all but a month apart, and on the first birthday which comes in July, we have presents, and on the second, in August, we have a party, or a trip away, or something, and we have all the month to choose in."

They generally chose thirty different things. Their mother nearly always let them have the last one, but once or twice, as when they wanted to go up in an air s.h.i.+p, she compromised on a steam launch on the river, as safer, and nearer at hand.

This morning being "present" morning, they were glad to see the suns.h.i.+ne darting in at their window, and to hear the birds singing outside something like this--

"Wake up, children: the day is new.

It's full of joy for dears like you."

So they woke up laughing, at least Ethelwyn did, and told Beth what the birds sang; but Beth was sleepy and uttered her usual "Uh huh."

"You are a very lazy child," said Ethelwyn in a superior tone, "and are not thinking about your presents at all, nor the making of good revolutions."

"What's them?" asked Beth, still with her eyes shut.

"Something you need to make very much, for you are not too good a child, I'm sorry to say. Mother esplained about people making things like that at New Year's, and birthdays, and so I've been thinking of some specially for you--"

"I can make my own," said Beth, fully awake now, "and I can help make yours when it comes to that, I guess."

"Well," said Ethelwyn, "I have been thinking of a few for you to begin with. One is, never to be late for breakfast, and not to be selfish about getting the bath first, and never wanting to give up when your sister wants you to--"

"You can make your own, while I'm getting my bath first now," said Beth, sliding out of bed. "I'm anxious to see my presents."

Ethelwyn, speechless with rage, hastened her departure with a push, and then fell asleep until the breakfast bell rang. How mortified she felt after what she had said to Beth! Sierra Nevada hurried her through her bath and toilet as quickly as she could, but she would be late for breakfast anyway. When she came into the dining-room, her mother kissed her gravely, but she was not allowed to look at her presents until after she had eaten. She felt very miserable at the shrieks of delight from Beth, who was dancing around her doll house, with its two floors beautifully furnished, and dolls of every size, shape, and color living in it.

No wonder the oatmeal and the m.u.f.fins lost their flavor!

But Ethelwyn effervesced quickly, and as quickly subsided. Presently she was glad again, for there were books, candy, games, a walking doll from Paris that could talk as well, and a camera from Aunty Stevens. The camera, she told her mother, she had been longing for for years and years.

Uncle Tom sent each of them some candy, and a five dollar gold piece, with a note intimating that they were to spend it as they liked. Then there were two bicycles from Uncle Bob, some more candy, a pony, and some home-made mola.s.ses candy from their grandmother. The pony was a real live pony, and Joe, a dear friend of theirs, from a near-by livery stable was to take care of it.

"I feel thankful that we are a large family of relatives," said Beth, after a long and speechless period of rapture.

Their mother, being a wise woman, put away some of the candy, all but grandmother's mola.s.ses, and a box or two for friends. Then came little Nora, the niece of their dressmaker, Mrs. O'Neal, with a quart of pecans, for the birthday. She went home with a box of candy, and told her little sister Katie about it.

"O I wanted to go too," wailed Katie.

"You were asleep, dear, when I went, but I told them the nuts were from you, too."

"But I wanted to hear them say, 'thank you!' Take me now."

"I have to go down town for auntie. But she'll let you go."

"Yes, indeed," said their busy aunt when asked.