“Name, age, and date, like a nice white tombstone,” observed Maud, complacently, at which funereal remark, Mrs. Shaw, who was down in honour of the day, dropped her napkin, and demanded her salts.

“Whose doing is that?” asked Tom, surveying the gift with satisfaction; for it recalled the happier birthdays, which seemed very far away now.

“I didn’t know what to give you, for you’ve got everything a man wants, and I was in despair till I remembered that dear grandma always made you a little cake like that, and that you once said it wouldn’t be a happy birthday without it. So I tried to make it just like hers, and I do hope it will prove a good, sweet, plummy one.”

“Thank you,” was all Tom said, as he smiled at the giver, but Polly knew that her present had pleased him more than the most elegant trifle she could have made.

“It ought to be good, for you beat it up yourself, Tom,” said Maud. “It was so funny to see you working away, and never guessing who the cake was for. I perfectly trembled every time you opened your mouth, for fear you’d ask some question about it. That was the reason Polly preached, and I kept talking when she was gone.”

“Very stupid of me; but I forgot all about to-day. Suppose we cut it; I don’t seem to care for anything else,” said Tom, feeling no appetite, but bound to do justice to that cake, if he fell a victim to his gratitude.

“I hope the plums won’t all be at the bottom,” said Polly, as she rose to do the honours of the cake, by universal appointment.

“I’ve had a good many at the top already, you know,” answered Tom, watching the operation with as much interest as if he had faith in the omen.

Cutting carefully, slice after slice fell apart; each firm and dark, spicy and rich, under the frosty rind above; and laying a specially large piece in one of grandma’s quaint little china plates, Polly added the flowers and handed it to Tom, with a look that said a good deal, for, seeing that he remembered her sermon, she was glad to find that her allegory held good, in one sense at least. Tom’s face brightened as he took it, and after an inspection which amused the others very much, he looked up, saying, with an air of relief, “Plums all through; I’m glad I had a hand in it, but Polly deserves the credit, and must wear the posy,” and turning to her, he put the rose into her hair with more gallantry than taste, for a thorn pricked her head, the leaves tickled her ear, and the flower was upside down.

Fanny laughed at his want of skill, but Polly wouldn’t have it altered, and everybody fell to eating cake, as if indigestion was one of the lost arts. They had a lively tea, and were getting on famously afterward, when two letters were brought for Tom, who glanced at one, and retired rather precipitately to his den, leaving Maud consumed with curiosity and the older girls slightly excited, for Fan thought she recognized the handwriting on one, and Polly, on the other.

One half an hour and then another elapsed, and Tom did not return. Mr. Shaw went out, Mrs. Shaw retired to her room escroted by Maud, and the two girls sat together wondering if anything dreadful had happened. All of a sudden a voice called “Polly!” and that young lady started out of her chair as if the sound had been a thunder-clap.

“Do run! I’m perfectly fainting to know what the matter is,” said Fan.

“You’d better go,” began Polly, wishing to obey, yet feeling a little shy.

“He don’t want me; besides, I couldn’t say a word for myself if that letter was from Sydney,” cried Fanny, hustling her friend towards the door, in a great flutter.