When the two little girls ran down to breakfast the next morning, they wore very happy faces, for Dimple had just discovered that her birthday was only a week off, and she and Florence had been planning for it.
"Papa always does something very specially nice for me," Dimple had just announced, "and I always have a lovely birthday-cake with icing and candles. Mamma makes it herself, because I always think it tastes better when she does. And she lets me choose what we are to have for dinner. You tell what you like best, Florence, and we'll have that."
"I like fried chicken better than anything, except, of course, ice cream and cake."
"So do I. I'm so glad you like what I do, and I'm very glad my birthday is in June, for it is such a rosy month, and we can have strawberries with the ice cream. There are so many good things to eat in June; strawberries, and peas, and asparagus and—oh, I don't know what all." This conversation took place before breakfast, and Dimple was sitting on the floor hugging her knees, and looking as contented as it was possible to be.
They were still talking on the important subject when they entered the dining-room.
"What's all this about birthdays?" asked Mr. Dallas, looking up from his morning paper.
"Why, papa, don't you know my birthday will be next week?" returned Dimple, as she went up to give him his morning kiss. "Aren't you glad?" she added.
"Is it an occasion for great joyfulness? I'm not so sure of that. Don't you know it makes mamma feel very serious to have a daughter eight—or is it nine—years old? And as for myself, I begin to feel the grey hairs popping out all over my head at the very thought of it."
"I shall be nine years old. But, papa, you are always making out that you are old and that makes me feel sorry. I don't see a single grey hair. People are not very old till they are forty, at least, are they?"