"Two!" sang Evangeline joyously, already on her way; "I've got two.
Two's a lot of eggs, isn't it?"
They mixed and beat and stirred together, and Evangeline never knew how many more eggs than two went into the rich golden batter. Elly Precious, tied for safety-first into one of Miss Theodosia's chairs, looked on with an interest more or less intermittent; when Evangeline's offerings of "teeny speckles" of toothsome batter were delayed, the interest flagged. The baking time was for Evangeline a period of utmost anxiety—there were so many direful things that might happen to Stefana's cake. If it fell down or burned up—
"Oh!" she breathed with infinite relief when the strain was over, and only lovely things had happened to the cake, "I'm so happy I could sing if I had any vocal strings! That's queer about me, isn't it? I don't have any trouble with my talkin' strings."
"Not a bit," agreed Miss Theodosia gayly. "What makes you think you couldn't sing?"
"Because once I tried to sing Elly Precious to sleep an' it woke him up, awfully up. He was scared. So I always talk him to sleep. Miss Theodosia, don't birthday cakes sometimes have candles round the edge of 'em? I don't mean Stefana's, of course, but rich folks' birthday cakes."
"I mean Stefana's. Evangeline, we'll have thirteen candles!" but inwardly she was wondering if forty would not fit better round the edge of aged little Stefana's birthday cake. "And we'll decorate it—write something on the top, you know. We'll make the Story Man do it for us."
Evangeline was awed into near-silence. "You mean—poetry? Mercy gracious, poetry!"
"Something lovely," nodded Miss Theodosia a little vaguely. If it be poetry, the Story Man must do that part, too. A little later, when Evangeline had shouldered Elly Precious and departed and the Story Man had sauntered again into sight, she hailed him with relief. Displaying the snowy little cake, she explained the situation.
"You must do the rest. We want a 'sentiment' on it, Evangeline and I. What is the use of being a literary person if you cannot inscribe a birthday cake?"
He groaned a little, reminiscently. He remembered the autograph albums of his bashful youth. How much better than an autograph album was a frosted cake?