Where the old hut had stood was the prettiest little cottage you ever saw, with the very clematis, and honeysuckle, and wild roses Violet had planted trained over it; and there was Reuben's garden all in order, just as they had left it; and under the great elm tree there was his grave, with a new white stone at the head, and the old man's name and age cut in it.
They alighted at the cottage door, and Violet noticed how the air was perfumed with her own favorite flowers. While Alfred stooped to gather some of these for Violet, his father said,—
"Do you remember, Mary, whose birthday this is?"
"Sure enough, it's Violet's!" exclaimed the old woman.
"And this," said the doctor, "is Violet's birthday present—this house and garden, and these beds of flowers."
But before they could thank him, he added,—
"In return, you are to give up your school, and teach my own children. Will you do it, Violet? They are so young it will be easy at first, and meantime you shall have teachers yourself."
Pleased as Violet and Mary were, I don't think they were half as glad as Alfred, who threw his book down into the grass so suddenly at his father's speech, I should not be surprised if it broke fairy Ambition's head.