This made Midget think that the gift was not a swing, as she had already guessed that,—and then she heard Uncle Steve's voice calling her, and she ran gayly back to the dining-room.
The birthday breakfast was a festival indeed. Marjorie's place was decorated with flowers, and even the back of her chair was garlanded with wreaths.
At her plate lay such a huge pile of parcels, tied up in bewitching white papers and gay ribbons, that it seemed as if it would take all day to examine them.
"Goodness me!" exclaimed Midget. "Did anybody ever have so many birthday gifts? Are they all for me?"
"Any that you don't want," said Uncle Steve, "you may hand over to me. I haven't had a birthday for several years now, and I'd be thankful for one small gift."
"You shall have the nicest one here," declared Marjorie, "and I don't care what it is, or who sent it."
"The nicest one isn't here," observed Grandma, with a merry twinkle in her eye, and Marjorie knew that she was thinking of the surprise in the orchard.
"Of course, I mean except the swing," said Marjorie, looking roguishly at Uncle Steve to see if she had guessed right.
"You've been peeping!" he exclaimed, in mock reproach, and then
Marjorie knew that whatever it was, it wasn't a swing.
"You know I haven't—you know I wouldn't," she declared, and then she began to open the lovely-looking bundles.