When Gladys opened her eyes on her birthday morning, the sun was streaming across her room, all decorated in rose and white. It was the prettiest room any little girl could have, and everything about the child looked so bright, one would have expected her to laugh just for sympathy with the gay morning; but as she sat up in bed she yawned instead and her eyes gazed soberly at the dancing sunbeams.
"Ellen," she called, and a young woman came into the room.
"Oh, you're awake, Miss Gladys. Isn't this a fine birthday Mother Nature's fixed up for you?"
The pleasant maid helped the little girl to bathe and dress, and, as the toilet went on, tried to bring a cheerful look into Gladys's face. "Now what are you hoping your mother has for you?" she asked, at last.
"I don't know," returned the child, very near a pout. "There isn't anything I want. I've been trying to think what I'd like to have, and I can't think of a thing." She said this in an injured tone, as if the whole world were being unkind to her.
Ellen shook her head. "You are a very unlucky child," she returned impressively.
"I am not," retorted Gladys, looking at Ellen in astonishment. The idea that she, whom her father and mother watched from morning until night as their greatest treasure, could be called unlucky! She had never expressed a wish in her life that had not been gratified. "You mustn't say such things to me, Ellen," added the child, vexed that her maid did not look sorry for having made such a blunder.
Ellen had taken care of her ever since she was born, and no one should know better what a happy, petted life she had led; but Ellen only shook her head now; and when Gladys was dressed she went down to the dining-room where her parents were waiting to give her a birthday greeting.
They kissed her lovingly, and then her mother said:—
"Well, what does my little girl want for her gift?"