One of these sweet June days was Beryl's birthday, and it was the first birthday, as far as she could remember, on which she had had her father's company. The anniversary of Beryl's birth had never been celebrated with the joyous festivities that form a bright spot in most of our memories of childhood. The day was one of gloom for her father, recalling as it did the darkest shadow that had fallen on his life. He had never cared to spend it at Egloshayle, and, now that it found him there so unexpectedly, he felt little disposed to plan a picnic or any such treat as Beryl hinted would be an agreeable way of marking the occasion.
So he promised the child that they would "keep" her birthday when he came home again in the autumn, and told her meanwhile to take counsel with Coral, and try to decide what would be the most delightful way of spending the day.
Beryl was perfectly satisfied with this promise. Her real birthday passed very quietly. The June roses were blooming in the garden, as on that day long ago when Guy Hollys had gathered them to place in the cold hands of his young wife. The sunshine was glorious, as it had been on that morn when its brilliance had struck so cruelly on the heart whose very light of life seemed gone. But now the healing hand of Time had done its work. That sorrow was but a memory. The wailing babe, whose presence had been held unwelcome on that day, had grown into the fine, fair girl whose beauty and grace gladdened her father's eyes. As Mr. Hollys' gaze rested on his child, he felt how great was his consolation, and his heart was not untouched by thankfulness to the Giver of all good, who had mercifully spared to him this precious gift.
Beryl made a wreath of the white roses, and went with her father to place it upon her mother's grave. She laid some flowers, too, upon the mound beneath which Coral's parents slept. The churchyard was no gloomy place to Beryl, but a familiar and loved spot, which she often visited.
"Papa," she surprised him by saying, when they had stood for some minutes beside her mother's grave, and her eyes were thoughtfully bent on the turf on which the roses made a spot of whiteness, "Papa, if we had been drowned the other day, Coral and I, where would you have buried us, do you think?"
"Oh, my dear! How can I tell?" he answered hastily. "What a question to ask!"
"Would you have put me here by mamma's side, and Coral over there with her mother?" asked Beryl, indicating with her foot the place where she supposed her body would have lain.
"Perhaps; but do not let us speak of it, darling."
But the subject was of interest to Beryl.
"If it had been so, papa," she asked curiously, "would you have come sometimes to put flowers on my grave?"