"Why, sister Mary," said George Phillips, "you are n't crying for that old reprobate, are you?"
"No, Georgie; only crying because nobody can cry for him. You see, Georgie dear, I have been wicked myself, and know how to pity the erring."
"You wicked, Mary! I suppose you have in your mind the few little lies you told when you were the bound slave of that old Irish ogre and his ogress. It's my opinion the angel that writes down things don't make much account of such sins."
Day by day, Mary won her way to the inmost hearts of all the household. Mrs. Phillips was especially interested in the young stranger, who seemed so superior to her station,—who moved about so softly, and was so careful and watchful. She loved to have her in her apartments, and often sat and gazed at her, so mournfully, so searchingly, that Mary longed inexpressibly to kneel by her side and tell her all.
At last the time came. It was Sunday, and little Lilly's birthday. Mrs. Phillips was so much better that she was brought down stairs, for the first time for many weeks, and seated on the vine-shaded piazza, overlooking the river. She looked very happy, and there was a delicate rose-tint on her cheek. All the family were gathered around her; it was a jubilee of love. Her husband sat at her side; the boys stood near, leaning over the railing, watching the graceful sloops sailing by. Mary sat on a low stool before her, showing some Bible pictures to Lilly, who wore a birthday wreath of blue violets and white rosebuds. Suddenly the child was heard to say, "This is my birthday, you know, Mary, and that's why it's so pleasant. When is your birthday?"
"O, never mind," said Mary, blushing, "look at this picture."
"No, no, not till you tell me when your birthday comes."
"I cannot tell you, dear."
"Why, don't you know? I 'm only five years old, and I know mine."
"Why, how is this, Mary?" asked Mrs. Phillips; "don't you really know your birthday?"