“Happy birthday!” Dixie cried the moment that she was sure that the pretty violet eyes of her sister were really open.
“Oh, goodie! I’m nine years old to-day. Sylvia, are you awake?” Carol then called to the little guest who was sleeping on a cot bed in another part of the big loft room over the kitchen of the log cabin.
That small maiden sat up and nodded. Although she was still thin, a remarkable change had taken place in the one week that she had lived with “poor folks.” She actually looked interested and happy, and there was a flush in the sallow cheeks, for even in seven days plenty of porridge and cream, hours of riding on the mouse-colored burro, and no candy and cake had begun to transform her from a sickly, spindling child to one who, were the pleasant simple ways continued, would soon be rosy and robust.
“Happy birthday, Carol,” Sylvia called gleefully. Then she added. “There’s a s’prise coming to-day.”
“Oh, goodie, what is it?” The younger of the Martin sisters was already dressing, for Dixie had said that “whatever you do on your birthday you will do all the year,” and so great had been the change in Carol that she now actually wished to be down-stairs in time to help her older sister prepare breakfast.
Ten minutes later they were all in the kitchen. Carol’s pretty face was flushed with excitement. “If there’s a s’prise for me,” she said, “why can’t I have it now?”
The others shook their heads. Ken, who had come in with a pail brimming with creamy milk, looked up at the clock, and then began to count. “Oh, it’s hours and hours before the real surprise is to begin,” he said to tease.
“But I can’t wait hours and hours. I just can’t. I’ll burst with curiosity! I know that I will,” the small girl declared as she brought Baby Jim from his crib and began to dress the little fellow.
Only a few months before, as Dixie could easily recall, this same little maid had pouted and felt very much abused if she had been asked to perform this loving service for her small brother. What gratitude there was in the heart of the little mother of the brood that glorious sixth of November.
Ken was straining the milk. Sylvia was setting the table. “Let’s use the best kept-for-company dishes all day,” Dixie said. “Birthdays are very special.”