“O, do tell me, Sadie—quick!” Elizabeth begged, and she listened with absorbed attention to the story of Sadie’s experiences, and could hardly believe that Mr. Burchell had really agreed to sell for her.
“I bet Miss Laura had been talking to him,” Sadie ended, “for he asked me if I knew her and then said right away he’d take your cakes every Wednesday and Saturday. Now what you got to say?”
“N-n-nothing,” cried Elizabeth, “only—if I can really, really sell them, I’ll be most too happy to live!”
All that day Elizabeth went around with a song in her heart. The first consignment of cakes sold promptly, and then orders began to come in. It meant extra work for her, but if only she could keep on selling she would not mind that. And as the weeks slipped away, every Saturday she added to the little store of bills in her bureau drawer. Even when she had paid for her materials and Mr. Burchell’s commission, and for a girl who helped her with the Saturday work, there was so much left that she counted it and recounted it with almost incredulous joy. All this her very own—she who never before had had even one dollar of her own! O, it was a lovely world after all, Elizabeth told herself joyfully.
But after a while she noticed a change in Sadie. She was still interested in the cake-making, but now it seemed a cold critical interest, lacking the warm sympathy and delight in it which she had shown at first. Elizabeth longed to ask what was wrong but she had not the courage, so she only questioned with her eyes. Maybe by-and-by Sadie would tell her. If not—with a long sigh Elizabeth would leave it there, wistfully hoping. So April came and Elizabeth was eighteen years old, though still she looked two years younger. She did not suppose that any one but herself would remember her birthday—no one ever had through all the years. Sadie’s glance seemed sharper and colder than usual that morning, and Elizabeth sorrowfully wondered why. The postman came just as Sadie was starting for school. He handed her an envelope addressed to Elizabeth, and she carried it to the kitchen.
“For me?” Elizabeth cried, hastily taking her hands from the dish-water. She drew from the envelope a birthday card in water-colour with Laura’s initials in one corner.
“O, isn’t it lovely!” she cried. “I never had a birthday—anything—before. Isn’t it beautiful, Sadie?”
“Uh-huh,” was all Sadie’s response, but her lack of enthusiasm could not spoil Elizabeth’s pleasure in the gift. Somebody remembered—Miss Laura remembered and made that just for her, and joy sang in her heart all day. And in the evening Olga came bringing a little silver pin. Elizabeth looked at it with incredulous delight.
“For me!” she said again. “O Olga, did you really make this for me?”
Olga laughed. “Why not?”