“How do you know, Miss Donnithorne?”
“I know,” she answered. “A little bird has told me.” Now, all my life I had hated women who spoke about having confidences with little birds; and I now said impulsively, “Please don’t say that. I am so inclined to like you just awfully! But if you wouldn’t speak about that bird—”
“You have heard of it before?” she asked, and the sparkle came back into her eyes. “Well, never mind how I know. I suppose I know because I have got observation. But, to begin with, tell me how old you are.”
“I’ll be sixteen in a little less than six months.”
“Bless us!” said Miss Donnithorne, “why can’t the child say she is fifteen and a half?”
“Oh, that’s because of the birthdays,” I replied.
“The birthdays?” she asked, raising her brows.
“Miss Donnithorne,” I said impulsively, “a birthday is the day in the whole year. A birthday makes up for many very dismal days. On a birthday, when it comes, the sun shines and the world is beautiful. Oh, Miss Donnithorne, what would life be without birthdays?”
I spoke with such emotion and earnestness that the little lady’s face was quite impressed; there even came a sort of dimness over her eyes.
“Then most of your days are dull, little Rachel?” she said.