Marjorie and Eric joined hands, the fun entered into their souls, and they certainly jumped with energy.
Mr. Wilton began to have a very bad dream. Gyp, his favorite spaniel, seemed suddenly to have changed into a fiend, and to have seized him by the leg. Finally the dream dissolved itself into a medley of laughter and childish cries. He opened his eyes: two little figures with very red faces and very disordered hair were tumbling about on his bed.
"Eh—what? Is the house on fire?" he gasped.
"Oh, father! At last!" exclaimed Marjorie. She flung herself upon him, and began to kiss him all over his face.
"My dear child—very affectionate of you, no doubt, but why this sudden rush of devotion in the middle of the night?"
"It isn't!" exclaimed Eric in a voice of awful emphasis. "It's nearly five o'clock!"
"And it's your birthday," said Marjorie, beginning to kiss him again.
"Yes," continued Eric, "it's your birthday, father. Our day, you know."
The victim in the bed lay quite still for a moment. That much grace he felt he must allow himself to recover from the shock of the announcement. Then he said, as cheerfully as he could speak, "What did you say the hour was?"
"Close on five o'clock—awfully late," answered both children, shouting their words into his ears.