"Perhaps every one does not look upon me with your partial eyes," the lovely girl returned, with a musical little laugh.
The man carried the hand he held to his lips and kissed it lingeringly.
"Let me see," he remarked, after thinking a moment, "isn't it somebody's birthday to-day?"
"So it is! but I had not thought of it before," exclaimed the maiden, with a lovely flush sweeping into her cheeks. "And," with a far-away look in her eyes, "I am eighteen years old."
"Eighteen!" and Walter Dinsmore started slightly, while a vivid red suddenly dyed his brow, and a look of pain settled about his mouth.
But he soon conquered his emotion, whatever it might have been, and strove to say, lightly:
"Well, then, somebody must have a gift. What would you like, Mona?"
She laughed out sweetly again at the question.
"You know I have very strange notions about gifts, Uncle Walter," she said. "I do not care much about having people buy me pretty or costly things as most girls do; I like something that has been made or worn or prized by the giver—something that thought and care have been exercised upon. The little bouquet of blue-fringed gentians which you walked five miles to gather for me last year was the most precious gift I had; I have it now, Uncle Walter."
"You quaint child!" said the man, with a quiver of strong feeling in his tone. "You would like something prized by the giver, would you?" he added, musingly. "Well, you shall be gratified."