And when she went into the day-nursery things seemed to get still nicer. There were no bowls of bread and milk, but a regular “treat” breakfast set out. Tea-cups for herself and the boys, and dear little twists of bacon, and toast—toast in a toast-rack—and some honeycomb in a glass dish.
“Oh,” said Mary, “it is my birfday. I’m quite sure now there’s no mistook.”
And in a minute Leigh and Artie came running in. I do not know, by the by, that Leigh came running, most likely he was walking, for he was rather a solemn sort of boy, but Artie made up for it. He scarcely ever walked. He was always hopping or jumping or turning head over heels, he could almost do wheels, like a London street boy. And this morning he came in with an extra lot of jumps because it was Mary’s birthday.
“You thought we’d forgotten, Leigh and me, now didn’t you?” he said. “But we hadn’t a bit. It was Leigh said you liked the bacon twisted up and it was me reminded about the honey. Wasn’t it now, nurse? And we’ve got a present for you after breakfast. It’s downstairs with papa’s and mamma’s. We’ll give you them all of us together, Mary.”
But the mention of mamma brought a cloud again to Mary’s face.
“Nursey says mamma’s dot a headache, and we can’t see her. Not Mary on her birfday.”
At this Leigh looked up.
“Is that true?” he said. “Is mamma ill?”
“She’s asleep, Master Leigh, and she may sleep a good while. I dare say you’ll all see her when she wakes.”
“Her shouldn’t be ’nill on my birfday,” began Mary again.