[CHAPTER II]
THE PEACOCK'S CRY
Half an hour or so later the children met again, and together made their way downstairs to the dining-room, Ferdy carefully carrying his presents, which had been increased by that of a nice big home-made cake from cook, and a smart little riding-whip from two or three of the other servants.
Papa and mamma had not yet made their appearance; it was barely half-past eight.
Ferdy's eyes and Chrissie's too wandered inquiringly round the room. Neither knew or had any sort of idea what the present of the day—their parents'—was to be. Many wonderings had there been about it, for Mrs. Ross had smiled in a very mysterious way once or twice lately, when something had been said about Ferdy's birthday, and the children had half expected to see some veiled package on the sideboard or in a corner of the room, ready for the right moment.
But everything looked much as usual, except that there was a lovely bouquet of flowers—hot-house flowers, the gardener's best—beside Ferdy's plate.
"Oh, I say!" he exclaimed, as he took it up and sniffed it approvingly, "what a good humour Ferguson must be in to have given me these very best flowers. Why, he doesn't even like mamma herself to cut these big begonias. They are splendiferous, aren't they, Chris? I shall take one out for a button-hole, and wear it all day. But oh, Chrissie, I do wonder what papa's and mamma's present is going to be—don't you?"
"I should just think I did," his sister replied. "I haven't the very least inch of an idea this time, and generally, before, I have had some. It isn't in this room, any way."
"No, I expect it's some little thing, something mamma has kept safe in a drawer, a pair of gold sleeve-links, or, or—no, not a writing-case, for she'd know about yours. P'r'aps a pocket microscope or some book."