"Ay, it was nice in there!" said Tim, as they walked homewards in the dirty, dismal, muddy streets. "I wish I had a birthday."
"Did you ever have one?" asked Angel; "I never did."
"Yes, one," said Tim; "only once, and that was a long, long time ago."
"What is a birthday?" said Angel.
"It's a nice sort of a day!" said Tim, "When everybody's good to you, and gives you things. One day mother let me have a birthday."
"And what was it like?" said little Angel.
"Oh, the kitchen was swept all clean and tidy, and mother never scolded me once all day, and she made a cake for tea that had lots of currants in it—not just one in each slice, like the cake we have on Sundays. And father gave me a penny and a packet of goodies for my very own! That's the only birthday I ever had. Mother says she hasn't any time for birthdays now."
"I wonder if I shall ever have a birthday," said little Angel with a sigh, as she went in to turn the mangle once more.
[CHAPTER II]
WHO KNOCKS?