THE mangle went on, backwards and forwards, until very late that night. Little Angel's arms and back ached terribly when the work was finished and she and her mother crept close to the flickering fire.
"Now go to bed, Angel," said her mother.
"Oh, mother, please let me stop a little longer with you. Are you going to sit up?"
"Yes, I must wait till he comes," said the mother wearily, glancing at the large clock which was ticking solemnly in the corner of the little kitchen. "Oh dear, oh dear! what a lot of trouble there is in the world!"
"Mother," said little Angel suddenly, "did you ever have a birthday?"
Mrs. Blyth did not answer at first, but bent lower over the fire. Little Angel fancied she was crying.
"Yes," she said at last, "when I was a little girl, and my father was alive. I wish I was a little girl now."
"Was it so very nice having a birthday, mother?"
"It was very nice having a father," said Mrs. Blyth. "Ay, and he was a good father too; he was a real good man, was your grandfather, Angel."
"What did you do on your birthday, mother?" asked the child.