"And am I really going to have a birthday, mother?" said Angel, in a very astonished voice.
"Yes, a real good birthday," said her mother; "so get up and come downstairs, before any of it is gone."
Angel was not long in putting on her clothes and coming down. She found the table put quite ready for breakfast, with a clean tablecloth, and the mugs and plates set in order for her and her little brothers and sisters; and in a little jar in the middle of the table was a beautiful bunch of flowers. Real country flowers they were, evidently gathered from some pleasant cottage garden far away. There were stocks and mignonette, and southernwood, and sweetbrier, and a number of other flowers, the names of which neither Angel nor her mother knew.
"Oh mother, mother," said little Angel, "what a beautiful nosegay!"
"It's for you, Angel," said her mother: "for your birthday. I got it at the early market. My father always gave me a posy on my birthday."
"Oh, mother," said little Angel, "is it really for me?"
But that was not all, for by the side of Angel's plate she found a parcel. It was tied up in brown paper, and there was a thick piece of string round it, fastened tightly in so many knots that it took Angel a long time to open it. Her little hands quite shook with excitement when at last she took off the cover and looked inside. It was a little book, in a plain black binding.
"Oh, mother," said Angel, "what is it? Is it for my birthday?"
"Yes," said her mother; "look at the writing at the beginning. I'll read it to you."
It was very uneven writing, and very much blotted, for Mrs. Blyth was only a poor scholar; but little Angel did not notice this—it seemed very wonderful to her to be able to write at all.