Now, what was written in the little book was this:
"Given to little Angel by her dear mother; and she hopes she will promise to read it, and will keep her promise better than I did."
"But I can't read, mother," said Angel.
"No; but you must learn," said her mother. "I mean that you shall go to school regular now, Angel. Why, you're seven years old to-day!"
Poor little Angel's head was nearly turned; it was such a wonderful thing to have a birthday.
But the wonders of the day were not over yet; for when, after breakfast, Angel asked for the clothes to mangle, her mother said: "They're all done Angel; I'm just going to take them home. I've done a lot these three nights when you was in bed, that we might have a bit of a holiday to-day."
"A holiday, mother!" said Angel. "Oh, how nice! No mangling all day!"
"No mangling all day," repeated the mother, as if the thought were as pleasant to her as to Angel.
But the wonders of the day were not yet over.
"Angel," said her mother, as they were washing the children, "did you ever see the sea?"