The birthday of the little girl fell in June, that month when all the world is dressed in flowers, and when the sky above seems to bend its bluest arch. On this occasion Annette was to have a party, her very first, and all the children from the neighbouring plantations had been bidden; and papa had made a special trip to New Orleans and come home with some wonderful and mysterious packages, which had been quickly hidden away. At last the day arrived, and Annette felt it to be the happiest one she had ever known.
“To be nine years old and to have a party! Just think of that, Auguste!” she cried, as she helped the little boy to dress.
Auguste was thinking of it with so much glee that it made the dressing of him more than usually difficult, and Annette turned to little Pierre; but his whole attention was given to “keeping a secret,” for mamma had said that Annette was not to know what her present was to be till they were all gathered at the table for breakfast.
But he knew, did little Pierre, and it was a hard burden not to tell sister Annette. At last the little ones were ready, and Annette had seen that the simple fare which formed the breakfast—fruit and hominy, with coffee for the father and mother—was on the table.
Such a clamour as arose.
“Oh, mother, let me tell.”
“No, let me.”
“Oh, sister Annette—” But they got no further, for Annette herself pulled the cover off a big box which was laid on her chair, and there within lay a white dress—oh, such a pretty one!—and a little pair of slippers, with long, narrow ribbons to lace them criss-cross about the ankles, and, most lovely of all, a long blue sash, which had on its two ends a fringe of gold.
“Oh, dearest mother,” cried Annette, “was there ever anything so lovely; and the little brodequins,” pointing to the little slippers, “and a fan! Oh, mother, and you, too, father, how can I thank you both enough?”
Her father kissed her fondly and said,—