"I know you do, Polly," mother had said. "But grandmother is sixty years old. We cannot put sixty candles on this cake. It is not large enough.
"So we will count the fives in sixty. Then we will use one for every five years. That makes just twelve."
"Yes," Polly had answered, "I have learned that. Twelve fives make sixty. It is a good way to do. I shall do it when I am sixty years old."
Now the cake was on the table. Just before it was time to cut it, father lighted the candles.
They all watched them burn for a few minutes. The melted wax ran down the sides. They grew shorter and shorter.
"See Nan Etticoat," said Polly. "The longer she stands, the shorter she grows. Do you know that story, grandmother?"
"My grandmother taught me to say Nan Etticoat," said grandmother. "That was many years ago. She told me about making candles, too.
"When she was a little girl, there were no electric lights. There were no gas lights. There were no lamps. Every one used candles.
"Not such pretty, colored ones as these. They were larger and quite rough. How should you like to make them, Polly?"