When Joyce's birthday morning came there were no costly gifts for her such as her cousins were accustomed to receive. Mrs. Evans remarked coldly—
"So it is your birthday, Joyce. Of course, we all wish you many happy returns of it."
Her cousins echoed "Of course," as they seated themselves at the breakfast table, and Joyce replied, "Thank you."
"And you are actually twenty-one," said Mrs. Evans. "I suppose you would expect a present of an ornamental kind, but, under the circumstances, something useful will be better. The girls are going to leave off mourning entirely now. Three months is quite long enough for a mere connection by marriage, and many people would not wear it more than half the time."
"Many would not wear it at all, unless—"
Joyce began a sentence but could not finish it, for her heart was too full to permit her to continue without breaking down utterly.
"Unless the connection had lived quite near them, and every one knew of it. Was that what you were going to say?" asked Mrs. Evans.
"No; I meant something very different, but I will not trouble you with it now. Only, please do not think I expected any present. I neither looked nor wished for any."
"But you are going to have one," replied Mrs. Evans, in an unusually gracious tone. "As I said, my girls are leaving off their mourning, and I intend you to have their simpler dresses. Black silks and satins they will not part with. Those are useful always, but their worst are of beautiful material and—"
"Quite too good for me," said Joyce.