and maps you wanted. Go and rest now. I ‘m much obliged; here ‘s
your wages, Bridget.”
“Good luck to your messes,” answered Tom, as he walked away
meditatively crunching his cinnamon, and looking as if he did not
find it as spicy as usual. He got his books, but did not read them;
for, shutting himself up in the little room called “Tom’s den,” he
just sat down and brooded.
When he came down to breakfast the next morning, he was greeted
with a general “Happy birthday, Tom!” and at his place lay gifts
from every member of the family; not as costly as formerly,
perhaps, but infinitely dearer, as tokens of the love that had
outlived the change, and only grown the warmer for the test of
misfortune. In his present state of mind, Tom felt as if he did not
deserve a blessed thing; so when every one exerted themselves to
make it a happy day for him, he understood what it means “to be
nearly killed with kindness,” and sternly resolved to be an honor to
his family, or perish in the attempt. Evening brought Polly to what
she called a “festive tea,” and when they gathered round the table,
another gift appeared, which, though not of a sentimental nature,
touched Tom more than all the rest. It was a most delectable cake,
with a nosegay atop, and round it on the snowy frosting there ran a
pink inscription, just as it had been every year since Tom could
remember.
“Name, age, and date, like a nice white tombstone,” observed
Maud, complacently, at which funereal remark, Mrs. Shaw, who
was down in honor of the day, dropped her napkin, and demanded
her salts.
“Whose doing is that?” asked Tom, surveying the gift with
satisfaction; for it recalled the happier birthdays, which seemed
very far away now.
“I did n’t know what to give you, for you ‘ve got everything a man
wants, and I was in despair till I remembered that dear grandma
always made you a little cake like that, and that you once said it
would n’t be a happy birthday without it. So I tried to make it just
like hers, and I do hope it will prove a good, sweet, plummy one.”
“Thank you,” was all Tom said, as he smiled at the giver, but Polly
knew that her present had pleased him more than the most elegant
trifle she could have made.
“It ought to be good, for you beat it up yourself, Tom,” cried,
Maud. “It was so funny to see you working away, and never
guessing who the cake was for. I perfectly trembled every time you
opened your mouth, for fear you ‘d ask some question about it.
That was the reason Polly preached and I kept talking when she
was gone.”
“Very stupid of me; but I forgot all about to-day. Suppose we cut
it; I don’t seem to care for anything else,” said Tom, feeling no
appetite, but bound to do justice to that cake, if he fell a victim to
his gratitude.
“I hope the plums won’t all be at the bottom,” said Polly, as she
rose to do the honors of the cake, by universal appointment.
“I ‘ve had a good many at the top already, you know,” answered
Tom, watching the operation with as much interest as if he had
faith in the omen.
Cutting carefully, slice after slice fell apart; each firm and dark,
spicy and rich, under the frosty rime above; and laying a specially
large piece in one of grandma’s quaint little china plates, Polly
added the flowers and handed it to Tom, with a look that said a
good deal, for, seeing that he remembered her sermon, she was
glad to find that her allegory held good, in one sense at least.
Tom’s face brightened as he took it, and after an inspection which
amused the others very much he looked up, saying, with an air of
relief, “Plums all through; I ‘m glad I had a hand in it, but Polly
deserves the credit, and must wear the posy,” and turning to her, he
put the rose into her hair with more gallantry than taste, for a thorn