"What is it, Uncle Walter? What, makes you look so sober? Have I done
something naughty that you are going to scold me for?" she concluded,
playfully, as she bent forward and looked archly into his eyes.

His face grew luminous instantly as he met her gaze, while he captured
her small hand and toyed with the rosy, taper fingers.

"Do I look sober?" and a brilliant smile chased the gloom from lip and
brow. "I did not mean to, while you know I could not scold you if you
were ever so naughty, and you are never that."

"Perhaps every one does not look upon me with your partial eyes," the
lovely girl returned, with a musical little laugh.

The man carried the hand he held to his lips and kissed it lingeringly.

"Let me see," he remarked, after thinking a moment, "isn't it somebody's
birthday to-day?"

"So it is! but I had not thought of it before," exclaimed the maiden,
with a lovely flush sweeping into her cheeks. "And," with a far-away look
in her eyes, "I am eighteen years old."

"Eighteen!" and Walter Dinsmore started slightly, while a vivid red
suddenly dyed his brow, and a look of pain settled about his mouth.

But he soon conquered his emotion, whatever it might have been, and
strove to say, lightly:

"Well, then, somebody must have a gift. What would you like, Mona?"