"No, no; I must honor Cecil's birthday with my best dress. These trifles
are important."

"I suppose so," returned her daughter, looking after her gravely, as she
left the room.

Mrs. Liddell was tall, and the lines of her figure considerably
enlarged. Yet she had not quite lost the grace for which she was once
remarkable. Her light brown hair had a pale look from the increasing
admixture of gray, and her blue eyes seemed faded by much use. It was a
kind, thoughtful, worn face from which they looked, yet it could still
smile brightly.

"She looks very, very tired," thought her daughter. "I must make her lie
down if I can; it is so hard to make her rest!" She too looked uneasily
at the mass of writing on the table, and then went away to remove her
out-door attire.

The birthday dinner gave great satisfaction. It was crowned by a
plum-pudding, terrible as such a compound must always be in June; but it
was a favorite "goody" with the young hero of the day. Grandmamma made
herself as agreeable as though she was one of a party of wits, and drank
her grandson's health in a bottle of choice gooseberry, proposing it in
a "neat and appropriate" speech, which gave rise to much uproarious
mirth and delight. At last the feast was over; the children retired to
amuse themselves with a horse and a wheelbarrow--some of the birthday
gifts--in the back garden (a wilderness resigned to their ravages), and
Mrs. Liddell and her daughter were left alone.