his house; and if it had not been Hildegarde's birthday, the
Colonel might have wished himself beside him. As it was, however,
he devoted himself to his guests with such hearty good-will that
the tea-table soon rang with merry talk and laughter.

The high-tea itself was beyond praise; Mrs. Beadle had seen to
that. Mrs. Grahame's Auntie herself might have been jealous of the
jellied chicken; and salad was green and gold, and rolls were
snowy white, and strawberries glowed like sunset; and over all
were roses, roses, making the whole table a floral offering, as
Gerald said. Then, just before everybody had reached the "no more"
point, the good Guiseppe, who had been standing, stately, behind
his master's chair, darted out, and in a moment returned, bearing
on a huge silver salver,--what was it? Behind Guiseppe was seen
the portly form of good Mrs. Beadle, beaming under her best cap;
Guiseppe's own face was one broad, dark smile. A general chorus
broke from all save the host and Mrs. Grahame; Hugh gave a squeak
of joy in which was no surprise.

"I knew they would like it!" he cried, clapping his hands. "I knew
they would be surprised, and that the hair of their scalps would
be uplifted. It is yours, Beloved; it is for you!"

A cake! Who had ever seen such a cake? It must have been baked in
the biggest cheese-frame that the dairy could supply; or the rim
of a cart-wheel might have been used to frame its monstrous
circle. Certainly, as Guiseppe set it down before Hildegarde, it
seemed to cover the whole width of the great table. On its top the
frosting was piled high, in fantastic shapes. There seemed to be
little hills and valleys; and from among these peeped--and did