elp."

Miss Wilton took her departure, and Mr. Wilton stretched out his hand
to the toast-rack, took a piece of toast which he absently broke in
two, and once more buried his head in his _Times_. There were a good
many interesting items of intelligence this morning, and Mr. Wilton
was a keen politician. Between him, however, now, and the clearly
printed type of the paper, came the vision of to-morrow.
To-morrow--his birthday, and the day when everything was turned
topsy-turvey, and the children and Chaos reigned supreme.

Mr. Wilton was a very affectionate father, but no one must think the
worse of him for shrinking at this moment from the ordeal which lay
before him. When the day came, he would throw himself into the fun,
heart and soul--he would be the life of the rioters, the ringleader of
the pleasure-seekers. He would do this, and he would enjoy himself,
but in anticipation the prospect was not cheerful. He had forgotten
all about his birthday; he had further made arrangements for
to-morrow--he was to see a friend in the neighboring town; they were
to lunch together, and discuss the autumn shooting. Afterward he had
intended to ride some miles farther on and visit a lady, a certain
Mrs. Gray, who had been a great friend of his wife's, and whom he had
rather neglected of late. He had made all his plans; they were none of
them vital, of course, and they could be postponed, but it was
disagreeable to have to do this.

Mr. Wilton pushed his _Times_ aside, rose from the breakfast-table and
went out. He must order his horse and ride over at once to
Quarchester, and put his friend off. How ridiculous if would sound to
have to say, "My dear Furniss, the young ones are celebrating my
birthday to-morrow, so I can't come."

Mr. Wilton stood on the gravel sweep, called a groom, gave the
necessary directions, and looked around him. He was glad none of the
children were about--he did not want to discuss the birthday until he
felt in a better humor. What a good thing the children were employed
elsewhere!

Just then, however, he heard a shrill childish laugh, and the next
moment little Lucy, hotly pursued by fat Marjorie, dashed into view.
Lucy rushed up to her father, clasped her arms round his legs and
looked up into his face.

Marjorie panted up to her. "No, no, Lucy, you are unkind," she said.
"It is wrong of you to run away like this, and when Miss Nelson is so
sad, too."

"Hullo, Maggie, have you no word of greetin