e breakfast, and Dimple was sitting on
the floor hugging her knees, and looking as contented as it was possible
to be.

They were still talking on the important subject when they entered the
dining-room.

"What's all this about birthdays?" asked Mr. Dallas, looking up from his
morning paper.

"Why, papa, don't you know my birthday will be next week?" returned
Dimple, as she went up to give him his morning kiss. "Aren't you glad?"
she added.

"Is it an occasion for great joyfulness? I'm not so sure of that. Don't
you know it makes mamma feel very serious to have a daughter eight--or
is it nine--years old? And as for myself, I begin to feel the grey hairs
popping out all over my head at the very thought of it."

"I shall be nine years old. But, papa, you are always making out that
you are old and that makes me feel sorry. I don't see a single grey
hair. People are not very old till they are forty, at least, are they?"

"Well, no, but they are rather decrepit when they reach such extreme old
age as that--Uncle Heath is forty you know, and see what a tottering old
man he is."

"Now, papa, you are laughing at me. I don't believe you'll have grey
hairs for years and years."

"They are starting, I am sure. However, we'll change the subject, if you
wish. What do you expect me to give you on that festal day? Not another
doll, surely?"

"No--I don't know--perhaps."

"Oh, you are insatiable as to dolls. I believe if any one were to give
you a dozen at Christmas you would be glad to have a dozen more on New
Years. I don't believe Florence is so doll-crazy."

"Yes, she is. Aren't you, Florence?"

Florence nodded.

"Nevertheless," continued Mr. Dallas, "I'll promise no doll this time.
Shall it be books? Perhaps we'd better consult mamma. Come to think of
it, I had an idea about this same birthday. It seems to me I thought it
wouldn't be a bad plan to provide some amusement for rainy days."

The two little girls looked at each other, and Dimple hung her head.

"What do you think?" Mr. Dallas asked, quizzically. "It seems to me that
I have heard that the rain produces a singularly bad effect upon two
little girls I know."

"Yes, papa, we were horrid, especially one time. We didn't know what to
do, and so--and so----"

"'Satan found some mischief still
For idle hands to do;'

was that the way of it?"

Dimple glanced at Florence shamefacedly. "Yes, papa, I'm afraid it was
just that way," she replied, me