ctly as though she
were going to cry--you know that odd feeling in the bridge of your nose
and the pricking in your eyelids? But before she had time to begin they
were all kissing and hugging her.

"Now," said Mother, "look at your presents."

They were very nice presents. There was a green and red needle-book that
Phyllis had made herself in secret moments. There was a darling little
silver brooch of Mother's shaped like a buttercup, which Bobbie had
known and loved for years, but which she had never, never thought would
come to be her very own. There was also a pair of blue glass vases from
Mrs. Viney. Roberta had seen and admired them in the village shop. And
there were three birthday cards with pretty pictures and wishes.

Mother fitted the forget-me-not crown on Bobbie's brown head.

"And now look at the table," she said.

There was a cake on the table covered with white sugar, with 'Dear
Bobbie' on it in pink sweets, and there were buns and jam; but
the nicest thing was that the big table was almost covered with
flowers--wallflowers were laid all round the tea-tray--there was a ring
of forget-me-nots round each plate. The cake had a wreath of white lilac
round it, and in the middle was something that looked like a pattern all
done with single blooms of lilac or wallflower or laburnum.

"It's a map--a map of the railway!" cried Peter. "Look--those lilac
lines are the metals--and there's the station done in brown wallflowers.
The laburnum is the train, and there are the signal-boxes, and the road
up to here--and those fat red daisies are us three waving to the old
gentleman--that's him, the pansy in the laburnum train."

"And there's 'Three Chimneys' done in the purple primroses," said
Phyllis. "And that little tiny rose-bud is Mother looking out for us
when we're late for tea. Peter invented it all, and we got all the
flowers from the station. We thought you'd like it better."

"That's my present," said Peter, suddenly dumping down his adored
steam-engine on the table in front of her. Its tender had been lined
with fresh white paper, and was full of sweets.

"Oh, Peter!" cried Bobbie, quite overcome by this munificence, "not your
own dear little engine that you're so fond of?"

"Oh, no," said Peter, very promptly, "not the engine. Only the sweets."

Bobbie couldn't help her face changing a little--not so much because she
was disappointed at not getting the engine, as because she had thought
it so very n