“Don’t,” said Ken.  “It makes a fellow feel cheap.”

With which he removed the paper and clamped in a fresh sheet.  The work progressed silently; Ken occasionally gnashed his teeth and tore away the paper, but after a time the mistakes grew fewer, and Felicia, looking across at her brother’s brown, handsome face, found it tranquil and sober, an earnest absorption in his gray eyes and a gently whimsical smile about his mouth.  She knew of whom he was thinking, and smiled tenderly herself as she watched his big hand plod systematically and doggedly across the unfamiliar way.  Bedtime found Ken elated and exhibiting to his sister several neatly embossed sheets of paper.

“‘All day my—­’” read Felicia.

“Murder!” cried Ken.  “I forgot you could read the stuff!  Go to bed, go to bed!”

At a rather early hour the next morning, Felicia was awakened by the stealthy approach to her bedside of a small and cautious figure in pajamas.  It stood quite still beside the bed, listening to find out whether or not she was asleep.  She spread her arms noiselessly, and then flung them about the pajamaed one.  When the confusion of kisses, hugs, and birthday greetings had subsided, and Kirk was tucked under the quilt, he said: 

“Now see me a story.”

“But I can’t—­not like Ken,” Felicia protested.

“Oh, Phil!” Kirk said in a tone of withering reproach.  “Silly!  A birthday special one, please.”

Felicia thought for some time; then she said: 

“It’s not very nice, but it’s a sort of birthday one.  It’s called The Nine Gifts.”

“One for each year,” said Kirk, wriggling comfortably.

“Exactly.  Once upon a time there was a nice person who lived in an old house on a hill.  One autumn day was his birthday, but he wasn’t thinking of any gifts, because there could be no one to give him anything, and he was quite poor—­as far as gold and silver went.  So he was feeling just a little sad, because people like to have gifts.  He came downstairs and unlocked his door, and opened it to the beautiful young day all strung with dew—­”

“Could he see it?” asked Kirk.

“No,” said Felicia, “he couldn’t.”

“Then it was me.”

“We-e-ll,” said his sister, “possibly.  But when he opened the door, in came the wind, all as fresh and dewy as a dawn-wind can be.  It ruffled up his hair, and fluttered the curtains at the windows, and ran all about the room.  Then it said: 

“’I am the wind.  I give you the breath of the dawn, and the first sigh of the waking fields and hedge-rows, and the cool stillness of the forest that is always awake.  Take my birthday kiss upon your forehead!’

“And that was the First Gift.  The person was quite surprised, but he was very much pleased, too.  He went out and brought in some bread and milk for his breakfast, and then he went to get some water at the well.  There was a gentle, delicious warmth all about in the air, and a far-off, round voice said: