His face grew luminous instantly as he met her gaze, while he captured her small hand and toyed with the rosy, taper fingers.

“Do I look sober?” and a brilliant smile chased the gloom from lip and brow.  “I did not mean to, while you know I could not scold you if you were ever so naughty, and you are never that.”

“Perhaps every one does not look upon me with your partial eyes,” the lovely girl returned, with a musical little laugh.

The man carried the hand he held to his lips and kissed it lingeringly.

“Let me see,” he remarked, after thinking a moment, “isn’t it somebody’s birthday to-day?”

“So it is! but I had not thought of it before,” exclaimed the maiden, with a lovely flush sweeping into her cheeks.  “And,” with a far-away look in her eyes, “I am eighteen years old.”

“Eighteen!” and Walter Dinsmore started slightly, while a vivid red suddenly dyed his brow, and a look of pain settled about his mouth.

But he soon conquered his emotion, whatever it might have been, and strove to say, lightly: 

“Well, then, somebody must have a gift.  What would you like, Mona?”

She laughed out sweetly again at the question.

“You know I have very strange notions about gifts, Uncle Walter,” she said.  “I do not care much about having people buy me pretty or costly things as most girls do; I like something that has been made or worn or prized by the giver—­something that thought and care have been exercised upon.  The little bouquet of blue-fringed gentians which you walked five miles to gather for me last year was the most precious gift I had; I have it now, Uncle Walter.”

“You quaint child!” said the man, with a quiver of strong feeling in his tone.  “You would like something prized by the giver, would you?” he added, musingly.  “Well, you shall be gratified.”

He turned again to his desk as he spoke, unlocked and pulled out a drawer.

“Would you like this?” he asked, as he uncovered a box about eight inches square.

“Why, it is a mirror! and what a queer one!” exclaimed the maiden, as she bent forward to look, and found her lovely, earnest face reflected from a square, slightly defaced mirror that was set in an ebony frame richly inlaid with gold and pearl.

“Yes, dear, and it once belonged to Marie Antoinette.  Doubtless it reflected her face many times during the latter half of the last century, as it now reflects yours, my Mona,” said Mr. Dinsmore.

“To Marie Antoinette?” repeated Mona, breathlessly, “to the Queen of France? and would you give it to me—­me, Uncle Walter?”

“Yes, I have kept it for you many years, dear,” the man answered, but turning away from her eager, delighted eyes and glowing face, as if something in them smote him with sudden pain.

“Oh! thank you, thank you!  It is a priceless gift.  What can I say?  How can I show you how delighted I am?” Mona cried, eagerly.