“Why don’t you slap him?” pouted Liseke.

“No,” little Hannah said, wisely.  “He likes cookies.”  Coaxingly:  “Maxy dear, won’t you tell?”

“No, you bet I won’t! you’re nothing but girls.”

“Is it a surprise, Max?” Hannah suggested, anxiously.

“Won’t tell yer,” contemplating his brass-tipped toes.

“Maxy, I’ll give you a big cookey if you’ll tell.”

“You nasty thing, I don’t want a cookey.”

“Maxy:  two? three—­four—­five—­six—­there! now you’ll tell?”

“Give ’em first,” said this practical boy, apparently conquered.

Six noble cookies were counted into his hand.

“Now I won’t tell yer at all.  It’s a surprise!  Father said I wasn’t to tell,” he cried, scornfully, with his mouth full.

“Oh, Haneke, papa’s going to surprise us!  Now I know what it is!” Liseke whispered excitedly “It is a piano, and perhaps—­perhaps a stool.  Try and find out from Max.”

“Maxy, dear,” Hannah said, imploringly, “is it covered with plush?”

“Why, how do you know?” Max cried, unguardedly, as he was finishing his sixth cookey.

“I knew it, I knew it,” Liseke gasped, wildly.

“Does it make a noise if, well, say, if you bang on it?” Hannah cried, with a beating heart.

“Why—­why—­yes,” Max acknowledged, wrathfully, with a futile kick at Mitz’s mother, who was purring about his legs.  “There, you mean thing, you’re always trying to find out something!  Just you wait till I tell yer anything more!” he cried, and slam-banged himself out of the room, with his bosom full of suppressed injuries.

“He was mad because we guessed,” Liseke cried, joyfully.

“A piano!” Hannah gasped, as the door went to with a crash.

“A stool,” Liseke added; then, “Let’s tell mamma!”

That dear, gentle mother, sitting by the dim window trying to mend by the last flicker of daylight!  She looked up lovingly as the door flew open.

“Mamma,” gasped Hannah, “papa’s got a surprise for us.”

“Max said so,” chimed in the other.  “We’ve guessed, mother dear.”

“It’s a piano.”

“And—­and a stool.”

[Illustration:  MAX KNOWS OF A SURPRISE.]

“He said it’ud make a noise; and was covered with plush.”

“O, dear children, surely papa wouldn’t buy you a piano.  He can not afford it,” and two kind hands were stretched out to the children.

“Oh, yes it is,” the two cried hopefully.

“You know, mamma, papa’s always promised us a surprise, and he’s never done it yet!” Hannah cried, and laid her round cheek against the delicate, pale face.

There was no use arguing; the children were convinced.  They were sure of the piano.

“There, mamma, didn’t we tell you so,” they cried, as Max came in, mysterious and exasperating.

“Father says the surprise will be ready for you to-morrow afternoon at three o’clock in the sitting room,” he cried, and was gone, leaving a momentary vision of a bright patch in the seat of his breeches.