As she gazed into the fire, and mused, she fell asleep, and all these thoughts were woven into the fabric of a dream—­and who shall say that God does not speak to his children still in dreams?

She dreamed that it was the morning of her birthday.  She heard cheery voices in the hall calling out to one another:  “This is Marcia’s birthday.  Wish you many returns of the day!” There was an excited running to and fro between the different rooms, and gleeful exclamations—­but no one came near her!  She sat up in bed listening, and wondering what it could mean!  Why, mother always came into her room, and folded her to her heart, and said those precious things that only a mother can say; and the children always scrambled to see who should be the first to give sister a birthday kiss.  Were they playing some joke on her?  She would be quiet and watch, and so not be taken unawares.

Presently they went trooping happily downstairs into the dining-room, and she heard father’s voice say:  “Good morning, children; I wish you many happy returns of Marcia’s birthday.”

What did it all mean?  Was she going crazy?  Or were they just going to surprise her by some novel way of celebrating her birthday?  She arose, and with trembling fingers dressed herself hastily, and stole softly down the stairs, and looked into the dining-room.  Hush!—­father was asking a blessing.  He returned thanks for dear Marcia’s birthday, and asked that it should be a happy day for them all.  Beside each plate save her own, were various packages; and these were opened amid ejaculations of surprise and pleasure, and sundry hugs and kisses.

After the first burst of happiness had subsided, Marcia braced herself and entered the dining-room, saying with forced gayety:  “Good morning, dear ones all.”  They looked up with blank, unanswering faces, and said:  “Good morning, Marcia”—­that was all.  But Marcia’s heart leaped at the recognition of her presence, for she had begun to fear that she was dead, and that it was her spirit that was wandering about.

She stooped and kissed her mother, who murmured abstractedly, “Yes, dear,” never once looking up from the presents she was examining.  With a sinking heart she turned away from her mother and went and stood behind her father’s chair, and leaning over whispered in his ear:  “Dear father, have you forgotten that this is my birthday?” He answered kindly but absent-mindedly:  “Why, daughter, am I likely to forget it with all these tokens around me?”—­and he waved his hand toward the gifts piled around his plate.  This was almost more than Marcia could bear, for father was always specially tender and attentive to her on her birthday.  She always sat on his knee a while; and he told her what a joy and comfort she was to him, and he always paid her some pretty compliment that made her girlish heart swell with innocent pride, for every girl knows that compliments from one’s father are a little sweeter than any others.