In vain she hung around waiting for some clue to this mysterious, unnatural conduct of the family.  They were all absorbed in plans for spending this birthday—­Marcia’s birthday, but no reference whatever was made to what she liked; no one consulted her as to what she wanted to do, or to have done.  The boys were going skating in the forenoon; the little girls were to invite four of their friends to help serve the first dinner in the new doll’s house, and in the afternoon father would take them all for an automobile ride into the country to a dear friend’s—­all but Marcia, who couldn’t bear to get into an auto since a terrible accident she had been in a few weeks ago.  A troop of her girl friends came in, and in a conventional way wished her “many happy returns” of the day; and then proceeded to ignore her, and gave gifts to other members of the family.  “It is a wonder,” thought Marcia, bitterly, “that they didn’t have a birthday party for Marcia with Marcia left out.”

And so it went on all through that strange, miserable day; while they were all busy celebrating her birthday, she herself was neglected and ignored as she sat in the quiet house alone in the twilight—­for she had no heart to light the gas—­just homesick for the personal love which had characterized all her birthdays and all her home life heretofore, there came a timid knock on the door, and as Marcia opened it, there stood little crippled Joe, one of her scholars in the Mission Sunday school.  As he saw her, he gave a little exclamation of surprise and delight, and said:  “O Miss Marshay!  I hearn last night ‘twas yer berthday today, an’ I wanted to guv yer suthin’ white, like Mr. Robinson he told us ‘bout, don’t yer know?—­an’ ’caus yer has allers treated me so white—­’n’—­’n’ I didn’t hev nuthin’, ’n so I axed Him, ye know, what yer telled us ’bout in Sunday school—­Jesus; who died on the cross, and who’s allers willin’ to help a poor feller—­an’ I axed Him to help me get suthin’ real nice ‘n’ white fer uer birthday; ‘n I kep’ me eyes peeled all day ‘xpectin’ it, ’n just now a reel swell feller buyed a paper of me, ’n then he guv he this here bunch uv white sweet smellin’ posies, ‘thout my sayin’ a word.  Here they be, Miss Marshay fer yer.  Giminy, teacher, ain’t them purty?  An’ O, teacher—­He made ’m in the fust place ’n had the man guv them to me, ’n so I reckon He ’n me’s pardners in this here white gift bizness.”  And he held up in his thin, grimy hand a bunch of white, sweet-scented violets.

Marcia’s first impulse was to catch up the little fellow and his gift in her arms, and baptize them with a flood of tears from her own overcharged heart!  But she hadn’t taught boys in a Mission Sunday school class for nothing—­Joe would have thought she had gone crazy, or been struck silly, or was sick unto death; so she controlled herself, and kneeling beside him took the violets reverently in both her hands, saying in a choked voice:  “Joe, they are just beautiful!  This is the only really truly white gift I have had today, and I don’t deserve it—­but I thank Him and you.”