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"I'm sure I ought to be proud then," piped up Tilly Marsh, one of the younger scholars "for I've got seven and they tease me almost to death. You're welcome to either one of them, Miss Eva."

There was a general laugh at this, and poor little Tilly looked frightened and shrank away.

"I'm sure I'm very much obliged to you," said Eva, "only, you know, I'd rather have one of my own."

"You get seven presents then, of course, when your birthday comes round," queried Hattie, "don't you?"

"O no," responded the child, "three of them are married, and have all they can do to give presents to their wives," -- which raised another laugh -- "but then," added Tilly, quietly, "the others sometimes give me two apiece. I don't think married brothers are of much account."

"Then I devoutly hope I shall be married before Charley is;" laughed Hattie. "But there's the bell, -- come girls."

A few days after this conversation, a bronzed and bearded man stood in the parlor of his brother's house. He was a genuine Dimple. There was the broad clear forehead; the genial face, with the dents that went so deep in chin or cheek whenever he spoke or laughed. There was the healthy, happy temperament, showing itself in all he said and did.

"I knew when Eva's birthday came, you see," he said, opening a box and displaying its Parisian wonders. First, there was a watch, one of the tiniest things that could well be manufactured, set round with diamonds; then came bracelets to match, and a brooch that was a wonder.

"I knew she had a watch," he went on, "but this took my fancy so irresistibly, that I had to buy it. And then, if she goes to Paris with me, as you say she may, if she wishes to, why I want her to look as well as the best. I suppose you have something handsome for her."

Mr. and Mrs. Dimple looked at each other and smiled.

"It is a secret," said the latter.

"O, something pretty nice, I suspect," he said.

"Something that may interfere with her journey to Paris, perhaps."

"That's not fair," said her brother, but they held their own counsel.

The day came for leaving school, and there were wet eyes, and tear stained faces, for the girls in the senior class were very much attached to each other. Eva had passed the trying ordeal of delivering the valedictory, and with credit.

Very beautiful she looked in her dress of spotless white, one white rose placed in her dark curls, the modest color in her fair young cheeks deepening as she met the gaze of the crowd, indulgent though it was.

And this was her last day as a student. Many a pretty keepsake she put away in her trunk shedding silent tears over them, as the thought crossed her mind she might never see the donors again.

And now she was at home, in that splendid but lonely house. Her father, whose idol she was, was, at the same time, a grave, reserved man, who seldom showed his love in words or caresses; her mother had for long years been an invalid, but it was a pleasure to see the perfect content into which she seemed to settle, as she felt that Eva was at home once more, and for good. And the young girl as she looked on the pale, spiritual face, said to herself that she would do her best to make her mother happy, for she had no one else to get up small comforts for her.

So she gathered flowers for the table and for her mother's room every day; read aloud patiently the books her mother liked, and still kept up some of her more important studies; took long walks with her uncle, practiced her music diligently, and waked up on her birthday morning with a consciousness that the world was very beautiful, and books and men must be mistaken when they discoursed as they did about broken hearts and nameless sorrows.

The night before she had given a delighted consent to travel with her uncle and see the city of cities, great Paris of the moderns.

Wondering what her birthday gifts would be she descended to the breakfast-room to receive the usual congratulations. Her uncle was ready with his presents, her father gave her a delicate inlaid writing-desk, in which were placed a costly set of writing materials, but her mother only smiled and said, you shall see my gift by-and-by.

After breakfast a carriage stopped at the door and Eva took a long drive with her uncle. On her return she went to her mother's room, and paused on the threshold surprised at the change she saw in her. The invalid's usually pale cheeks were flushed, and her eyes sparkled with excitement, and as she tenderly kissed her child, she said, in a trembling voice, "Are you ready to see mother's gift to you, now?"

Eva eagerly assented and was directed to go to her own room. She hurried thither, opened the door, looked about, and then with quickened breath went forward.

For there on a fairy-like couch, laid a beautiful little girl of three years, fast asleep, her cheeks, twin roses; her golden hair flecking the pillow-like sunbeams, her small dimpled hands lying on the innocent breast, the posture graceful as only childhood can assume, and at her feet an open note which read as follows