And they never did, for when, presently, they were summoned to supper, and Harry entered the sitting-room on Mr. Cole’s arm, she simulated astonishment so perfectly that the boys howled with glee. “Why,” exclaimed Harry, “I was never so surprised--!” The cake--it wasn’t a very big one, nor, as events proved, a very excellent one--sat in the center of the round table, the sixteen flames from the sixteen little pink candles making sixteen little points of rosy flame in the glow of the late sunlight. There were five places set and one of them, to which Harry was ceremoniously conducted, was piled with packages. “Oh!” said Harry. And this time she was genuinely surprised, and her eyes grew large as she looked from the packages to the merry watching faces. Then the candle flames grew suddenly blurred for her and a tear stole down one side of her nose. [Illustration: “And this time she was genuinely surprised”] “What’s the matter?” asked Chub in distress. “Every one’s much too nice to me,” sniffed Harry, searching for her handkerchief. (Of course she didn’t have one and so had to borrow Roy’s.) “Nonsense!” said Roy cheerfully. “Don’t cry, Harry.” “I’m n-not cr-crying,” answered Harry from behind the folds of the handkerchief. “I’m ju-just blowing my n-nose!” Every one laughed then and sat down with much scraping of chairs, and Harry, smiling apologetically, opened her packages. There was a pair of silver links for the cuffs of her shirt-waist from Roy, a little gold bar pin from Dick, a Ferry Hill pin from Chub (Harry had lost hers a month before), and a volume of Whittier’s poems from Billy Noon. “Oh!” said Harry distressfully, when she reached the last present, “I’d forgotten him! Isn’t he coming?” “No,” answered the artist. “He begged me to make his excuses and tell you that he was very sorry he couldn’t be present. He has a rather important piece of business on hand for this evening, I believe.” Chub looked triumphantly at Roy and Dick with an “I-told-you-so” expression. But it was quite lost, for they were watching Harry’s face as she read the lines which the Licensed Poet had written on the fly-leaf of the book. “Aren’t they beautiful?” she sighed finally, looking about the table. “We don’t know,” laughed Roy. “Suppose you read them to us?” But Harry shyly pushed the book to Mr. Cole. “You do it, please,” she said. “Very well,” answered the artist. “Here they are”: TO MISS EMERY ON HER SIXTEENTH BIRTHDAY Accept, I pray, this little book, For in it, if you will but look, You’ll find lines sweet enough, ’tis true, To have been written just for you. Were I a poet I would write Words fair enough to meet your sight; But as it is, ’twill have to suit To make this book my substitute In hope that, as you read, it may Arrange its lines in magic way Until you find before your sight The Birthday Poem I’d fain write! Sincerely yours, WILLIAM NOON.