always wished my mother good-bye before I went to work. Treading very softly, so as not to disturb uncle Bryan, and with my dinner and tea under my arm--invariably prepared the last thing at night, and packed in a handkerchief by my mother's careful hands--I crept upstairs to her room. She called me in, and I sat by her bedside, chatting for a few minutes. This was the anniversary of uncle Bryan's birthday, and our purchases were to be made in the evening. 'I must be off, mother,' I said, starting up; 'I shall have to run for it.' 'Good-morning, dear child,' she said; 'I shall come for you exactly at eight o'clock.' I kissed her, and ran off to work. My mother was punctual in the evening, and we set off at once on a pilgrimage to tobacconists' windows. Any person observing us as we stood at the windows, debating on the shape of this pipe and the pattern of that tobacco-jar, would at once have recognised the importance of our proceedings. At length, after much anxious deliberation, our purchases were made, and we walked home to Paradise-row. My mother had suggested that I should present uncle Bryan with the birthday gifts, and in a vainful moment I had consented, and had mentally rehearsed a fine little speech, which I prided myself was perfect in its way. But, as is usual with the amateur, and sometimes with the over-confident, on such occasions, my fine little speech flew clean out of my head when the critical moment arrived, and resolved itself into about a dozen stammering and perfectly incomprehensible words. Covered with confusion, I pushed the pipe and tobacco-pouch towards uncle Bryan in a most ungraceful manner. My mother saw my difficulty. 'We have brought you a little birthday present, Bryan,' she said, 'with our love.' He made a grimace at the last three words, and I thought at first that he was about to sweep the things from him; but if he had any such intention, he relinquished it. 'How did you know it was my birthday?' 'I found it out.' 'How?' 'Oh,' replied my mother, with a coquettish movement of her head, which delighted me, but did not find favour with uncle Bryan, 'little birds come down the chimney to tell me things.' 'Psha!' he muttered impatiently. 'Or perhaps I put this and that together, and found it out that way. You can't hide anything from a woman, you know.' Her gay manner met with no sympathetic response from uncle Bryan. On the contrary, he gazed at her for a moment almost suspiciously, but the look softened in the clear light of my mother's eyes. Then, in a careless, ungracious manner, he thanked us for the present. I was hurt and indignant, and I told my mother a few minutes afterwards, when we were together in the kitchen, that I was sorry we had taken any notice of uncle Bryan's birthday. 'He would have been much better pleased if we hadn't mentioned it,' I said. 'No, my dear,' said my mother, 'you are not quite right. Your uncle will grow very fond of that pipe by and by.'