"Oh!" she breathed with infinite relief when the strain was over, and only lovely things had happened to the cake, "I'm so happy I could sing if I had any vocal strings! That's queer about me, isn't it? I don't have any trouble with my _talkin'_ strings." "Not a bit," agreed Miss Theodosia gayly. "What makes you think you couldn't sing?" "Because once I tried to sing Elly Precious to sleep an' it woke him up, awfully up. He was scared. So I always talk him to sleep. Miss Theodosia, don't birthday cakes sometimes have candles round the edge of 'em? I don't mean Stefana's, of course, but rich folks' birthday cakes." "_I_ mean Stefana's. Evangeline, we'll have thirteen candles!" but inwardly she was wondering if forty would not fit better round the edge of aged little Stefana's birthday cake. "And we'll decorate it--write something on the top, you know. We'll make the Story Man do it for us." Evangeline was awed into near-silence. "You mean--poetry? Mercy gracious, poetry!" "Something lovely," nodded Miss Theodosia a little vaguely. If it be poetry, the Story Man must do that part, too. A little later, when Evangeline had shouldered Elly Precious and departed and the Story Man had sauntered again into sight, she hailed him with relief. Displaying the snowy little cake, she explained the situation. "You must do the rest. We want a 'sentiment' on it, Evangeline and I. What is the use of being a literary person if you cannot inscribe a birthday cake?" He groaned a little, reminiscently. He remembered the autograph albums of his bashful youth. How much better than an autograph album was a frosted cake? "Something appropriate, you know," encouraged Miss Theodosia, brightly. "In lovely pink writing on top." "'She hath starched what she could,'" he offered tentatively. "Oh, for shame! Something nice and romantic." "But romance is dead--hold on, I beg pardon! That is not decided yet; I remember. You shall have your poetry, you and Evangeline. Something after this wise: "'Our most esteemed Stefana, May rough winds never pain her' "Do winds 'pain' people? But, to speak modestly, I call that a pretty neat sentiment to turn out extempo like that. 'Stefana'--you can't deny Stefana is a hard word to rhyme with. Now tell me a harder one!" "Evangeline--Theodosia," she murmured. Her eyes dwelt lovingly on the little white cake. He should not make fun of it! "I'll decorate it myself," she said, "I'll have a little pink heart on it--_two_ little pink hearts." "With but a single thought. Make them with but a single thought--beat them as one. There! I'm perfectly sober and sane now. It's a fine little cake, and I'm not worthy to write poetry for it. Longfellow--Shakespeare--Whitcomb Riley--we'll canvass them. Don't think I'm not respectful to Stefana's birthday."