This day was Jay's birthday. With a sore heart, Missy had been preparing for it. She was making this week a sort of valedictory. Every day might be the last; Jay would never be hers after this. And he had never been so sweet; he was gentle and good and loving, and never wanted to be out of her sight. This birthday they had been talking of for many weeks. She had planned an ideal treat for him; when, on this fatal Friday morning, she woke up to the news that one of their own servants had come down with what might be a case of scarlet fever. The girl was carefully quarantined. Missy had not been near her, and did not propose to go near her, but it broke up poor little Jay's party. It was impossible to allow children to come to the house. She took him out for a drive, and all that, but there was the birthday cake, and there were the candles, and there were all the pretty little gifts that were to come out of the simulated charlotte russe. They must have a feast, nothing else could take its place. So that afternoon she took a sudden resolution. She would make a sacrifice of her own feelings. She would go to the Andrews' cottage and give Jay his fête there. "Do you think it's wise, Missy?" said her mother faintly. "It's kind, at all events," returned Missy. "The poor baby is going to have hard times enough with the new cousins, it's but fair his last birthday without them should be festive. I've sent to have the children I'd invited for him come there. Now, don't look serious, mamma. One must not be always thinking of one's self. And what is a fiction of propriety, compared with Jay's happiness?" "Compared with his permanent happiness, nothing, but compared with an afternoon's pleasure, a good deal, and you've been so rigid yourself about it, Missy. You've eschewed that poor cottage like a pestilence. I didn't suppose anything would tempt you into it. You felt so bitterly about our staying there, though you didn't tell me; and I'm sure you've never crossed the threshold since." "And I shouldn't cross it now, but that the master himself's away, and--and in fact, I haven't the heart to disappoint the child, and circumstances seem to make it my duty to give up my whim. In short, mamma, it is too late to be sorry, for I've sent word to the children, so don't, please, worry any more about it." At five o'clock the children came, two stout little girls with hair in pigtails, and three freckled little boys with shaved heads; they were the hopes of illustrious families. Missy contrasted them with Jay, and wondered that any one could endure creatures so commonplace, and that patience could be found to provide them nourishment and clothing.