The birthday dawned with the soft pearly gray and tender opal tints which presage a fair noontide. Before six o'clock the children had all besieged Bessie's door, with noisy tappings and louder congratulations. At seven, they were all seated at breakfast, the table strewn with birthday gifts, mostly of that useless and semi-idiotic character peculiar to such tributes--ormolu inkstands, holding a thimbleful of ink--penholders warranted to break before they have been used three times--purses with impossible snaps--photograph frames and pomatum-pots. Bessie pretended to be enraptured with everything. The purse Horry gave her was 'too lovely.' Reginald's penholder was the very thing she had been wanting for an age. Dear little Eva's pomatum-pot was perfection. The point-lace handkerchief Ida had worked in secret was exquisite. Blanche's crochet slippers were so lovely that their not being big enough was hardly a fault. They were much too pretty to be worn. Urania contributed a more costly gift, in the shape of a perfume cabinet, all cut-glass, walnut-wood, and ormolu. 'Urania's presents are always meant to crush one,' said Blanche disrespectfully; 'they are like the shields and bracelets those rude soldiers flung at poor Tarpeia.' Urania was to be one of the picnic party. She was to be the only stranger present. There had been a disappointment about the two cousins. Neither Brian had accepted the annual summons. One was supposed to be still in Norway, the other had neglected to answer the letter which had been sent more than a week ago to his address in Herefordshire. 'I'm afraid you'll find it dreadfully like our every-day picnics,' Bessie said to Ida, as they were starting. 'I shall be satisfied if it be half as pleasant.' 'Ah, it would have been nice enough if the two Brians had been with us. Brian Walford is so amusing.' 'He would have sung comic songs, I suppose?' said Ida rather contemptuously. 'Oh, no; you must not suppose that he is always singing comic songs. He is one of those versatile people who can do anything.' 'I don't want to be rude about your own flesh and blood Bess, but in a general way I detest versatile people,' said Ida. 'What a queer girl you are, Ida! I'm afraid you have taken a dislike to Brian Walford,' complained Bessie. 'No,' said Ida, deep in thought,--the two girls were standing at the hall-door, waiting for the carriage,--'it is not that.' 'You like the idea of the other Brian better?' Ida's wild-rose bloom deepened to a rich carnation. 'Oh, Ida,' cried Bessie; 'do you remember what you said about marrying for money?' 'It was a revolting sentiment; but it was wrung from me by the infinite vexations of poverty.' 'Wouldn't it be too lovely if Brian the Great were to fall in love with you, and ask you to be mistress of that dear old Abbey which you admire so much?