Elizabeth Spellman’s face was a study; but Mahlon’s was a problem. He opened his lips, but his daughter forestalled him. “I just know that this lovely surprise is from you, Papa,” she said. “Nobody ever can think of the wonderful things that you do.” Then she stopped, because she realized that her father’s face was blank, even forbidding. The gift was not from him. She turned to her mother, her lips still parted, and met a duplicate of her father’s expression. Then her eyes ran around the room in quick question to which there was not even the hint of an answer. And then, in her bewilderment and with the swiftness of thought, for one instant her face turned full to the window beside the piano which opened on the side lawn, while her sharp eyes thought they saw a fleeting glimpse of a face among the branches of a tree. Deliberately, she placed a hand on each side of the cage and again laid her face against the wires as near to the little gold bird as possible. Then she smiled a smile that would have been very becoming to any conceivable kind of angel, and her lips began chanting happily: “Oh, you darling little bird! I love you. You are the most beautiful gift I ever have had in my whole life.” Junior Moreland began to sulk from the instant Mahala appeared with the bird. Every one of her guests had brought her a gift, some of them expensive and attractive, some of them clumsily made kerchiefs and pincushions. To all of them she had given warm welcome and appreciation; but all of them put together had not equalled the magnificence of Junior’s lamp at which the other girls had looked enviously, and which the other boys had hated cordially. Now, out of the night, there had come a bird of gold and Mahala had said that it was the most beautiful gift she ever had received. All his life Junior had considered himself first. He was considering himself now. He felt abused and defrauded. He sneered openly. He said to Mrs. Spellman: “Are you going to let her keep such a dirty, messy thing as a bird in this elegant house?”