Late in the afternoon, when the children, warmly wrapped in extra shawls by Mrs. Pendleton, were led back through the cold to the house in Prince Street, one and all of the party agreed that it was the nicest birthday that had ever been. "I like grandma's cake better than our cake," announced Harry above his white muffler. "Why can't we have cake like that, mamma?" He was trotting sturdily, with his hand in Virginia's, behind the perambulator, which contained a much muffled Jenny, and at his words Mrs. Pendleton, who walked a little ahead, turned suddenly and hugged him tight for an instant. "Just listen to the darling boy!" she exclaimed, in a choking voice. "Because nobody else can make such good cake as grandma's," answered Virginia, quite as pleased as her mother. "And she's going to give you one every birthday as long as you live." "Can't I have another birthday soon, mamma?" "Not till after sister Lucy's. You want sister Lucy to have one, don't you? and dear little Jenny?" "But why can't I have a cake without a birthday, mamma?" "You may, precious, and grandma will make you one," said Mrs. Pendleton, as she helped Marthy wheel the perambulator over the slippery crossing and into the front gate. On the hall table there was a telegram from Oliver, and Virginia tore it open while her mother and Marthy unfastened the children's wraps. "He's at the Hotel Bertram," she said joyously, "and he says the rehearsals are going splendidly." "Did he mention Harry's birthday?" asked Mrs. Pendleton, trying to hide the instinctive dread which the sight of a telegram aroused in her. "He must have forgotten it. Can't you come upstairs to the nursery with us, mother?" "No, your father is all alone. I must be getting back," replied Mrs. Pendleton gently.