“I suspect you will change your mind by and by, Christie, as your taste improves, and you will learn to think the double ones the handsomest,” added Mr. Power, wondering in his benevolent heart if he would ever be the gardener to mix the colors of the two human plants before him. “I must go,” and David shouldered his basket as if he felt he might be in the way. “So must I, or they will be waiting for me at the hospital. Give me a handful of flowers, David: they often do the poor souls more good than my prayers or preaching.” Then they went away, and left Christie sitting in the strawberry bed, thinking that David looked less than ever like a hero with his blue shirt, rough straw hat, and big boots; also wondering if he would ever show her his best side, and if she would like it when she saw it. CHAPTER XII. CHRISTIE’S GALA. On the fourth of September, Christie woke up, saying to herself: “It is my birthday, but no one knows it, so I shall get no presents. Ah, well, I’m too old for that now, I suppose;” but she sighed as she said it, for well she knew one never is too old to be remembered and beloved. Just then the door opened, and Mrs. Sterling entered, carrying what looked very like a pile of snow-flakes in her arms. Laying this upon the bed, she kissed Christie, saying with a tone and gesture that made the words a benediction: “A happy birthday, and God bless thee, my daughter!” Before Christie could do more than hug both gift and giver, a great bouquet came flying in at the open window, aimed with such skill that it fell upon the bed, while David’s voice called out from below: “A happy birthday, Christie, and many of them!” “How sweet, how kind of you, this is! I didn’t dream you knew about to-day, and never thought of such a beautiful surprise,” cried Christie, touched and charmed by this unexpected celebration. “Thee mentioned it once long ago, and we remembered. They are very humble gifts, my dear; but we could not let the day pass without some token of the thanks we owe thee for these months of faithful service and affectionate companionship.” Christie had no answer to this little address, and was about to cry as the only adequate expression of her feelings, when a hearty “Hear! Hear!” from below made her laugh, and call out: “You conspirators! how dare you lay plots, and then exult over me when I can’t find words to thank you? I always did think you were a set of angels, and now I’m quite sure of it.” “Thee may be right about Davy, but I am only a prudent old woman, and have taken much pleasure in privately knitting this light wrap to wear when thee sits in the porch, for the evenings will soon grow chilly. My son did not know what to get, and finally decided that flowers would suit thee best; so he made a bunch of those thee loves, and would toss it in as if he was a boy.”