When he came down to breakfast the next morning, he was greeted with a general "Happy birth-day, Tom!" and at his place lay gifts from every member of the family; not as costly as formerly, perhaps, but infinitely dearer, as tokens of the love that had outlived the change, and only grown the warmer for the test of misfortune. In his present state of mind, Tom felt as if he did not deserve a blessed thing; so when every one exerted themselves to make it a happy day for him, he understood what it means "to be nearly killed with kindness," and sternly resolved to be an honor to his family, or perish in the attempt. Evening brought Polly to what she called a "festive tea," and when they gathered round the table, another gift appeared, which, though not of a sentimental nature, touched Tom more than all the rest. It was a most delectable cake, with a nosegay atop, and round it on the snowy frosting there ran a pink inscription, just as it had been every year since Tom could remember.
"Name, age, and date, like a nice white tombstone," observed Maud, complacently, at which funereal remark, Mrs. Shaw, who was down in honor of the day, dropped her napkin, and demanded her salts.
"Whose doing is that?" asked Tom, surveying the gift with satisfaction; for it recalled the happier birth-days, which seemed very far away now.
"I didn't know what to give you, for you've got everything a man wants, and I was in despair till I remembered that dear grandma always made you a little cake like that, and that you once said it wouldn't be a happy birthday without it. So I tried to make
