After the first burst of happiness had subsided, Marcia braced herself
and entered the dining-room, saying with forced gayety: "Good morning,
dear ones all." They looked up with blank, unanswering faces, and
said: "Good morning, Marcia"--that was all. But Marcia's heart leaped
at the recognition of her presence, for she had begun to fear that she
was dead, and that it was her spirit that was wandering about.
She stooped and kissed her mother, who murmured abstractedly, "Yes,
dear," never once looking up from the presents she was examining. With
a sinking heart she turned away from her mother and went and stood
behind her father's chair, and leaning over whispered in his ear:
"Dear father, have you forgotten that this is my birthday?" He
answered kindly but absent-mindedly: "Why, daughter, am I likely to
forget it with all these tokens around me?"--and he waved his hand
toward the gifts piled around his plate. This was almost more than
Marcia could bear, for father was always specially tender and
attentive to her on her birthday. She always sat on his knee a while;
and he told her what a joy and comfort she was to him, and he always
paid her some pretty compliment that made her girlish heart swell with
innocent pride, for every girl knows that compliments from one's
father are a little sweeter than any others.
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